Painting the Sand Read online

  As we moved off again one of the infantry corporals began gobbing off about someone forgetting to tape up an infrared beacon to reduce its brightness. Only a tiny pinhole was needed otherwise the infrared light effectively renders night vision goggles useless by blurring them out.

  ‘Fucking atts and detts . . . the wankers have forgotten to square away their IR beacons – amateurs. Probably never been out on the ground before.’ ‘Atts’ and ‘detts’ were attachments and detachments – the Brimstone team. He had said it loud enough for everyone to hear even though we were supposedly on a tactical approach to the objective. I had a quick look about and saw that the offending beacon was attached to one of his lads and not wanting to look like a twat for not being on top of his men the idiot blamed my guys.

  ‘Oi, dickhead – wind your neck in,’ I said an inch or so away from his face. My words stopped him dead in his tracks. Not knowing whether to shit or piss he muttered an apology.

  In single file, walking slowly and in silence, we made our way through the wheat fields, stopping every now and then for no visible reason. Somewhere up ahead a lone soldier cleared a path with a metal detector, moving slowly and methodically searching for IEDs. Our lives were in his hands.

  The column ground to a halt. I again dropped onto a knee, waiting for the rest of the team to emerge from the pre-dawn gloom. One by one they appeared and formed a semicircle around me.

  ‘I never knew a K could be so knackering,’ Sam whispered. A ripple of soft laughter fluttered through the team – spirits were high.

  I gulped down water and wiped the sweat from my eyes. Ahead the infantry were moving in to secure the target – a large compound with mud walls designed to keep intruders out and protect those inside. In all likelihood the compound was around when the British first invaded Afghanistan in the early nineteenth century.

  As we chatted quietly an infantry sergeant emerged from the darkness. A large, confident grin was spread across his dirty face.

  ‘Right, lads, make yourself comfortable. You’re going be here for at least an hour. No smoking or brews but you can get something to eat,’ he said before disappearing back into the night.

  I got as comfortable as I could using my day-sack as a backrest to lean on and tried to relax. I noticed a young soldier shivering in the dark. ‘You all right, mate?’

  ‘Just cold, Staff,’ he answered, teeth chattering. I reached into my Bergen and pulled out an old poncho liner.

  ‘Wrap yourself in that. We’re going to be here for a while. And take on some water – you’ll be all right.’

  I dropped my night vision goggles back down and noticed that some of the team had nodded off. An hour or so later, around 0430 hrs, a message filtered its way down to my team that we had to be ready to move by 0445 hrs.

  The young soldier who had been shivering an hour or so earlier neatly folded my poncho liner and handed it back to me, smiling. ‘Thanks but you didn’t need to fold it,’ I added before stuffing it back into my pack.

  Everyone struggled to stand beneath the weight of their kit with legs stiff from the cold. One by one, the soldiers began to follow the man in front in a long single file. The route was marked by guides from a reconnaissance unit ensuring that we were heading in the right direction.

  Through the gloom, I spotted our first objective, the compound with typical fifteen-foot-high and two-foot-thick walls. Groups of soldiers began breaking away taking up defensive positions around the outside wall. I headed for a corner of the compound where an orchard offered a bit of cover if a contact kicked off. Gradually, Brimstone 42 arrived, dropped their kit, took up fire positions and waited for the next set of orders. We had now entered the realms of a classic military operation – hurry up and wait.

  The first sign of dawn over in the east was greeted by a chorus of birdsong. Still cold and leaning against the fifteen-foot compound wall, I watched as the sun crept into the dark, hoping that it would reach us by the time we had to move again. A little bit of heat would have done wonders for morale. As light began to flood into the valley a mist appeared and hung like a white veil across the hand-groomed fields surrounding us. The Islamic call to prayer echoed across the land, hungry dogs barked and in the distance, and several fields away, men wearing turbans and wrapped in blankets began to emerge from their homes. They paid us little attention as they squatted down to shit in the same irrigation ditches many of us had just walked through.

  Helmand is located in southern Afghanistan and has a border with Pakistan. It is largely desert apart from the area either side of the Helmand river, a lifeline running through the country like a major artery, irrigating the land and turning parts of the desert into a lush fertile plain. This area was known as the Green Zone and where the majority of the population resided. It was also the region the Taliban wanted to control.

  I scoured the landscape through my weapon-sight, marvelling at the pre-industrial beauty of rural Helmand. Life had changed little for hundreds of years. Invaders had come and gone but the Afghans seemed to have an almost superhuman capability to endure.

  Just as I was becoming lost in my own thoughts the clipped tones of a public schoolboy brought me back to reality.

  ‘Where’s ATO?’ demanded a young second lieutenant who looked as though he had literally just left the Sandhurst military academy. He was referring to me – Staff Sergeant Kim Hughes. I’m an Ammunition Technician but in Afghan everyone was called Ammunition Technical Officers (ATOs) – the bomb disposal specialists.

