Sunray was frustrated. My men were frustrated. The other CP commanders were frustrated. How many more times was the enemy’s safety – their comfort, even – going to be prioritised over ours? H, Al, M’lord and the others all agreed: it wasn’t worth putting our lives on the line if we weren’t getting back-up.
And yet we continued to put our lives on the line. Every day we patrolled and we patrolled and we patrolled. We got in firefights, we discovered IEDs, we returned home shattered and torn, ready to drop. What choice did we have? If we didn’t stay on the offensive we’d look a weaker target. We weren’t doing it to be the Big I Am colonialists, looking to tame this wild terrain.
We were doing it to survive.
When an insurgent managed to get inside Kamiabi I knew we were doing the right thing. It was killing us. Luckily a couple of things began to go in our favour. For a start the weather began to cool noticeably. Instead of patrolling in 55-degree heat with 70 per cent humidity, we had 40 degrees with 50 per cent humidity. Still unbearable but less deadly. The other piece of good fortune was the next phase of the agricultural season. In September the irrigation system in the Green Zone was cranked up, flooding a lot of the fields. I’m no farmer, but apparently this was essential for the crops. What I do know is that it was bloody good for us as well. IEDs can’t function in water so for the next few weeks we just moved, as far as possible, through the watery fields. Of course, water isn’t much protection against Kalashnikovs, but the absence of IEDs meant one thing less to worry about.
It says a lot for our successful hearts-and-minds policy that the Afghan growing season carried on regardless all the time we were there. But, like the lull we had experienced in April while the insurgents were harvesting, it says more about our impact on the region that particular dates on the calendar had a greater influence on our safety than anything we could do ourselves.
Which is not to say the trouble stopped. We were lucky enough to have two vehicles with us at Daqhiqh which meant that we weren’t reliant on the supply schedule. It was a mixed blessing. Shazaad quickly used our trips to drop off kit to the other CPs. One day, as one of the vehicles was coming up along Route Devon, it was targeted by an IED. I took as many men as I dared over to the scene – and found Jolly, Sam and Duncs grinning like loons and posing for pictures by the wreckage. But it could have been nasty. Either way it was bad news for the camp because we had lost 50 per cent of our vehicles. But in survival mode you see every narrow escape as a miracle. And miracles need to be celebrated.
On 15 September there was more traditional action. A single moped was causing chaos all around the area, attacking each CP’s patrol. M’lord’s Taalander came under fire to begin with. The first they knew was when this bike with a couple of straggly youths on sailed past, unarmed as usual – and then miraculously produced weapons from the air and began shooting. Before they could be tapped, they hopped back on the moped, again gunless, and sped off towards H and Kamiabi. They were the next targets. And so it continued. Just by using the three main routes plus a few little rat runs, these two blokes managed to create havoc.
Initially I’d taken the patrol west and then we’d crossed back over the canal and, after small-arms contact on Route Cornwall, had disengaged and started heading north, back up towards Daqhiqh. That’s when I heard the big fuss going on to the west of us.
I thought, Sod it. We’ve just had to retreat from there.
I got on the radio and broadcast our position to all the commanders, then said, ‘We’ll march back and join the fray as soon as we can.’
By then all the CPs had decided to work a bit more with each other. We didn’t want any slip-ups during the last few weeks of our tour.
Al Blackman came back to me immediately.
‘Eleven Lima, mate, your boys have been out all morning. You head back, we’ll go over and assist.’
It made practical sense. Not only were the Omar lot fresher and nearer than us, but having two units on the ground in close proximity increased the chances of casualties from friendly fire.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘we’ll monitor from inside the CP and be ready to respond if necessary.’
And that was that.
If I’m honest, none of the lads was too keen to go back out again after the three gruelling hours they had already spent on patrol. Not that we weren’t interested. After shedding the armour and most of my weapons – I hung on to my pistol for dear life – I went straight into the ops room to monitor the unfolding situation. I wasn’t alone. We all had a sense that the current operation was going to be another Green 13. HQ had a target, we had multiple patrols on the ground. It was only a matter of time before we got another couple of notches on our dead post.
