Fire Strike 7/9

along the track, with Peachy and the medic trying desperately to keep the wounded aboard, the bush erupted in a wall of fire. At the same time the entire company was pumping rounds into the enemy positions, with the careering WMIK sandwiched in between.

Unbelievably, the vehicle made it back to the high ground, and although it was peppered with bullet holes and shrapnel, not a man aboard had been hit. As the WMIK belted up to the makeshift LZ, I banked up the F-15s to 15,000 feet, to deconflict the air, and cleared the Chinook in to land. The casualties were run up the helicopter’s rear ramp and loaded aboard.

In a storm of dust the giant, twin-rotor machine clawed its way into the air, and turned towards Camp Bastion. The casualties were on their way, but by now we knew for sure that we’d lost one. Corporal Paul ‘Sandy’ Sandford, a nineteen-year-old 2 MERCIAN lad and a real character in 6 Platoon, had been shot by an enemy sniper. Most likely, we’d lost Sandy long before the lads had battled their way through the Green Zone to evacuate him. There is a ‘Golden Hour’ — the sixty minutes in which every casualty is supposed to be air-evacuated to the Camp Bastion field hospital. In Sandy’s case, no matter how quickly we’d got him out we could not have saved him.

Butsy had sent a clearance patrol back into the area where Sandy was hit, to retrieve his body armour and kit, but it was gone. The enemy knew we had a man down, and they would have seen the Chinook go in to pick up the casualties. For the first time in the battle for Adin Zai they had their heads up, whilst we were feeling like a crock of shit.

The entire company was out of the Green Zone, and the contact had died down to just about nothing. There was still the odd RPG and sniper round coming our way, but that was about it. It was 1045, and we’d been fighting for four hours solid, and we were back where we’d started. Things weren’t going as planned.

It was at this moment that I got the call that there was a fourth casualty needing evacuating — only this time it was one of them. We had an injured enemy fighter in our custody. He’d been shot twice by one of our lads, and he was an urgent T1. We’d just had Sandy shot in the head and a lot of us wanted nothing more than to slot him, but we knew we were better than that. We’d give that wounded enemy fighter the same relief as we would our own. We’d get him on to a Chinook, and back to the field hospital at Camp Bastion — in spite of knowing that if the enemy captured any of us, we’d face a slow and agonising death. It was all about doing the right thing on a rough day.

Before I could dial up a casevac, the Vector was hit by a savage barrage of 107mm rockets. They must have had more than one 107mm launcher in action, for the warheads came in thick and fast, smashing into the dirt all around the wagon. They were trying to drive us off the ridge line, but the only way we were leaving would be in body bags.

With the platoons gone firm on the edge of the Green Zone, we were the only part of the company with eyes directly on the enemy. They had their heads up and they were dangerous. I still had that pair of jets trying to sniff out their positions, but not a sign of the enemy could be found. They’d just been shooting up our lads big time, yet they’d disappeared into thin air.

Throp got the Vector moving, and we shunted back and forth on the ridge line as the 107mm warheads tore into the burning white of the desert to either side of us. As I clung on in the rear of the sweltering, bucking wagon, there was a squelch of static. I grabbed the TACSAT.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly Five Three.’ It was the Apache pilot. ‘Understand you have an urgent casualty. Suggest we reland the heavy at LZ and pick up your T1.’

‘Ugly Five Three, Widow Seven Nine. Appreciate your offer, but right now we’re under a barrage of 107mm fire. It’s too dangerous to bring in the heavy. Wait out.’

The 107mm rocket launcher has an 8.5 kilometre range. I didn’t know where the bastards were firing from, but the LZ was only a kilometre back from us. A direct hit from one of those twenty-kilo rockets wouldn’t do a Chinook any good at all, not to mention the aircrew and the wounded lads it was carrying.

I tasked the F-15s to come in low and noisy, searching for those launchers. I briefed the Ugly call sign to do likewise. And in the resulting lull in the rocket barrage we brought the Chinook back in, and the enemy casualty was loaded aboard. As the Chinook thundered off into the burning skies to the west, I got a call from Dude One Five.

