Fire Strike 7/9

was the JTAC embedded with a unit of Estonian Commandos, who were operating in the high ground to the east. We wanted them in overwatch of our route around the expected ambush point.

Bes said he was fine with that, but that he had a slight problem. Whilst tabbing up the mountain one of the Estonian lads had ripped the sole off his boot. He’d cut a lump out of his roll mat, and black nastied (gaffer-taped) it to his boot. If we could get the guy a replacement pair of size sevens, they’d happily do the overwatch of our convoy. I got on the radio, and got a replacement pair of Meindls put on that morning’s Chinook flight down to FOB Rob. I radioed Bes with the news.

‘Mate, the plan is we’ll rendezvous with you en route. I’ll pass you the boots, if you keep an eye on us lot, OK?’

‘Good one, Bommer, you got a deal,’ Bes replied. ‘By the way, mate, how was the AIDS test?’

Everyone seemed to have heard the story about my ‘little prick’, as they were calling it.

‘I’m riddled, mate. Only joking. See you tomorrow for the boot drop-off.’

The Chinook arrived with a pair of Meindls, but they were size nine. I spoke to Bes, and asked him what he wanted: a brand-new pair of size nines, or the sevens off my own feet. They were in fairly decent fettle, if a bit smelly. He said he’d take mine.

At 0400 the convoy set off. I had Vader One Seven and Vader One Eight in the overhead, a pair of Lynx helicopters. The Lynx has problems operating in the intense heat of the Afghan day, so I rarely got it as a platform. But it was early and still cool enough for the Lynx to fly. I got the Lynx flying air recces ten kilometres to the front of the convoy.

At 0530 I got the call.

‘Widow Seven Nine, Vader One Seven. I’m visual with two male pax on a motorbike, ten clicks ahead of you. Every fifteen metres or so they’re stopping, removing their backpack, and laying things on the ground.’

‘What d’you reckon they’re up to?’ I asked.

‘It’s clear as anything: they’re mining your route.’

‘Can you see any weapons?’ I asked.

‘Negative.’

‘Roger. Wait out.’

I radioed Bes. From his mountaintop position he was visual with us, plus the enemy motorbike team. Bes confirmed what the pilot had already told me: the motorbike boys were laying mines.

I put a call through to Widow TOC. ‘I have Vader call signs ten kilometres ahead of my convoy, visual with two male pax on a motor-bike. Every few metres they’re stopping and laying mines on our route.’

Widow TOC replied: ‘Unless you can see weapons under no circumstances are you to engage. If they’re unarmed, you cannot engage.’

‘Well, it’s hardly Cleveland bloody County Council fixing the motorway, is it?’ I replied. ‘What’s mines if not arms?’

‘Repeat: if you cannot PID weapons you cannot engage.’

I came off the radio fuming. Thirty minutes later I lost the Lynx, for the air temperature was getting too hot for them to fly. Ten minutes after that we made the rendezvous with Bes’s unit, and I handed over my boots.

‘Your lad’s welcome to ’em,’ I told Bes. ‘No way is he getting off that mountain with a lump of carry-mat wrapped around his foot. And thanks for keeping overwatch, mate.’

‘No worries,’ said Bes. ‘I’ll buy you a pint in return. Stay safe, mate.’

We pushed ahead. Some four hundred metres beyond where the Lynx had spotted the motorbiking pair, we hit the first mine. A WMIK out front took a blast bang under the front wheels. The vehicle wasn’t as badly damaged as the first WMIK, but it was well out of action.

Worse still, all the crew were injured. There were broken arms and lacerations, and one of the guys had damaged his back. I was bloody seething. We’d had the minelayers in our sights, and the Lynx could’ve nailed them. But I’d been ordered not to fire. As a result we now had three lads seriously injured, and a fighting vehicle half torn to pieces.

What was the sense in any of that?

I got the IRT called out, and I was allocated a pair of Harriers. I then got a call from Ugly Five Zero and Ugly Five One, the Apache pilots that had done such a fine job of smashing the enemy over Rahim Kalay. They’d been monitoring the air. They were en route back from a mission, and could offer me thirty minutes’ playtime.

I got the Harriers ramped up high, and the Apaches in low searching for ambush teams. I was itching to find the bastard enemy and smash them. I got the Chinook in to do the casevac, and the three wounded lads were loaded aboard. There was no sign of any hostile presence, so the convoy pushed ahead with Apaches and Harriers in overwatch.

Almost immediately, a beast of a Mastiff armoured vehicle hit a mine. It had a shredded tyre, but that was about the only damage. I called the same Chinook back in again, and this time it lifted off with one of the lads from the Mastiff. The injured lad had been knocked off his perch by the shockwave of the explosion, and broken some ribs.

It was 1900 hours by the time we reached FOB Price. This was where I was getting off. I told the packet commander I’d listen in on the radio during their drive to Camp Bastion. It was a well secure patch of road, the air would remain over the convoy, and I’d direct any controls if need be. An hour later the convoy was safely back at base.

It was a joy to be reunited with my FST. Well, kind of. Chris, Sticky and Throp gave me a good ribbing about my ‘little prick’. Once we’d got that out of the way, we got down to business. We were leaving FOB Price first thing the following morning and heading out to the Green Zone.

We were making for three new bases at Rahim Kalay and Adin Zai. Patrol Base Sandford — named after Sandy — had been established on the ridge line overlooking the jungle. To the east lay Monkey One Echo, a second fortified compound set at the limit of our eastward push into enemy terrain. But the real jewel in the crown was Alpha Xray, set right in the heart of the Green Zone, on the verges of the Helmand River.

Together, the three bases formed ‘the Triangle’, an area in which we were to find, fix and kill the enemy. The Triangle served as a chokepoint, restricting the flow of men and weapons throughout the length and breadth of the Green Zone. As such, it was the front line between our big garrisons at Gereshk and all stations south, and the enemy.

We were going in to hold that front line for anything from two weeks to the entire remainder of our tour. Get in. I had one crucial thing to do before packing all my gear and getting some kip. I had to ring my dad and wish him a happy birthday.

As I dialled the number, I reflected on how the two of us had parted on not the best of terms. I hoped he was over it, for I didn’t want any rifts in the family. A few days before leaving for Afghanistan, I’d called to have a chat with him. We were close, and I didn’t do much in life without talking to him about it first. At first my dad had never believed I’d make it in the Army, but that was well behind us now. He understood that the Army was my life, and he was proud of what I was doing. In passing, I mentioned I’d just taken out some extra life insurance for the wife.

‘Why’re you doing that?’ he asked. ‘The Army provides life insurance, don’t they?’

‘Yeah, I was just getting some extra. A top-up, like.’

‘But why’re you doing that?’ he asked again.

‘Well, just to make sure she’s OK. She’d have the mortgage paid off and a big lump sum, so she’d be all right in life.’

‘But why’re you doing that?’ my dad asked for a third time.

‘What d’you mean — why am I doing that?’

‘You’re just wasting your money, aren’t you?’

‘No. Not if owt happens.’

‘What’s going to happen?’

‘Dad, I’m going to Afghanistan.’

‘What d’you mean by that?’ he asked.

‘I mean it’s Afghanistan, and bad things happen in Afghanistan.’