steaming now.
We headed out in the Scimitar to find the fuckers who were shooting at us. As we approached the football stadium, I spotted two guys on the roof. Both had AK-47s. They opened up just as soon as they saw us coming. I was perched on the backrest of the gunner’s chair with my head sticking out of the wagon’s open turret, rounds ricocheting all around me.
I dropped down, grabbed the Gimpy and returned fire. I hit the first guy in the left eye socket and then in the heart. As he fell through the air his weapon was still spewing out tracer rounds. The second guy was in cover behind a horizontal concrete railing. I put the first round in his right shin, two more in the left, and four across the belly — so that was below and above the pillar I’d hit him.
When we got back to base and dismounted the vehicle, I saw all the impact marks of the bullets that they’d been spraying at us. I’d had my ‘tankie’ headset on during the contact, so I hadn’t heard the racket all the incoming rounds had made. They were bunched all around where my head had been poking out of the wagon, and just inches away.
It was either those guys or me, and luckily I’d got the drop on the both of them. But the story that got back to Nicola was that I’d taken out a whole village of insurgents with a Leatherman. I got on the phone and told her the truth — that two guys had tried to take us out with AK-47s, whilst we were in a tank. I still had a bit of explaining to do though. Prior to deploying I’d told her that we were going out ‘litter picking’ for the Paras, so there was no way we’d be getting into any trouble.
Yet there was a crucial difference between almost getting shot in Iraq and almost getting shot in Afghanistan. During the early stages of the Iraq conflict, we knew who the enemy were, and we could see who was shooting at us. In Afghanistan, you’d get engaged and not have a clue where the shot had come from.
It was partly due to the terrain in the Green Zone, but increasingly down to the sneaky-beaky way the enemy operated. Being shot at and not being able to shoot back was a real pain in the arse. And it felt very good to have slotted that RPG-gunner, and to have beaten back their attack.
At 0200 the ANA guy who had done a runner returned to the base. He had to knock on the front gate to get let in. He didn’t even have his weapon on him. It was mind-boggling. He’d bolted into the hostile darkness without even his gun. His mates bawled him out for being a useless bloody soldier, I guessed, although I couldn’t understand a word of what was said.
For twenty minutes after he’d legged it no one had been manning the sangars, as the sentries were too scared to go up again. I guess they feared I’d pull another stunt with a jet. During that time the fort was unguarded, and I expected the enemy in through the gates at any moment. I knew I shouldn’t have brought that F- 16 in so low: it was about thirty feet above the walls. But I just couldn’t resist it. The ANA lot probably knew by now that’s what I did for a living. Maybe that guy had run off into the Green Zone to tell his Taliban mates:
I knew that JTACs got put where the threat was greatest — that was our role. It’s what we trained for.
It was being left here alone that I couldn’t stomach.
Nine
DREAMING OF A MAGNERS ON ICE
I woke at 0530 slumped against the HESCO wall. The last thing I could remember was smoking a tab at 0400, and wondering when the fucking sun would get a move on. I must’ve dropped off.
There was no stand-to with the ANA, so I got on the TACSAT to FOB Price. The patrol had left at first light, so they should be with me any time soon. An hour later there was the growl of engines, and a convoy of vehicles pulled to a halt outside the gates.
I had never been so relieved to see a bunch of British squaddies in all my life. It wasn’t Sticky, Throp and Chris and my FST wagon, but frankly I’d have been happy to see Dad’s Army coming over the hill. It looked like I wouldn’t be swopping my desert combats for an orange jump suit any time soon. Top job.
The patrol consisted of twenty 2 MERCIAN lads, under the command of Lieutenant Greg McLeod, an absolute monster of a bloke. He made Throp look positively weedy. Greg might have been monstrous, but you couldn’t have met a nicer bloke. He didn’t have a bad bone in his body. He was so nice I reckoned I’d have fancied him, had I been the red-nail-varnish-wearing type. Greg and I sat on some empty wooden pallets, as his lads took the piss out of the situation that I’d been left in.
By the time the lads had finished ripping the piss, pretty much all of my anger was gone. You had to see the funny side. That was the thing with the British Army: your average soldier dealt with the very worst of situations by constantly taking the piss.
The patrol wasn’t going anywhere, so I took the chance to get some much-needed kip. I woke a couple of hours later to a mouthful of choking dirt. We were in the midst of a howling sandstorm, and muggins here had been sleeping with his mouth open. As I coughed and spat, Greg had a good laugh.
‘Bommer, mate, can you imagine getting your hands on a Magners on ice,’ he remarked, in his booming voice. He mimed pouring the bottle into a glass and taking a long pull. ‘Imagine it, mate. Now. In your fist. A chilled Magners.’
The triangular-shaped base had no shade whatsoever. All there was to drink was bottled water that had been half boiled in the heat. From that moment onwards I became obsessed with the idea of a Magners on ice. Not a day went by when I didn’t think of it, plus I dreamt of it at night.
Once the sandstorm was over I asked Greg if I could use his satphone to phone the wife. Each platoon carried its own satphone, as part of its ‘lost comms’ procedure. If radio contact went down, the satphone was pretty much a bulletproof back-up. We could use our Army phone cards on the satphones, and Greg was more than happy to oblige.
It was a big day for Nicola — her twenty-fifth birthday. Before leaving FOB Price I’d managed to order her flowers, chocolates and balloons, all via the internet. You had to love the wonders of modern technology, and I was dying to find out if she’d got them. I went and found me a quiet corner and dialled the number. As soon as the call went through I started to sing her ‘Happy Birthday’, and we both ended up laughing.
‘You are good to me,’ she said. ‘I got everything — the flowers are lovely! I’m chuffed to bits. Amazing what you can do on the internet, even when you’re out in Afghanistan!’
‘Well, you just enjoy yourself, birthday girl.’
‘So, what’ve you been doing?’ she asked. ‘Been up to anything new?’
I just told her it was the same-old same-old. But then added, ‘Tell you what, do me a favour and buy a crate- load of Magners cider, and stack the fridge full of it. A crate, mind. I want one in a pint glass full of ice, just as soon as I get home.’
Nicola said she’d get on to it. I came off the phone feeling dead happy. It was amazing what a call home could do for your spirits. A few hours back I’d been convinced I was going to end up kidnapped or dead. Now, all was good with the world. Family: it’s crucial, as far as I’m concerned.
I always kept five minutes of my weekly phone card ration to phone my mum and dad. And every other day I’d get a letter off to Nicola and the nippers. Nicola teased me that they were full of spelling mistakes. I’d written those letters in the heat and dust of an Afghan desert in the middle of a war, yet she had the neck to moan about the spelling.
Over lunch of some boiled ratpacks Greg briefed me on the company’s plans. The assault to retake Adin Zai was scheduled for two days’ time. My FST would pick me up en route to the attack. Greg’s platoon would remain with me at PB North, to deter any attacks on the base.
The following morning I was ordered to move down to PB South, which Intel suggested was now the enemy target. The British soldiers who were located there came to fetch me in a couple of WMIKs. They were part of the ‘omelette’ — Operational Mentoring and Liaison Teams — programme, tasked to train our Afghan allies.
I was wounded to be leaving the 2 MERCIAN lads, until I realised that PB South was right on the banks of the Helmand River. I got a short briefing on the base — which was a carbon copy of PB North — ditched all my kit, and jumped in the river fully clothed. It was deep and the current was fast, but it was fantastic to cool off and give the
