Fire Strike 7/9

The Vector in front of us was billowing smoke and flames. Guys were falling about half-obscured in the thick cloud of acrid black fumes, as they tried to evacuate through the rear door of the vehicle. One of them lunged for our wagon, but he didn’t make it, and collapsed on the dirt right in front of us.

‘The Vector in front’s been blown to fuck!’ I yelled. ‘It’s the wagon in front!’

‘Get the lads into our wagon!’ Chris yelled back. ‘Get them in here! Now!’

Sticky and I vaulted down and fought our way through the smoke. I grabbed the nearest body and dragged him inside the wagon, then went back for another.

There were six lads from Somme Company, a Territorial Army (TA) unit attached to 2 MERCIAN, in that Vector. By some miracle all were still alive. The worst was a lad with a smashed leg. We manhandled him into the rear of our Vector in double-quick time.

As the smoke cleared it was obvious this was no mine strike. A jagged rent had been torn in the side of the Vector, where some kind of projectile had torn it open like a giant tin opener. Only a direct hit from a 107mm rocket could have done that.

The wagons were on a ridge above the wadi, and the enemy must have targeted us from out of the Green Zone. Our Vector was directly in the line of fire of the next rocket. We got the last guy loaded and the rear door to the Vector slammed shut.

‘Throp, fucking step on it!’ I yelled. ‘Get us the fuck out of here!’

The last words weren’t out of my mouth before Throp dropped the clutch and we shot forward. As he flogged the Vector and it bucked and smashed its way across the rough ground, another 107mm fired, smashing into the desert somewhere to the rear of us.

Together with the Somme lads we were crammed into the back like sardines. We held on to the injured soldier to stop him from cannoning off the ceiling with all the bumps, and I got my one free hand on the TACSAT.

‘Widow TOC, Widow Seven Nine,’ I yelled above the noise of the speeding vehicle. ‘Sitrep: one Vector blown up, one injured T3. Need immediate CAS.’

‘Widow Seven Nine, Widow TOC. Roger that. I’m sending you Hog Two One, fifteen minutes out.’

CAS stands for Close Air Support — the nearest aircraft that is airborne and can come to a unit’s aid. I had a Hog call sign inbound, which meant an A-10 tank buster was on its way. I reckoned the injured lad was no more than a T3 — the least urgent casualty — and that he’d make it back to FOB Price fine in the Vector.

I radioed the OC and gave him a heads-up. My main concern was the burning wagon, which was stuffed full of all sorts of sensitive comms kit, plus crates and crates of mortar rounds. I couldn’t believe how none of those mortars had blown up when the 107mm tore into the wagon.

We rejoined the main body of the convoy and waited for the A-10 to pitch up. The lads from Somme Company were going apeshit in the back of the Vector. All they wanted to do was get back to FOB Price, so they could phone their mates and let them know they’d been ‘blown up in Afghanistan’. It was Friday night back in the UK and they reckoned we could make it back in time for nightclub chucking-out time. They were all painters and decorators and the like, and they wanted to get on to their mates to have a good crow. You had to hand it to them: that’s the spirit, lads.

The injured soldier was on an adrenaline high. As the 107mm had hit, it had blown a mortar clean out of its crate. He’d watched the round exit via one of the Vector’s open hatches and come flying back down through the other, whereupon it had smashed into his thigh. And that was how he had sustained his injury. The mortar hadn’t exploded, of course, or else none of the Somme lads would be breathing. But whatever way you looked at it, the fact they were alive and in one piece was a bleeding miracle.

With the A-10 inbound, Butsy decided he and some men had to return to the scene of the attack. They needed to rip out the Vector’s most sensitive equipment, in case the A-10 didn’t destroy it all, plus there were mortar rounds in there that we couldn’t allow to fall into enemy hands. They set off in two vehicles and loaded up the ammo from the burning Vector.

Just as Butsy had finished what was about the craziest mission imaginable, they pulled away from the burning Vector and another 107mm slammed into the desert where they’d been sitting.