I can’t say any of us was too bothered not to be involved. There was always the chance it would turn out to be another cock-block performance from HQ and the ‘kill’ order would be overridden. For that reason we weren’t listening that attentively. But we sat up all right when we heard the words: ‘Call sign Ugly.’
The news produced mixed feelings. Number one: something was very likely going to happen in our favour. Number two: we needed to be on standby in case we were called upon to assist in the clear-up. We’d barely been back at Daqhiqh an hour, and now we had to be prepared to go out again.
I began listening intently to the reports coming in over the radio. The two insurgents were coming east. Al, travelling north, would soon be in the perfect location to cut them off. Before he could do anything, though, we heard the distinctive sound of the helicopter’s missile releasing.
‘Ugly has engaged.’
Everyone in the compound heard the explosion, the sound rippling over the wall. As we all assembled by the gate, still pulling on our kit, we could make out the ‘rat-a-tat’ eruption of the Apache’s machine guns. Over the wall we could see the smoke where the missile had hit.
‘Call sign Omar are conducting BDA,’ Shazaad said. ‘You can stand down, Rob.’
Even as we began shrugging off our kit again, I still kept the comms link open. Nothing stood out. It was absolutely normal radio traffic. The kind I would send without hesitation or embarrassment. Al and his men were approaching the BDA site.
‘There is one corpse,’ Al said.
By now I was back in the ops room. The comms were on loudspeaker so everyone could hear. It was like listening to a football match that didn’t involve your team. The commentary wasn’t exactly the centre of our attention but we all wanted to hear the result.
Al gave a description of the state of the corpse and that of the moped. We knew there had been two shooters. Where was the other one?
‘Blown to kingdom come, hopefully,’ someone said.
That turned out not to be the case. There was a fair amount of chat going on in our room when I became aware that Al was talking to his men and to HQ. The voice from Bastion said, ‘Do we need to recover him?’
‘Wait a minute,’ Fergie said. ‘The cunt’s not still alive?’
Suddenly we were all ears. The second insurgent, it appeared, had somehow survived the onslaught. HQ was asking if Al needed a Mastiff party sent out.
‘That’s fucking ridiculous!’ Fergie again.
‘I know,’ I agreed. What would it entail? Four vehicles, minimum, that’s sixteen men, and half a million pounds’ worth of hardware negotiating a route along a road routinely wired with mines. The risk to our troops was too great. That much was obvious to anyone. ‘They need to finish him off. You can’t be getting Mastiffs out for these murderers. They’ve probably IED’d the road on the way there.’
‘Yeah, damn right,’ murmured everyone else.
The chat from Al’s patrol was only part of what we were hearing. Radio operators from all over the Green Zone were giving co-ordinates for and updates on the various active patrols. Who was doing what and where? There was a lot of intel cascading down the channels. Al’s situation was just one strand.
His, however, was the one that all those of us in the Daqhiqh ops room were interested in. The more we listened the more certain I became that HQ might have been saying all the right things – for example: ‘Do you need this? Do you need that?’ – but to my ears the message was not so clear.
The HQ spokesman was asking whether they needed to send a convoy of Mastiffs, but I picked up an understandable reluctance to actually despatch a convoy.
That’s what I heard. That’s what my men heard. I’m pretty sure Al would say he heard the same thing. Two minutes later the message went out again from HQ.
‘Do we need to send a recovery team? Or is he dead?’
There was some chatter, and then the sound of Al’s voice.
‘I hate to say it, administering first aid to this individual, he’s, er, passed on from this, er, world.’ Followed by the sound of a gunshot.
