It was a suffocatingly hot afternoon and I’d gone to get a brew on. The chill-out area at PB Sandford was another real luxury. From somewhere the lads had got a massive, soot-stained tin kettle. It sat on a clay stove, with a fire burning whatever wood we could find beneath it. You could get a brew on at any time of day or night, and there was a U-shaped arrangement of ‘sofas’ cobbled together from wire mesh and sacking.
Whilst I’d been away getting my AIDS test some cheeky bastard had stolen my mug, so I’d blagged a new Jack flask from stores, and stuck a big square of white gaffer tape on the side of it. On that I’d scrawled in black marker pen: FAT JTAC’S MUG — TOUCH THIS AND I’LL JDAM YOU. It seemed to be working, for whenever I went for a brew my Jack flask was waiting for me.
I was supping my tea sweet and strong, just as I like it, and marvelling at how it could be so suffocatingly, crushingly hot. The heat would build through the afternoon, until it was a furnace inside and out. The one big downside to PB Sandford was there was no river to take a dip. There was just the one, bloodworm-infested well in the centre of the compound. Come mid-afternoon there was a queue of overheating British squaddies seeking a bucket-load of water to chuck over their heads.
Above the natter of the lads I heard a faint boom. It sounded as if it had come from the south-east of us, in the direction of Qada Kalay. The longer-term plan was to get a fourth patrol base (PB) established, on the southern side of the river, to choke off both sides of the Green Zone. Qada Kalay was where we intended to build it, and it was a known enemy stalking ground.
I raced outside, mug of tea in hand, and pounded up the steps that led to the rooftop. As I got there, I heard a familiar sound — the faint whistle of an incoming 107mm warhead. We had a rocket inbound. Mikey Wallace, the dude with his mortar-locating kit, was with us at PB Sandford, but for some reason his gizmo didn’t always register 107s.
‘107 INBOUND!’ I yelled.
As the lads ran for cover the warhead swooped down on us, howling like a banshee. It ripped into the desert right on our southeastern wall. From up on the roof I saw the blinding oily-yellow flash of the explosion, and the shockwave of the blast tore over me. As the ear-splitting roar of the detonation echoed around the Green Zone, a gout of angry smoke fisted darkly into the sky. The warhead had landed fifteen metres outside our front wall, and it had been fired from a kilometre and a half away. Not bad for a first shot.
I needed to get air over Qada Kalay pronto, so I could find the launcher and smash it. I dialled up Widow TOC, and as luck would have it there was a Predator barely a minute out from my ROZ. At least it would enable me to get eyes-on. I radioed the operator.
‘
‘Roger that, sir,’ came back the reply. ‘Banking around now.’
Positions on the opposite side of the Helmand River had been allocated November codenames, and I gave the operator the GeoCell location of where I thought the 107mm had come from: November Nine Five.
There was always a weird disconnect when controlling a Predator. Here was I, a British JTAC under a burning Afghan sun, talking to a ‘pilot’ who was flying the thing remotely from an air-conditioned bunker in Nevada. He’d be sat in some padded leather chair staring into his screen, whilst I crouched on a mud roof under a plume of smoke from a 107mm rocket strike.
However much the American operator might try to sound as if he was ‘with’ me, we both knew he was a million miles away. More than likely, he’d stopped off at a Hooters for a mountain of doughnuts and a gallon of coffee en route to work, and was looking forward to a few chilled beers once his shift was done. Getting a Predator operator’s head into the mindset of the war we were fighting was never easy.
Sure enough, the operator did discover a metal A-frame at the November Nine Five location. I took a good long look at the grainy image on the Rover screen. Like most feeds from 20,000 feet, the Predator’s was jumpy and prone to breaking up whenever the aircraft hit turbulence.
I wasn’t sure about that A-frame. I called one of the 2 MERCIAN lads to take a look — a guy who was a weapons boffin. He studied the image for a few seconds, then shook his head. There was no way it was the tripod for a 107mm launcher. It was too widely splayed apart for that. It was more than likely a frame to hang a cooking pot over an open fire.
I had the Predator for several hours, during which time a couple more 107mm rockets slammed into the base. We combed the terrain all around Qada Kalay, but nothing. No one was injured from the 107mm strikes, but the enemy chatter was going crazy. Their leader, Commander Jamali, was crowing about the rockets scoring ‘direct hits’ on us lot.
Jamali called for his men to gather at ‘the mosque’ for a preattack briefing.
At 0300 we were to push a stick of lads into the Green Zone on foot. It was to be a fighting patrol at night, and the aim was to root out the enemy. Via Routes Buzzard, Sparrow and Crow — three dirt tracks threaded through the bush — we’d do a U-shaped circuit of the Green Zone, the furthest extent of which would be Alpha Xray.
It was to be a platoon-strength patrol — so twenty-odd men — and Sticky and I were on it. As the two of us prepared our kit, stuffing spare mags and water and grenades into our packs, I heard Chris let out a laugh.
‘What the fuck is that?’ he demanded.
I glanced up and there was Chris pointing at Sticky’s Bergen. Sticky had one of those little fluffy Snoopy dog key rings hanging off one of the straps.
Sticky grinned. ‘It’s a Snoopy key ring.’
‘I know that,’ Chris snorted. ‘I mean, what’s it doing on your backpack?’
‘It’s a present from my girlfriend,’ said Sticky. ‘Kind of like a lucky charm.’
‘Well it looks chippy as fuck,’ said Chris. ‘Get it off.’
‘Can’t,’ Sticky said. ‘It’s my good-luck charm. I promised her I’d wear it.’
‘Look, we’re meant to be a bunch of professionals attached to an infantry company,’ said Chris. ‘But you’ve got a cuddly toy swinging from your kit. I’m not happy with it.’
Sticky shrugged. ‘Yeah, OK. I’ll take it off.’
By the time we’d mustered for the patrol at 0245, the Snoopy dog was still swinging from Sticky’s pack. You had to laugh.
The OC had warned us to expect danger-close engagements, and I had air booked for the duration of the patrol. I had a B-1B supersonic bomber, call sign
There was a quiet, nervous tension as the lads gathered in the muggy darkness. It was boiler-room hot, even at this hour. It was especially sticky, what with all the kit we were carrying. The 2 MERCIAN lads were mostly in their late teens or early twenties. As they snapped their night-vision monocles down over one eye, I sensed a hunger to get out there and get in amongst them.
The gates to the base creaked open. The atmosphere was electric. We were about to venture into the dense bush of the Green Zone, on foot and in pitch darkness, knowing the enemy were all around us. We’d had two good men killed fighting for control of this territory, and a dozen or more injured. We were about to walk into the fire once again.
We filed past the front sangar — the sandbagged position at the gate — threaded our way down the escarpment and into the wall of darkness. No sooner had we hit the vegetation, than the air traffic started going mad.
We had Naji, our regular terp, with us. Naji was a quiet but friendly guy, with a shyness about the eyes. He’d had half his family murdered by the Taliban, and he hated the Talibs with a burning vengeance.
As soon as the enemy got on the air, Naji started translating. ‘Get up! Wake up! They’re coming in on foot! The Diamond Special Forces are coming!’
