The objective of the attack was to clear a square kilometre of farmland to the DC’s immediate south, up to a long east–west treeline. The marines couldn’t hold the ground; they didn’t have the spare men. But in the process they’d learn about the enemy’s routes of approach, kill those who were well entrenched, destroy their fortified positions, and perhaps buy the garrison a few days’ breathing space.
Two Royal Marine companies were moved in covertly overnight, and the objective area was heavily bombed and shelled. At 10am, the two companies stretched along the main road and advanced slowly south. An RAF Harrier was on station to give them initial air cover. We were tasked to arrive forty-five minutes later.
Trigger hogged the front seat of our Apache again. I didn’t put up a fuss. He was enjoying himself so much I didn’t want to take the smile off his face. We checked in with their JTAC, Widow Eight Three, and he told us it was going well. The enemy were not standing and fighting. Caught out by the size of the marine contingent and with no time to reinforce, they were falling back, offering only sporadic ‘shoot and scoot’ fire as they did so. The JTAC gave us the positions of all the friendly forces.
‘Ugly callsigns, we believe Taliban might be infiltrating a large compound 300 metres to the south of our limit of exploitation. I would like you to fix them there and destroy them.’
I took us three klicks straight south on the western side of the river, and banked hard left to hook us in behind the target.
‘Okay, I’ve got five Taliban entering the compound now.’
The Boss started to get excited again. ‘Looks like they’re trying to get into cover before the marines reach the treeline and catch them in the open.’
‘Weapons?’
The Boss zoomed in his TADS.
‘Yes. The last bloke’s got an RPG. And they’re running.’
I looked down at the MPD by my right knee. All five were now running diagonally through an orchard within the compound’s outer wall. They must have heard our rotor blades; we were only 1,500 metres off. Sunlight glinted off the working parts of their AK47s.
‘Affirm boss. They’re enemy all right. Get ’em.’
‘Five One, firing with thirty Mike Mike.’
Trigger put three bursts of twenty rounds into the group. The RPG man and the guy in front of him were torn apart by the shrapnel, but the three leaders made it into a reinforced adobe hut in the south-east corner. The Boss put another two bursts onto the front wall, gouging great chunks off it, but these things were built to last and we weren’t sure how much was getting through.
Billy had come round from the north. ‘Five Zero, I saw men running in the direction of that hut before you engaged the orchard. I reckon there could be quite a few of them in there.’
‘Copied, thanks. Let’s get a bomb on it.’
Topman, the Harrier pilot, said it would be a few minutes before he could set up a run, so the Boss delivered a Hellfire through its letterbox whilst Billy pinned the Taliban inside it with harassing cannon fire. The missile collapsed half the roof, and we got the Harrier to stick a 500-lb GBU in there for good measure. By the time we’d finished, there wasn’t anything left of it.
The marines had reached the treeline, clearing all enemy from the target area. Widow Eight Three told us to look into a few more isolated compounds south of them for any enemy movement. There was none. True to form, the Taliban had gone to ground in a plethora of well-prepared hiding places.
‘Ugly callsigns, come north-east of the treeline and hold there. We’re going to drop all the compounds with 105-mm.’
Salvo after salvo of artillery rounds would dislodge the Taliban from their hideouts. They’d break for better cover and the fast air and Apaches could bomb the merry hell out of them; good old-fashioned scorched earth tactics – as effective for the marines today as they were for the Carthaginians 2,200 years earlier.
There wasn’t a civilian within ten miles of the place; we could see that ourselves from the unkempt state of the fields – so the marines were keen to make the most of the firepower they had that day, and give the Taliban a licking they wouldn’t forget. I checked our fuel level. Ten minutes left on station.
‘Boss, we’re not that far off chicken. Might be a good time to RTB for a suck of gas, and to bomb up the aircraft again…’ Going chicken meant you only had enough fuel to get back to base within the legal limit. The marines were under good cover in the irrigation ditches, and it would take an hour or two to bring in all the artillery fire missions they wanted. The Harrier was pulling off, to be replaced by a US F18 Hornet, and an A10 had just come on station too. It was a perfect time for us to break off.
Widow Eight Three agreed. ‘The commander wants all ground callsigns to go firm for a few hours while we fix as many enemy as we can. Can you come back down to cover their withdrawal?’
We agreed with the JTAC that we’d stay on thirty minutes’ notice for his call to return. We’d go back to Camp Bastion, refuel and rearm, and wait in the JHF for his shout.
The boys in Garmsir deserved to get the chance to give the Taliban what for. Until today they’d been in a living hell, just like the Paras had in Sangin during the summer. Siege warfare: their sole aim was survivability; pounded, probed, shot and wounded day in, day out, night in and night out. I smiled as I looked out of the window and saw them in the long treeline whacking the Taliban. It was a pleasure to help.
We were sitting in the loading bays midway through the 30-mm upload when an urgent voice came online from the Ops Room.
‘Ugly Five One Flight, Zero. Rearm as quickly as possible. Do not close down. You are going back down to Garmsir immediately.’
We didn’t want to clutter up the Apache net by asking why. We’d find out when we needed to. A more detailed order followed as we taxied onto the runway.
‘Ugly Five Zero, Ugly Five One; you are to escort a CH47, callsign Doorman Two Six, on a Casevac to collect a T1 and a T3. Then remain in support of Widow Eight Three, who is receiving very effective enemy fire.’
A T1, a T3 and they were still getting nasty incoming? Jesus. Carl didn’t want to speculate over the radio so he sent a text.
WHAT WENT WRONG… ALL CALM WHEN WE LEFT…
A casualty was given one of four initial gradings by the medics on the ground. It allowed the recovery chain to know how best to prioritise their resources in response. T1 meant the casualty’s life was in grave danger; he had to be recovered by air immediately. Get him to the operating theatre at Camp Bastion’s field hospital within an hour and his chances of survival were significantly increased. It was what we called the golden hour. T2 meant the casualty could be stabilised but was in a serious condition and needed to get to hospital before he ran the risk of becoming T1. T3 was commonly referred to as the walking wounded – every other conceivable injury that was not life-threatening within twenty-four hours and required extraction. T4 was the least time-pressing, because T4 meant he was dead. It was hard-nosed military risk management – designed to send a clear signal about whether the recovery chopper should risk jeopardising its crew, surgeons and medics to pick up our injured.
The mighty Chinook’s blades began to turn.
We still couldn’t make sense of it. When we’d left, the Taliban were in disarray and it was a turkey shoot for the marines. How could the tables have turned so quickly?
MUST HAVE BEEN A LUCKY MORTAR BOMB… BOSS