  ‘I’m the ATO, sir,’ I responded expecting a quick brief on the latest developments.

  ‘You’re at the wrong objective,’ he said with a tinge of blame as though the mistake was mine. He was probably only on his first operational tour but appeared full of confidence, which could be both good and bad.

  ‘What? No, this is our objective,’ I replied testily. ‘We were supposed to go to the other compound but the plan was changed yesterday. This is our objective. This is the bomb factory and we’re here to clear it.’

  But as the words came out of my mouth a half smile crept across his face. ‘Shit happens. Things change and so has your objective. An IED has been found at the other compound and that’s where you should have been sent to.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss, sir?’

  ‘No, Staff, I’m not. You are needed over there,’ he added, pointing in the direction of another compound, around seven hundred metres away.

  ‘So how are we going to get there, sir?’

  ‘Tab,’ he responded, as he walked away.

  It was now daylight, the Taliban were awake, had finished morning prayers and were ready to fight. Now my team had to walk across open ground for seven hundred metres with no cover because someone hadn’t got their act together.

  ‘Officers couldn’t organise . . .’ the sentence drifted away unfinished. The lads chuckled to one another as I walked over to the search team to break the good news.

  Dave interrupted: ‘Staff, just got information on the radio. They’ve got definite confirmation of an IED at the other objective.’

  ‘Roger, tell them we’ll be there in the next twenty mins.’ The plan was unravelling and fast.

  The Taliban would have clocked us as soon as the Chinook landed. My mind began to race. They were probably already in their ambush positions or moving towards them. There was no choice but to cut straight across the poppy field. The crops were about knee high so a bit of cover for us if there was a contact but also cover for them.

  I called everyone together beneath the shade of a fruit tree. The guys were sitting and kneeling and listened attentively as I charged through a quick set of battle orders. Sapper Sam Jack, one of the younger members of the search team, was nodding as I spoke. He soaked up every bit of info. An excellent soldier, bright and super fit with a huge amount of common sense. Exactly the sort of bloke you want in your team. He already had that sense of authority, which even those more senior respect. I knew back in training that he was goi
ng to be a vital member of the team. He was the first to volunteer for the more difficult tasks and never complained. One of those guys that binds teams together.

  ‘We’ve got to get ourselves over to that compound,’ I explained, first pointing at the map and then at the building around seven hundred metres away. ‘We’re going to be exposed moving across the field and any attack is likely to come from that tree line. I want REST to lead, RESA and I will follow, the remainder behind me. If we get attacked go firm and return fire. No unnecessary stops. The less time we are in the open the better. Ready to move in five.’

  Sapper Michael Malley, another top soldier, was testing his mine detector – he was point man, probably the most dangerous job in Helmand. He either finds bombs or steps on them. Sam had volunteered to follow directly behind Malley.

  The sun was now in the sky and I could feel the heat burning my neck as I squinted through the diamond-white light to the fields beyond. The front man set off at a speedy pace and in a matter of minutes we were breathing heavily and dripping with sweat. Somewhere in the distance the crackle of automatic gunfire split the early morning silence. No rounds were coming our way so we cracked on.

  Several bangs followed. ‘RPGs,’ I said to myself. In the distance I could see farmers moving into their fields – or were they Taliban? I powered on, becoming increasingly incensed that my team was now completely exposed. By the time we reached the target I wasn’t in the mood for any more mistakes. Unlike the first objective, the compound was located within a small hamlet of four farms, each surrounded by lush green fields growing a mixture of opium poppy and marijuana, drugs used to fund the Taliban’s fight against NATO.

  The area around the compound had been secured and tired-looking soldiers were monitoring tracks and potential Taliban firing points. The team gathered by a small stone wall and I told them to have a brew and get some scoff when I noticed Sgt Lee Ward, my RESA, was already chatting to an officer. Lee was a seasoned pro and as the Search Advisor was a key member of the team. But on this occasion he was overstepping the mark. I was the boss. I was the guy who made the decisions. The fact that we had been told there was an IED here changed the nature of the task. It was no longer a search-led operation and Lee should have understood that. Major mistakes start as minor mistakes. If everyone does their jobs properly you eliminate the risk of it all going horribly wrong. I was now really pissed off. We’d been messed around for the past twelve hours and now an officer was chatting to my RESA when there was an IED to be dealt with. My temper got the better of me.

  ‘Right, what going on?’ I said.

  The officer, a ginger-haired lieutenant who was barely out of his teens, looked at me with a ‘You can’t talk to me like that’ look on his face.

  ‘Right, sir, I’ve been told there is an IED here. Why haven’t you spoken to me about this? Why are you speaking to the RESA?’

  The officer looked taken back and slightly hurt, then said: ‘What are you talking about, Staff? There’s no IED here.’

