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BATTLEWORN
THE MEMOIR OF A COMBAT MEDIC IN AFGHANISTAN
By Chantelle Taylor iUniverse LLC
Copyright © 2014 Chantelle Taylor
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-2528-3
CHAPTER 1
Game On
Well on our way into our tour of Helmand Province, B Company receives orders to patrol into Nad-e Ali, just north of the main British operating base of Lashkar Gah.
Our convoy moves cautiously across the desert. We hear the thud of several explosions ahead, the noise carried on the dry air. As vehicles chunter along, every soldier nurses the uneasy thought as to what may lie ahead.
After leaving our base, we head north-west. In total we are a force of just sixty-two troops drawn from two platoons, travelling in ten heavily armed vehicles. Many of our soldiers are very young. We range in age from eighteen to late thirties, with the average age at around twenty-two. This is the first tour of Afghanistan for some. At thirty-two, it's my second tour and would become my last as a serving British soldier. In this unbearable heat we are laden in heavy uncomfortable body armour and helmets, scanning the desert for anything that could pose a threat. Our company will carry out what is known as a 'look see' patrol to Nad-e Ali, just fifteen kilometres north-west of Lashkar Gah (capital of Helmand Province).
Our mission has come about as a direct result of a sharp increase in enemy activity. There has been speculation that a company from one of the parachute battalions would be committed to this area, but many are now assigned to a major operation which the brigade has been planning for some time, consuming much of its manpower.
It involves the delivery of a three-hundred-ton turbine by convoy from Kandahar across open desert to the hydroelectric dam at Kajaki. The dam was built in 1975 with funding from US Aid, an American development charity, but only two turbines were supplied before the Soviets invaded Afghanistan in 1979. Work then stalled, and the dam was unable to fully function. In 2006, when British troops arrived, one of the first projects identified to help the local populace was to complete the work at the dam.
In 2008, 16 Brigade took on this responsibility as a 'main effort', a huge undertaking requiring the majority of our assets. The mission was to complete the move of a third turbine and additional mechanical items to the dam. It was hoped that the task would allow contractors to commission the system and generate electricity for the entirety of Helmand Province.
Insurgents gathering in Nad-e Ali presented an unwelcome distraction: if they disrupted the convoy and forced the brigade commander to detach manpower from the Kajaki task, there was a risk that the operation as a whole would be compromised. Any commander wishing to progress recognises early that he must win the propaganda war, and getting the turbine in place would be a major coup. Success would mean 'lighting up' Helmand and therefore, a sizable boost for the hearts-and-minds campaign.
I lead a team of three medics, and I feel responsible for the young Jocks that we support. (Jock is the nickname given to the private soldiers of any Scottish infantry battalion.) I am also always mindful that every journey we make over the bomb-infested highways of Helmand might be the last for someone. Our job is to patrol in and around the area and report back on the mood of the town and its people. If you find children playing outside their homes and people in the markets, then 'atmospherics' are judged as good. If the streets are deserted and the locals are non-existent, then this paints a picture of uncertainty – an attack of some kind is often imminent.
The lead vehicles create a sand screen, which cuts our visibility to almost zero. I'm on top cover, along with Kev Coyle, our signaller. Our position gives the driver and commander a 360-degree visual scan of the ground we're passing over and the road ahead, letting them gauge potential threats. We man the open turret on top of the vehicle; our interpreter sits quietly in the back, asleep if he has any sense. If there's an insurgent out there looking to take us on, the top cover usually gets hit first. I can taste the grit in my mouth from the dirt and dust kicked up ahead of us.
Kev, B Company's signaller, has an Italian look about him — jetblack hair, olive skin, and blue eyes — and his dry sense of humour is an acquired taste. I have finally warmed to it through the hours we spend together on the ground.
'This is fucking shit!' Kev grunts.
'It doesn't look like we are stopping any time soon, either,' I reply.
'Eight more weeks, and that's us.'
Our conversation is interrupted by an explosion, closer than the others were. A spiral of smoke rises into the air in the middle distance. My first thought is that it is a drop short mortar round, but it appears that we aren't the intended target. The explosion is closer to the town centre than it is to us.
Kev turns to me with a grin. 'Game on, mucker,' he shouts, barely audible over the noise of the engine. I read his lips in order to make out what he's just said as we hit what seems like every pothole on this track. Kev and I have been battle buddies for a fair time, patrolling the district centres of Lash and Nawa, more recently involved in a gnarly ambush in the notorious area of Marjah.
Our convoy consists of ten lightly armoured Land Rovers, consisting of the snatch version and the open-top weapons mounted installation kit (WMIK). The WMIK is a stripped-down Land Rover that comes with a series of roll bars and special weapons mounts. It was designed primarily as a reconnaissance (recce for short) and fire support vehicle. The rear roll bar cage features a well in which a gunner can stand and swing his weapon in a 360-degree arc of fire from a rail-mounted system.
