Fire Strike 7/9

The call from the Harrier pilot came just minutes after the lads had restarted their advance. All was quiet in the Green Zone, but my instinct was screaming danger at me. The silence was ominous and menacing, and it set my skin crawling. We were being watched, and I sensed we were being lured into a trap.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Recoil Four One,’ came the Harrier pilot’s call. ‘I’m visual three males of fighting age hiding something under blankets in a compound to the fore of your troops. They keep looking at the wall in the direction of your advance.’

‘Roger that, but what are they looking at?’ I demanded. ‘Are they looking through the wall at our lads?’

‘Negative, they’re looking at the wall,’ the pilot repeated.

‘And the bloody bundles…’

‘Contact! Contact!’ Sticky started yelling. ‘5 Platoon’s being hit by RPG and small arms from a compound sixty-five metres east of their positions.’

The death-rattle of the small arms and crump of the RPGs exploding was deafening. In an instant I’d forgotten the Harrier pilot’s men-who-stare-at-walls, and I was on the TACSAT to Damo Martin. Sixty-five metres was beyond danger-close for missiles or bombs, and the Harrier carries no cannon. I needed bloody Apache.

‘Widow Eight Two, Widow Seven Nine. We’re in contact, and it’s beyond danger-close! I need those fucking Ugly call signs now!’

At the moment I finished the call there was a massive explosion, as a 107mm slammed into the ridge line just metres to the north of us. The blast blew me and Sticky off the roof of the Vector, and in through the wagon’s turrets. At the same time the noise of battle ramped up in volume, as the chuntering of heavy machine guns added to the racket.

Just then I got the call that I was longing for. ‘Widow Seven Nine, this is Ugly Five Zero, do you copy?’

I clambered back out of the wagon’s turret. I had the TACSAT jammed against my ear, in an effort to block out the battle noise.

‘Ugly Five Zero, Widow Seven Nine, go ahead,’ I yelled.

‘Two Ugly call signs inbound your position ten minutes, standard loads, two hours’ playtime.’

‘Roger that. Sitrep: I have two platoons in the Green Zone, both under danger-close contact from small arms, machine-gun fire and RPGs. We’ve got 107mm rockets targeting us on the high ground…’

I talked the Apache pilots around the battlefield, and asked them to search in the compounds to the forward line of our troops. The Harrier pilots had spotted males of fighting age in those buildings, but they’d yet to kill a single one. To be frank, I was getting well pissed off with them.

I’d just finished briefing the Apaches, when I had a Harrier pilot on the air.

‘Near the compound to the forward line of your troops I’m visual with a stationary white saloon car. It looks suspicious.’

‘Does it have a fucking weapon on top of it?’ I demanded.

‘Negative. No weapons or pax visible.’

‘Well, it’s not fucking suspicious then is it?’

‘Well, it’s the way that it’s not parked under any trees that raises my concern.’

‘Wait out,’ I snorted.

I didn’t bother saying any more. Our lads were getting smashed from four different positions, and the Harriers had still to spot a single enemy fighter. They were flying a ?12 million ground attack aircraft armed to the teeth with Paveway laser-guided bombs, yet they hadn’t ID’d a single target, apart from an unoccupied white saloon car.

A couple of minutes later there was the distinctive thud-thud-thudding, as rotor blades cut through the air. From the Vector’s turret, the squat black forms of the two Apaches were clearly visible powering in towards us. Ugly by name, ugly by nature. Get in!

But before the gunships were overhead, the raging contact died away to zero. The bastard enemy had heard the Apaches coming, and had gone to ground. There was nixy gunfire from anywhere, now that I had my airframe of choice overhead and primed to seek out and destroy. It just went to show how disciplined and professional the enemy could be.

Just as soon as it had gone quiet, 4 and 5 Platoon were up and clearing compounds on the western outskirts of the village. But not an enemy fighter was to be found. It was unbelievable. How was it that one minute they were spraying our lads with gunfire and RPGs, and the next they had gone?

A boatload of enemy fighters couldn’t just vanish. How were they doing this?

Where were they?

Eleven WE WERE MORTAL

‘All call signs in my ROZ,’ I rasped into my TACSAT. ‘I want you searching for enemy fighters in the compounds to the fore of our troops. Thirty seconds ago they were malleting our lads from those positions. Find them.’

I got the Harriers and Apaches deconflicted by altitude, with the jets up high, and set them to work. I got another call from Recoil Four One about the white saloon car. Apparently, it was obstructing our line of advance through the centre of the village. It was forming a chokepoint, and the pilot reckoned that it might be a massive bomb. Well maybe he had a point, but first I wanted to find and kill some enemy. At 1315, with the lads pushing into the village, I got the call I was least expecting.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly Five Zero, we have orders to return to Camp Bastion.’

‘You are fucking joking me,’ I spluttered. ‘Tell me you’re fucking joking! The only reason we aren’t in contact is ’cause we got Apache above us.’

‘I’ve got Higher kicking off big time about aviation fuel. We’ve been told we’ve got to leave.’

‘Well, you’re not fucking going,’ I told them. ‘I’m not bloody letting you.’

I got on to the OC, and it was crystal clear Butsy shared my sense of anger and abandonment. He and his men were taking a whole world of shit on the ground, with small arms, RPGs and mortars still hitting them. If they tried to advance without Apache, they’d be walking into a series of massive ambushes. Butsy was fuming: Bommer, get me something else over us.

I got on the air to Damo Martin. ‘Widow Eight Two, there’s no fucking way I am losing those Apache. We’ve lost three lads already, and it’s only Ugly that’s keeping the bastard enemy’s heads down. I am not losing them.’

‘It’s out of my hands, mate. The TIC’s closed, and those are the rules.’

I knew full well what the rules were. You were supposed to have an active TIC (troops in contact) to have Apache overhead. But as soon as they left us we would have a TIC, so what was the difference?

‘Damo, earn your bastard pay grade and tell whoever you need to those Apaches aren’t leaving.’

‘I can’t make that call, mate. It’s above my level.’

‘Well, get it up to the bastard level that can make that call.’

‘I can’t authorise it.’

‘Then get the bloody colonel to,’ I told him. ‘He’s there with you, isn’t he? He wears the crown and a pip. Tell him to keep those bloody Apache over us.’

Damo told me he’d try. I got back on to the pilots.

‘Ugly Five Zero, Widow Seven Nine. Listen, mate, I’ll remind you once and once only: we’ve had one T4 and two T2s, and the only thing that’s preventing more is you being above us.’

‘Widow Seven Nine, we’re low on fuel and we’ve had comms failure in one aircraft. We have to return to base now.’

‘You can’t bloody do that!’ I yelled. ‘It’s only you lot keeping the enemy off of our lads.’