May 2010 – On Patrol

The word was passed along. Expect contact within the hour. But they were expecting rifle fire, not an explosion. There were sixteen of them walking in a crouching position, carefully making their way up the ditch. It was maybe four feet deep, with the banks covered by grass. A small collection of mulberry trees was casting some welcome shadow.

The group was spread out along the gully. There were two men walking on either bank, keeping a close and vigilant watch on the surrounding buildings and fields. They’d been going for around three hours and the initial anticipation was starting to dissipate a little. Their nerves couldn’t stay at such a high level of tension for such a long time.

Then the air exploded with noise. All the soldiers either ducked or lay flat instinctively. A variety of expletives filled the air. But they were drowned out, by horrific screaming from the front of the line. Someone was badly hurt.

When the first shots came, it seemed unreal. Back at camp, Biscuit and Tom were big fans of old westerns. But the reality of being under fire was nothing like the movies. Nothing at all. Tom was lying spread-eagled on the ground, tightly hugging the contours of the filthy mud floor of the gully.

Their squad leader, the Corporal on his second tour of action, was already in full battle mode. From his lying position, he bobbed up, took a quick aim and fired off a round in the direction of the incoming shots. Ducking back down again, his lungs bellowed to the rest of them.

“Return fire! Return fire!”

Biscuit and Tom exchanged glances. They’d been through this scenario in training a dozen times. But this was no exercise, and these bullets were for real. Biscuit went first. He followed the Corporal’s example, stuck his head over the top of the ditch and started firing. Before he ducked down again, Tom had joined him, directing his rifle towards the spot from which he judged the Taliban bullets were coming.

Afterwards, he realised that he had no memory of either bobbing up or down in that first contact. Although he knew he must have done. It was just the memory of returning fire that stayed with him. The feeling of lying on the rocky ground, with shots coming from all directions, was sticking in his mind. But a few minutes later, it was all over. Silence erupted over the landscape. The sound of the soldiers’ laboured breathing echoed in all their ears.

The Corporal broke the silence.

“Get the fuck out of this ditch. Move into those buildings over there. And watch out for those fucking Afghans!”

Tom and Biscuit chose the second of the mud buildings. They were in a row about twenty yards from the gully. Checking for an enemy presence, they entered the first door, with their weapons poised and at the ready.

The rooms were all empty. There were four of them evenly arranged, with the one at the back brighter than the rest. A gap in the back wall led out to a sun drenched dusty courtyard. Gun shots could be heard from the direction they’d come from. The two soldiers looked at each other. Tom was first to move. He ducked through the doorway, crouching low, his weapon pointing left and right alternately. He shouted to Biscuit.

“Nothing here. Check over by the back of the yard and I’ll make sure there’s nothing following us!”

Tom turned back to face the open doorway, as his mate passed him, rifle pointing in the opposite direction. Kneeling, his weapon pointing straight ahead, Tom could feel his heart threatening to burst through his chest wall. He gasped for air and tried to slow his breathing down. He was wondering if there was going to be a lull in action, when a rifle shot cracked out behind him.

Whirling round, he saw Biscuit’s body crumpling to the floor. A bloody hole pierced his forehead. A Taliban fighter was standing over his mate’s body, Kalashnikov pointed straight at Tom. Before he had time to recognise the danger, he was knocked backwards by the explosion of a shell, maybe ten yards away.

Somehow he’d managed to keep hold of his weapon. Which was unlike his opponent. When the dust cloud settled he found himself pointing a rifle straight at his assailant. Should he kill him? Tom had no time to answer the question. A whistling from overhead heralded another incoming round. Instinctively, he threw himself away from the arriving shell, shielding the other man in the process.

The detonation was deafening. And this time a searing pain shot up his leg. He knew this was serious.