The A-10 checked in to my ROZ and I did my easiest talk-on of the deployment so far. We were six hundred metres from the burning Vector, which was throwing a pillar of thick, oily black smoke high into the sky.

‘See that column of smoke,’ I told the pilot. ‘Vehicle to the base of that. Take it out. Your choice ordnance.’

‘Roger that,’ the pilot chuckled. ‘I was visual with that smoke forty nautical miles out. I’m gonna hit it with a Mark 82 five-hundred-pound laser-guided bomb.’

A minute later there was a blinding flash, followed a couple of seconds later by a deafening blast. The damaged Vector was smashed to pieces. BDA was a direct hit, as if we needed it. We watched over that Vector until it was completely burned out, and we knew there was nothing of use the enemy could scavenge from it.

Then we were ordered to make tracks. En route to the base the A-10 was ripped by a pair of Harriers, Recoil Four One and Recoil Four Two. And under the watchful gaze of the British jets we were shepherded back through the gates of FOB Price.

We took the guy with the injured leg and dropped him at the sickbay. It turned out that he had a bruised — not broken — femur, where the mortar round had crunched him. None of the other Somme lads had the slightest injury — not even burst eardrums. Unbelievable.

It was 1400 hours when we gathered as a company for the postop debrief. None of us had so much as managed a wash or to get any scoff. Major Butt addressed the men.

‘This op was a massive success,’ he began. ‘The ferocity and sophistication of the enemy showed what they can do, but this mission also allowed us to put into practice what we’ve trained for, and to prove it. We worked in the FST and MFC on the high ground, like we’d trained for, and now it’s been tested against a toughened enemy. It was good to see the FST plugging us constant air for the first twenty-four hours.’

The OC paused for a second. ‘The mission went on for four days not one, reflecting the ferocity of the contact. The bravery of you lads brought us all together, and built confidence in each other in terms of what we can do. There are lessons to be learned. We need more signallers, to keep HQ informed. We need more medics, so we have one embedded with each platoon.

‘We know the sergeant major needs the means and protection to move around the battlefield and do resupply at will. The need for better resupply hindered offensive operations. At the time we had the right equipment in the right amount, but it was touch and go on water and ammunition. Next time, we’ll get those things right.’

After the OC’s upbeat briefing, we got the Intel assessments. Some fifty-plus enemy fighters were reported killed in the battle for Adin Zai, including four senior commanders, plus one complete mortar team had been taken out. My call sign — Widow Seven Nine — had thirty-two confirmed kills, from 6,500 pounds of bombs dropped, plus strafing runs. B Company had just the one injury — the bruised femur resulting from the flying mortar. That was it: a top op.

After the briefing I went to have a much-needed wash. The shower block was a length of canvas tenting, divided into cubicles. Outside each was a container of Army-issue disinfectant, all part of the drive to prevent the spread of nasty bugs. Water was rationed. You had to push a button, race inside your cubicle, lather up and shower before it stopped flowing.

I’d got myself a new tube of shower gel from the NAAFI. I stood inside my cubicle and let the warm water run over me. It felt like paradise. I lathered up my hair with the shower gel, and started to rinse. But the more I rinsed the more soap kept pouring down my face, and I couldn’t get the stuff out of my hair or my eyes. I knew the water was about to run out, and I cursed the bloody NAAFI for selling me some dodgy shower gel.

I tried scrubbing harder, but the more I rubbed the more suds there were. I was just starting to lose it, when from the cubicle beside me someone cracked up laughing. I’d know that laugh anywhere: it was Throp. An instant later I could hear Sticky creased up on the other side, and I realised what the two of them had been up to.

As I’d showered, they’d both been pumping Army-issue handcleaner on to my head — the bastards.

‘Fuck off, you tits!’ I yelled. ‘Or I’ll knack you!’

Throp and Sticky made themselves scarce, and at last I could scrub my balls in peace.

After, I retired to my tent for some well-earned kip. As I drifted off to sleep I reflected upon how we’d proven ourselves in battle. I have to admit it — I was feeling pretty good about it. But little did I know that we were about