‘I’m ten minutes past my dangerously low fuel level,’ the F-15 pilot informed me. ‘Widow Seven Niner, I’m sippin’ on air. I got to bug out right now.’

His wing aircraft was bugging out with him, which would leave us with no air. Just as soon as the F-15s had left the airspace, the 107mms started smacking into the high ground all around us. We were back in contact, and the lads had their heads hung low and were at their most vulnerable.

I got on the TACSAT and demanded air. I got a call from Damo Martin, at the Fire Planning Cell (FPC) cell, back at FOB Price.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Widow Eight Two. I’ve been listening in on the air, and I’ve got you a pair of Recoil call signs inbound, five minutes out.’

‘Roger that,’ I replied. ‘And thanks, mate. We fucking need ’em.’

Damo was a class act. He’d been monitoring my frequency, and even before he’d heard the F-15s were leaving he’d dialled up the Harriers. He knew I was up to my eyes in shit. He’d just anticipated what I needed and got it done. It was a top job.

I called up the Harrier pilots. ‘Recoil Four One, Widow Seven Nine, do you copy?’

‘Widow Seven Nine, Recoil Four One, I have you loud and clear,’ came back the crisp English accent of the pilot. ‘We’re inbound your position, four minutes, standard loads. You’ve got us for four hours on yo-yo.’

‘Recoil Four One, that’s class. Sitrep: I’ve got three platoons gone firm on the high ground above Adin Zai, having withdrawn from a heavy contact. We lost three lads…’

As I briefed the Harrier pilots, I realised how dire was our situation. We were four and a half hours into the battle and we hadn’t broken in to enemy territory. We’d lost the momentum, and everyone had to be wondering if the mission was going to get sacked. I could only imagine how Major Butt was feeling, over with the main body of the troops. The OC was in a hard place. Taking Rahim Kalay was supposed to be the easy part of a mission, a prelude to Adin Zai. Intel had Rahim Kalay slated as a bog-standard Afghan village. Yet we’d stumbled into a bloody hornets’ nest, and had been badly stung. 6 Platoon — Sandy’s lot — had been well shot up, and they were lucky not to have lost more.

I sparked up a tab and waited for the Harriers. Down at the desert muster, Major Butt was stealing a few quiet ‘Condor moments’ himself. He could tell the men of 6 Platoon were badly shaken. They were a strong fighting unit, but they were quiet now, and choking back their tears. None of the lads were in a time or place where they could allow themselves to grieve.

Major Butt called up the commanding officer of 2 MERCIAN, and briefed him on the situation. It was 1120 hours and his men were low on ammo and water. They’d lost three, and had gained no territory. The word from the CO was that the mission had to proceed. No matter what, they had to take Rahim Kalay and Adin Zai.

When the OC gathered his platoon commanders together to brief them, he faced one of the toughest moments of his entire career. He told the men they were going back in. He told them they had to get back on this bike and ride it again. And he assured them that he would be there with his HQ element, at the vanguard of the fighting.

Once he’d finished the briefing, the OC came up on the air.

‘Charlie Charlie One, all stations. Orders: 5 Platoon, 4 Platoon, continue assault as planned. Advance in contact to retake terrain and compounds. 6 Platoon, remain in reserve. Sergeant Major: resupply of ammo and water as required. Somme Platoon to provide rear security. Czech unit to harass enemy as two platoons move forwards. FST, no change. Resupply and rearm as necessary. Zero hour — 1145.’

As soon as I heard that message I had visions of First World War soldiers going over the top again. We were going back in, and we had twenty-five minutes in which to get ourselves battle-ready. And I knew just what we needed: we needed Apaches. The lads were going to have to fight their way back into the same terrain, and it was going to be up-close and brutal. Only by using Apache gunships would I be able to do the beyond danger-close airstrikes that would be required.

I dialled up Widow TOC and told them that no matter what, they had to send us gunships. They told me I’d have two Ugly call signs overhead in twenty minutes. I was getting my Apaches.