I can’t say any of us punched the air or hugged or even high-fived. As far as we were concerned the correct procedure had led to the correct result. A great result. HQ had wanted the moped scum obliterated, and that had duly happened. The Apache hadn’t been able to finish the job but Omar CP had. It was no different, no better, no worse, no more spectacular than Smudge’s polishing off of the insurgent at Green 13. Hats off to Al Blackman for firing the lethal shot. Another win – another rare win – for the ISAF team. They’d done what needed to be done. They’d done exactly what I or any of my men would have done in the same situation. They’d done their job.
They’d also, to my mind, possibly offered a stay of execution to the Mastiff boys. Any legitimate casevac would have risked a lot of lives in the air and on the ground. Okay, Mastiffs generally withstood the blast of a roadside bomb, but you needed only one exception to prove that it had been wrong to take the risk. And this venture was not worth anyone’s risk. We were all agreed on that.
We all sighed with relief when Al announced that he and his men were heading back to Omar. Tom Phillips’s mob moved in to carry out the site exploitation. It was, as far as we were concerned, situation normal.
* * *
The next day we patrolled out and got shot at. The same the day after that. Normally my men would have take it all in their stride. But these weren’t my men.
After seven long months our tour was coming to an end. In the same manner we’d arrived we were leaving. A new company was replacing us – this time from the Army. I can tell you now, there was no way I was going to be as ungracious as the Paras had been when I arrived at Mulladad. I was grateful for the bodies. That is, until I saw them in action. We Marines get accused of having a high opinion of ourselves. And we do. It’s based on the fact that our basic training lasts thirty-two weeks, while the army’s takes only twelve. And it’s not because we’re slow learners. The Royal Marines train harder, run further and faster carrying heavier loads. We are, without wishing to get technical, the dog’s bollocks. Only the Special Forces and – begrudgingly – the Paras come close.
As my marines began to disappear each was replaced, in theory, by a like-for-like soldier. That could not have been further from the truth. For a start they all looked like kids. They were eighteen, some of them, but would have been asked for ID in any pub in the UK. More importantly, they were small. One fella – a good lad, nice bloke – was given his anti-IED kit to carry and he couldn’t lift it. He literally could not stand up let alone walk or, God forbid, run. An actual thirteen-year-old could not have done worse.
We managed to get around that. As their numbers increased, though, and ours decreased, finding anyone strong enough to do their shift grew more difficult. We got there in the end and managed to muster a patrol. When we came under fire, as I knew we would, I was impressed by how calmly the newbies reacted. I was less impressed by their next steps.
While my three lads automatically returned fire, the Army kids just watched.
‘What are you waiting for?’ I shouted. ‘Get stuck in.’
They all nodded and began loading their weapons.
‘You weren’t loaded? What the …’
I had to bite my tongue. They were good lads, just badly drilled. What do you expect when you can pass the basic Army course in three months? There’s a reason we Royal Marines are the best at what we do. All of us. My guys were as experienced as me. Most of them could have led the multiple. I’d never once had to remind them to load their weapons. It was something we’d done from Day 1. I certainly never had to tell them to return fire. They weren’t kids. They were Marines. Commandos. Green Berets. If ever I doubted what that stood for, I saw it then, during those final days of my tour.
Not everyone who joined my multiple was a dead weight. My mate Pinky made a very welcome return. Travelling up and down Helmand with his colleagues capturing the battle groups’ stories on camera had its highlights but, with his time in Afghan drawing to an end, he’d moved mountains to get a gig with us. His bosses had said ‘yes’ and obviously I had no complaints. I’d have taken my mum. I was that desperate for bodies I could rely on.
‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,’ I laughed.
‘I’ve done all the training you have.’
‘Yeah, keep telling yourself that.’
Despite struggling to fill a patrol, I still hadn’t given up on trying to get one over on the Taliban. If Al Blackman was still scoring victories this late in the day, why couldn’t we? I was going over the data from recent marches and analysing where we’d encountered contact – that is, been shot at. It was easy to see the patterns. A plan had formed in my mind: I would send out two patrols. One would be ‘normal’. The other would be ‘ghost’. The ‘normal’ patrol would take a route where we’d always suffered fire and would, in theory, take the insurgents’ attention, while the ghost mob would take the latter out. I put the plan before the troops. Everyone approved; everyone was eager to go.