The rear station can be fitted with a .50-calibre heavy machine gun, a 40 mm grenade launcher, or a 7.62 mm general purpose machine gun (GPMG). American troops thought that we were crazy to drive about in open-top vehicles, until I explained that our guys survived improvised explosive device (IED) attacks because they were blown out of the vehicle as opposed to getting thrown against the heavy armour inside.
That much is true; however, the variant that's housing Kev and me is not so clever. It's the 'snatch' Land Rover. It was designed for tasks in Northern Ireland and deployed disastrously to Basra, in southern Iraq, after the initial invasion. It was later shipped to Helmand, and it became the focus of media controversy after numerous incidents which resulted in fatalities in both Iraq and Afghanistan.
It was nothing more than a money-saving choice for Helmand, and I was unlucky enough to become very familiar with the machine (and grateful not to be the interpreter sitting in the back). Its box body was not fit for the purpose: anyone sitting in the rear would often boil, even with the later addition of air conditioning. Limited armour also ensured that it would not withstand small arms for prolonged periods, let alone any type of high-energy explosive.
Spending hours in any vehicle will give you an intimate look at all the good and bad points, and this knowledge is priceless to those buying such equipment. Trialling a military kit could be done far more effectively if the terrain on which it is trialled is similar to the place where it ends up operationally. Testing the snatch Land Rover in Lashkar Gah is a lot like throwing a child into the deep end of a swimming pool and expecting him to immediately start swimming like Michael Phelps.
Lash is where the provincial reconstruction team (PRT) is based. They are a joint team comprised of Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) staff and civilian advisors from the Ministry of Defence (MOD). With military support, they plan the strategic development and reconstruction of the region. Based on this information, I figured we'd be out of the base for forty-eight hours maximum, and I packed my kit and equipment accordingly.
Meanwhile, our vehicles continue to progress through the desert, the drivers peering through the thick sandstorm our convoy has whipped up. I breathe in diesel fumes mixed with the dry, musky scent of the desert. The smell of diesel and hot air instantly reminds me of time spent in Iraq in the summer of 2003. In the stifling heat, I am thirsty and my back is soaking wet. My skull bakes like pie crust inside my helmet.
Afghanistan is landlocked in the bowl of the Hindu Kush, with mountains that go on forever. The landscape is severe but beautiful, and the place has a biblical feel to it. I served in Iraq, Kosovo, and Sierra Leone, but nowhere else is like Afghanistan — it isn't just another country ... it's another mindset.
Winters are bleak, and summers are marked by cloudless blue skies, with temperatures topping 140 degrees. The dry climate and harsh environment have the ability to deliver beauty in the springtime as the fields of Helmand blossom with red-pink flowers. The 'death crop' of southern Afghanistan is harvested from these fields. While in full flower, the opium poppies present a picture-perfect look, but for many years they have funded war and criminality.
More than 90 per cent of the world's heroin supply comes from poppies cultivated here. The country's illegal drug business generates $4 billion a year — half the nation's gross domestic product. A big slice of this money buys the Taliban the guns that we are driving towards.
These facts flit through my brain as we drive along. We often hear in briefings that thirty Taliban have been killed here, another forty there. But they just keep coming, in their kameezes and worn-out shoes. The kameez is part of the traditional way of dress for local Afghan men, its light fabric making it the perfect choice for the harsh sun of Afghanistan. It has an adopted layer system; you can add layers or take them away as you wish. In the extreme cold, Afghans use a blanket as a type of shawl; their traditional dress suits the environment perfectly. Observing their attire has caused me to wonder why we haven't adopted a policy of using examples of the local attire during wartime, and making it work for us. We disadvantage ourselves by not thinking like the indigenous population; to succeed you must know your enemy. We have the firepower, but what they have is time. We drive them out of different districts; they flee to the mountains, and wait. We pacify a town, maybe reopen a school. When we leave, they come back and tear the building down again. They are like the hydra, the Greek mythical creature that had the ability to grow new heads. You kill a Taliban fighter, and his eight brothers all become recruits for jihad. We're fighting terror; they're doped up on a holy war.
My thoughts keep drifting along these lines, and I am aware that none of it is likely to ever change. The vehicle jolts, ending my reverie. Our convoy has come to a halt on the outskirts of Nad-e Ali. The two platoon sergeants, Monty Monteith and Scotty McFadden, get out of their vehicles and walk among the tired and bored troops to ensure that all is as it should be. Monty and Scotty are old friends. Monty's weathered appearance is a look reserved for the hardened soldiers of the infantry. Scotty seems to have fared far better in avoiding the harsh 'ten years older' weather of the Brecon Beacons beating on his face. (Brecon, Wales, houses the military's Infantry Training Centre [ITC].)
