‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I guess it couldn’t last.’
Yet even as we left the Triangle, we knew that the fighting wasn’t over. There was still the big push into Qada Kalay to come. By 1100 we were back at FOB Price, and we set about cleaning all our kit and rearming, and readying ourselves for the next battle. The push into Qada Kalay was scheduled for the off at 0500 the following morning.
It was then that we heard the bad news: a replacement FST was heading down to FOB Price, and they’d more than likely take over from us immediately. We’d started our tour two weeks prior to the 2 MERCIAN lads. It was during that time that we’d done the Sangin assault with 42 Commando. In theory we should be out of theatre two weeks earlier, hence the new FST coming in to replace us.
But that would mean we wouldn’t accompany ‘our lads’ on the big push into Qada Kalay. It was going to be the last op of the tour, and we were unlikely to be going on it. The 2 MERCIAN lads were less than happy. They were kicking off that it was an insane moment to be losing us, and getting a new and untried FST. We didn’t want to leave them, either. We told the OC that no matter what, we wanted in on the Qada Kalay mission. He told us that it wasn’t up to us: orders were orders. A couple of the lads came up to me in the Naafi, where I was getting a brew on.
‘Listen, Bommer, mate — you got to know you saved our bacon out there,’ one of them remarked.
‘Shut up, you clefts,’ I told him. ‘We all helped each other. It’s just we do different jobs, that’s all.’
‘All right, but what about this new FST that’s coming in?’ the other lad said. ‘Come on, mate, it’s dogshit. That lot’ll never have done a drop with us before.’
‘Yeah, but be fair — neither had I when I first arrived,’ I said.
‘But we’re taking bloody Qada Kalay,’ the first lad said. ‘We bloody need you with us, mate.’
‘Look, I’d stay if I bloody well could,’ I told them. ‘When I first arrived I’d never done owt — so you got to give this guy a chance.’
It was all getting a bit tearful, and in truth I reckoned the lads were right. It was a shit time to be losing their FST, on their last op of the tour, and such a major one.
At 2330 the replacement FST was dropped by helicopter at FOB Price. I was up until 0400 doing the handover with the new JTAC, a lanky captain fresh out of the factory. He was being thrown in at the deep end with live targets that shoot naughty bullets that can chafe. He was horribly nervous, just as I had been when I arrived in theatre.
I wanted the guy to have the sort of handover that I’d never had, so I talked him through all the kind of air controls that I’d been doing. He kept staring at me like I was a complete lunatic, especially when I told him about the kind of danger-close air missions that we’d been doing on more or less a daily basis.
‘But you can’t do that,’ he kept saying. ‘That’s breaking all the rules.’
‘I’ve just been doing it for the last six months,’ I told him. But then, six months ago I wouldn’t have believed it possible either.
The last words I said to him were these: ‘Listen, mate, you’re taking over a legend with
At 0430 I went out and shook the hand of every man in B Company, 2 MERCIAN. I could feel my chin quivering and the tears pricking my eyes, as they mounted up the vehicles to go out on the op from hell, and without us. I watched until the last vehicle had disappeared through the gates: it was an emotional moment if ever there was one.
Chris, Sticky, Throp, Jess and I got a lift out of FOB Price on some US Army Blackhawk helicopters. En route to Camp Bastion the American pilots offered to do us a slight detour, so we could get an overflight of the area where we’d been doing battle for the last five months — the Triangle.
As we thundered over the battle-scarred terrain, I felt as if I knew every treeline and track and bush intimately. Our lads had fought and bled and died here, but not once had we yielded to the enemy. We flashed overhead PB Sandford and Alpha Xray, and as I gazed down I could see those Danish lads with all their gleaming kit, now holding the front line in the Green Zone.
I glanced south from the Blackhawk’s porthole-like windows. Across the Helmand River lay Qada Kalay, the target of the coming assault by B Company. From this altitude the compounds that we’d marked as the main enemy strongholds were clearly visible.
And I wished that I was on the ground with the lads, going in one last time to smash the enemy.
EPILOGUE
I got back to the UK three days after the B Company 2 MERCIAN lads had gone in on the assault to take Qada Kalay. That operation was a success and none of the lads were killed, which was a massive relief. The Triangle had been turned into a full kill-box, in which to choke off enemy movement throughout the Green Zone.
We had drawn a line across the Green Zone, a line that we had handed over to the Danish battle group, and whoever else might inherit it in the future. Regrettably, I never managed to find and destroy that 120mm mortar tube, or its team of operators. But the Danes had some seriously top-notch kit, and I reckoned their JTAC would be just as capable of finding it and smashing it as ever I was.
Once I was back at home I took my wife, plus Harry and Ella, to Disneyland, as promised. It was a much- needed break for us all. A few weeks later I was down in London for the remembrance service for Paul ‘Sandy’ Sandford, and Daryl Hickey, the two men who had lost their lives seizing the territory that became known as the Triangle.
After the service, I was drinking with Major Butt and Major Hill — our two OCs during the duration of our tour — plus some of the lads, in London’s Tiger Club. We were hitting the Sambucas, and getting well oiled. There was a young lad who kept staring at me, although for the life of me I couldn’t recognise him.
Eventually, he came over to have a word. ‘Bommer,’ he said. ‘It’s me.’
It was Private Graham, the lad who’d been airlifted out of the Green Zone with four bullets in his guts. I couldn’t believe it. They’d done a fantastic job of patching him up. He didn’t seen to have anything much wrong with him. An older bloke came over, and stood on young Davey Graham’s shoulder.
‘I know who you are,’ the guy said to me. ‘I’m Davey’s father, and you’re Bommer. You saved my son’s life. Anything I can do for you,
‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘buy me an ale.’
‘You what?’ said the dad.
‘Buy me a lager-top and we’re quits.’
‘A beer?’ queried the dad.
We were all filling up by now. ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘An ale would be gleaming.’
APPENDICES
FIRE SUPPORT TEAM AND AIR ASSETS IN AFGHANISTAN
Sergeant Grahame’s Fire Support Team (FST) during the siege of Alpha Xray was call sign
Sergeant Grahame had the following air assets at his disposal in Afghanistan:
• A-10 tank-buster ground attack aircraft — call sign Hog