The next morning, literally minutes after Pinky arrived, I announced we were going. Pinky was keen to join us: ‘I’ll catch a few winks later,’ he said. Our first patrol moved out. On paper it was a suicide mission. Six men do not a workable patrol make, but I was banking on the Taliban not smelling a rat. That was the decoy. Twenty minutes behind those lads was my mob, my half-dozen men, including Pinky. We were following in the shadows. In the trees, in the bushes. Out of sight.
Very early on we knew it was working. The ICOM chatter was all about the first patrol. Whether they knew it or not, they were being monitored every slow step of the way. When they reached the field where we were always targeted I warned, ‘Slow down. Get prepared. Let us catch up.’
They moved in. They were halfway through the field when I saw activity beyond the far perimeter. Several mopeds were pulling to a halt. Men were disappearing behind the stone wall. From experience I knew they would be unearthing arms from various bushes, trees and hidey-holes. Then it happened.
Patrol 1 was 100 metres from the edge of the field when I saw an insurgent step out with a rifle. I wasn’t the only one who spotted him. Fergie and Pinky were right by my side. Without a word we all raised our weapons. Without a word we all took aim. Without a word we fired.
Warning shots.
Three warning rounds echoed around the field. Patrol 1 dropped to their knees. My patrol followed suit. The Taliban man disappeared behind the wall. There was a burst of shouting, a squeal of rubber and suddenly they were all gone.
‘Cheers, boss,’ the leader of Patrol 1 said over the radio.
‘You’re welcome,’ I replied.
But inside I was torn up. Why had I fired a warning shot? Why hadn’t I ended the bastard? The whole point of the exercise was to fire a lethal shot. Why hadn’t I? And why hadn’t the others?
They were experiencing the same anguish.
‘I wish I’d ended him,’ Pinky said. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t.’
‘Because you’re a fucking commando and not a piece of Afghan scum,’ Fergie growled.
Pinky began to reply but Fergie cut him dead.
‘I wish I’d finished him too. I fucking hate being British sometimes.’
‘Aye,’ we all agreed. ‘You can be too nice.’
* * *
Patrols over the next few days went from the dangerous to the insane. Back at Daqhiqh we were on constant look-out for new holes in the wall. Two days in, Pinky was sweating adrenalin. It could have been blood. He’d had a tough tour, like many others, but nothing like this. He’d certainly never been shot at so many times.
‘How the fuck have you been coping with this?’ he said. ‘It’s unreal.’
I just shrugged. To this day I don’t know how we got through it. Especially suffering as few casualties as we did taking the risks we took on the amount of sleep we had been getting.
Personally I couldn’t sleep for worrying about locals digging under our defences and ending us where we lay. I didn’t realise I wasn’t the only one until Pinky’s time with us drew to a close. ‘Fourteen hours,’ he said to me. Over the ten days he was with us, he’d had just fourteen hours of sleep, he explained. This was quite normal to the rest of us.
By the end of the month he had left, along with more of my own men. With less than a week left of my tour I began to wind down the offensive side of the patrols. As part of the new boys’ acclimatisation, I led us all down to Omar, to Al Blackman’s checkpoint. The Army boys over whom I was pulling my hair out, all had friends there, so it seemed the decent thing to do. While we were there I was in the ops room chatting with Al about this and that, as usual, when I became aware of a group of his lads and mine laughing around a laptop. I stuck my face in and realised they were uploading films from various marines’ helmet cameras. We’d done the same thing in my multiple. There’s a wicked film of our death run along the canal path back to Toki which sends chills up my spine whenever I see it. One of the lads put a big booming classical soundtrack to it. It sounds epic. My dad has a copy and shows it to everyone who sets foot in his house.