Right now the boss, Maj. Harry Clark, relaxes, secure in the knowledge that both Monty and Scotty are squaring things away on his behalf. With some vehicle engines switched off, I can hear a little better, and I listen to the sound of explosions across town. More black smoke rises, and the distinctive rattle of sporadic small-arms fire sounds. It's no big deal, and everyone on this patrol has seen and heard it all before.
I climb down from top cover and sit in a pool of my own sweat, feeling tired from the long day.
Kev looks down at me. 'We should get some scoff on,' he says in an agitated voice.
I hadn't realised until then that I was starving. When you're tired, your blood-sugar count get slow, and your stomach starts to rumble. I am carrying biscuits brown and pâté, a light meal from my ration pack, and it smells like cat food. It probably tastes the same too, but I can't verify that. It's not something I would normally choose, but right now I don't care.
As the young Jocks eat, the banter begins; they are getting restless. Ptes Ferris and Duffy are joking, taking the piss out of each other. Ferris blows kisses to the blokes on other wagons and makes obscene gestures around his groin area, all whilst manning his .50-cal. machine gun. The young Jocks fall about laughing; this is the norm around here, and Ferris's antics are a welcome break.
Ferris has managed to take my mind off my itchy wrists, which are starting to bother me. I have a rash caused by the fibreglass on top of the Land Rover; it slowly gets under your skin. Sitting back with my food and a cup of tea, my mind drifts off.
I start thinking about my time in army basic training, when I was always hungry, always drained. As recruit Taylor, I constantly wondered when the instructors or section commanders would finally stop beasting us— when they would feel they had subjected us to sufficient degradation.
Every day, I became mentally stronger. The army takes away your dignity, and you're not exactly sure what it is that they give back in return. That doesn't become clear until much later.
I was twenty-two years old when I enlisted. The youngest of five children, I was born in the south of England. I'd had a taste of life outside, having worked in the retail industry since leaving school. I started as part of the old youth training scheme, and at the age of just eighteen years, I managed my own concession. I excelled at the visual merchandising aspect and was often rewarded for my efforts with trips on shop refit tasks up and down the country. I travelled as far north as Manchester. Being away from home and on my own was initially daunting, but I eventually started to enjoy the independent feeling it gave me. My glory was short-lived, and the trips away came to an abrupt end after my hotel bar bill far exceeded what it should have. This pushed me one step closer to my decision to join the army.
Growing up in the 1990s wasn't without its problems; there were a lot of distractions for young boys and girls. The country was still angry about hard decisions made to decide how we would move forward economically. Ecstasy and the 'Mad-Chester' drug culture were rife, and along with everyone else, I got caught up in the glamour of it all. I would sometimes hide out in my bedroom, listening endlessly to the Stone Roses' 'Waterfall' whilst puffing on a bong. I inhaled as if my life depended on it. Those were some of the darkest days of my life. Smoking marijuana did not suit my personality. I became withdrawn and paranoid, spending three months sponging off the state. I recall times when I was so stoned that I couldn't even be bothered to make the short walk to sign on for my 'free' money.
Gang violence, along with the football hooligan culture, was also prevalent. A sense of belonging to anything other than further education somehow made an awkward adolescence bearable. I had enrolled at my local college, with dreams of studying business law. Suffice to say that smoking weed all day came in really useful! I couldn't concentrate, and I struggled to remember what day it was – much less be able to study. It's fair to say that I dabbled with a life in 'shitsville', and I didn't like it. Escaping it made me mentally tough, and I somehow managed to drag my sorry arse to the army careers office, kicking and screaming all the way.
Every council estate or housing scheme across the UK is a 'target rich' recruiting area for the other ranks of the British military. Most soldiers hail from deprived areas, and that's no bad thing. I was ambitious, without being sure where I was going, and inquisitive about everything, without being sure what it was that I wanted to know. All the doubt and arrogance was soon drummed out of me during the unknown number of hours I spent on my belt buckle, crawling through mud and cow shit.
More often than not, I was running up and down the quarry hills. We had the luxury of physical training instructors who also trained the young guys who wanted to be paratroopers. You would never push yourself as hard or as far as the army pushes you. You stop thinking like a civilian and start thinking like a soldier. I had grown up on a council estate, believing like an idiot that skipping off school was clever; it wasn't. The bravado that I engaged in as a teenager just camouflaged my lack of confidence.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from BATTLEWORN by Chantelle Taylor. Copyright © 2014 Chantelle Taylor. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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