Even though I was seeing the same trees and fields as Omar, it was interesting to watch their perspective on everything. Suddenly a film clip started playing that got everyone’s attention.
‘When’s this from?’ I asked.
‘The day we took down the insurgent,’ one of the marines said, ‘15 September.’
As I craned my neck to see that tiny screen I realised how much I had missed during the radio broadcasts on that day. There had been plenty of snatches of dialogue that I did hear, though. Plenty of Al’s orders to his men to wait for the Apache, to get ready in case the gunship didn’t destroy its targets. Other radio chat that, if I’m honest, I felt uncomfortable listening to. As the Apache approached the insurgents in the field and then deployed, the men from Omar were all whooping and hollering and cheering, like American spectators at the Ryder Cup. I half expected someone to yell, ‘Get in the hole!’
It was ugly. While everyone else laughed I couldn’t join in. The film showed the patrol to be unprofessional at best. Considering what had happened to their brothers, Sam, Ollie and Kaz, you could understand why. But it didn’t look good. Maybe because I was detached from the group I had that distance, allowing me to see what they could not.
Just when I thought I’d seen the worst, the film began to show the moments when Al and his boys had discovered that the Apache had failed in its kill mission. ‘The cunt’s still alive,’ one of them said. There was general derision at the chopper’s failure. Again, not the drilled responses you expect of the corps.
I watched as they were shown going over to the bodies. The images were obviously jumpy but I saw them discover the insurgent was alive. I heard them speak to HQ about their options and I saw a couple of the lads, Corporal Chris Watson and Marine Jack Hammond, begin to apply first aid. Al put a stop to that. The messages from HQ, even now, listening to the recording, were to my ears vague. The insurgent was then dragged around. He might have been roughed up. Then I saw Al Blackman draw his 9mm pistol and shoot the man in the chest.
None of it was how I would have done it. But the result was the same. If it had been I who discovered that Taliban youth half dead then I would have finished the job. No question. That’s what the Apache had been deployed to do. That’s what I would have done. I would have expected the same response from any of my men, as well. We were at war. This man had been trying to kill us all. He’d failed, and had got his comeuppance.
It was the way it was done that was ugly. Clearly, Al and his team were under pressure. We all were. You could see from the video they were starved of sleep, and the paranoia and hatred that kept them awake at night were palpable. Yet, despite their doing nothing wrong, I sensed that in the wrong hands that film could spell trouble.
‘Lads,’ I said, ‘enjoy the movie but you need to delete it. It was a good kill, no one’s arguing with that, but I tell you now a lot of people will be uncomfortable with the cheerleading. Do yourselves a favour and get rid.’
I gave that order with a clean conscience. There was no attempt at a cover-up, no intention on my part to hide anything. I just knew from my two weeks’ R&R that explaining things to people who haven’t been to Afghan is more trouble than it is worth. We’d suffered enough on this tour – Omar patrol more than anyone. There was no point making unnecessary trouble for ourselves.
There was a general groan, as though I’d grounded a bunch of teenagers. But, with me standing over them, I watched as the movie was deleted from the helmet hard drive and the laptop.
What happens in the Green Zone stays in the Green Zone …
I honestly thought no more about that day, or the film. I’d seen too many worse horrors for it to register. We did a few more acclimatisation patrols. On each one there were fewer of my men and more of the Army nods. We were disappearing as quickly as we’d arrived. As per tradition, the sergeant leaves the checkpoint after everyone else. First in, last out. A few of the lads wouldn’t let me do it alone. Fergie and Mac both insisted on seeing out the last twitches of the tour by my side, the way we’d done everything. Finally, in early October, our time came.
I can’t say I looked back as we were driven away from Daqhiqh. There were no wistful glances out of the rear window of the massive transporter. It was a time for looking forward. A time for new experiences. A time to get back to being a normal human.