  I exploded. ‘Then what are we doing here? Not only have we been messed about from the get-go, we’ve been forced to tab across open country to get to this location because you said there was an IED and now you’re saying there isn’t. So what is it?’

  ‘There’s no IED, we just want the compound searched in case there is an IED. Obviously a breakdown in communication your end.’ I looked at him incredulously.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’m going to be sitting over there with my team.’ I turned to Lee and added: ‘Crack on with your search. I’m here if you need me.’ Lee nodded, not saying anything.

  My team looked at me waiting for response. I took my helmet off, sat down and took on some water. They were waiting for my reaction. I could see them trying not to laugh. I closed my eyes and folded my arms across my body armour and yawned loudly. ‘Wake me if anything happens,’ I said to no one in particular.

  Cpl Alan ‘Chappy’ Chapman, the REST Commander, began to organise the team and gave them a quick briefing on how he wanted the search to progress. Chappy was a born leader and a tough no-nonsense soldier who was held in great respect by his team. Although he was only in his early twenties he had the wisdom of a seasoned veteran. While they busied themselves, I slipped into a deep sleep.

  2

  Man Down

  Afghan compounds vary in size considerably but most follow a similar pattern. They are usually surrounded by high mud walls that have been baked concrete-hard by the sun. In some cases the walls are two or three feet thick and are almost impenetrable. Within the walls are a number of buildings, stables and stores along with the main dwelling.

  As I dozed the search team entered the compound and began their hunt, looking for anything resembling bomb-making equipment: wires, home-made explosives or ammonium nitrate-based fertiliser – which can be turned into high explosive with a little bit of know-how – improvised detonators, pressure plates and yellow palm oil containers which the Taliban used to hold the main explosive charge. The scene inside the compound was chaotic and the buildings may well have been abandoned just prior to the soldiers’ arrival. Sam, Malley and Harry began searching through some of the smaller buildings while Chappy stood back and controlled the operation.

  Sam headed into one of the stables, scanned the area with his metal detector, searched into the corners with his torch and reappeared. ‘Nothing in there.’

  ‘Roger,’ Chappy responded.

  Harry was the next to reappear. ‘That one’s empty too,’ he said referring to a small windowless building behind him. ‘It just stank of shit.’

  As the rest of the team broke into laughter, Malley came tearing out of another building. ‘Shit!’ he shouted so loudly that all heads turned towards him. Close behind was a massive, snarling dog, teeth bared and foaming at the mouth. Afghan dogs had a reputation for being aggressive and often infected with rabies. Harry, who was probably the team’s best shot, brought his rifle up into the aim and fired a single shot at the dog as it leapt at Malley. The bullet struck the animal in the chest passing through the dog’s lungs and heart. It was an excellent kill shot and the dog was dead before it hit the floor. But a 5.56mm high-velocity round carries a lot of kinetic energy and the bullet continued on its trajectory first hitting the ground, ricocheting upwards where it struck the compound wall before tumbling and spinning towards Sam. The bullet fragment hit Sam’s face with a sickening thwack, passed through Sam’s right eye socket before puncturing the front of his brain. He collapsed like a puppet with the strings cut.

  Initially all eyes were focused on the poleaxed dog, then Chappy saw Sam lying on the floor with blood pumping from his face.

  ‘Man down!’ Chappy shouted. ‘Man down.’

  I was woken first by the shot and then Chappy’s voice, full of panic and fear. ‘Man down’, two words no soldier wants to hear. It’s never said lightly. It means there’s a casualty and it’s serious.

  I grabbed my rifle and instantly bought it to my shoulder, fumbling for the safety catch with my index finger. I quickly scanned the area to my front in the hope I might see the enemy and return fire, but nothing.

  Chappy screamed again, ‘Medic – where’s the fucking medic?!’

  The next few seconds were a bit of a blur as Lewis and I raced into the compound. The team were over in the far corner, some standing, others kneeling. Other soldiers were looking on, their faces white with fear. Time froze and everything went into slow motion. People’s mouths were moving but I couldn’t hear their words. I was trying to take everything in, trying to formulate some kind of threat assessment, trying to get the answers before even asking the questions.

  Then I saw Sam. He was lying on the ground, his feet twitching violently. Chappy, kneeling next to him, looked up at me and mouthed the words: ‘He’s fucked.’ It felt like I was in some sort of surreal dream.

  Chappy quickly explained what happened but even then I couldn’t really believe what I was hearing. It was a one in
a million chance. If he had moved a fraction of a second earlier or later the bullet would have missed him. But this was not to be his day. It was bad luck in all its horrific effect.

  Harry was slumped against a wall, his rifle between his legs with tears rolling down his face. He was as white as a ghost and shaking. His eyes were fixed on a congealed blood trail slowly being absorbed into the floor.

  Sam let out a terrible, agonised moan, like a fatally injured animal. His right eye was closed and swollen. Blood was running down the side of his face and had pooled into a small, deep-red puddle by his ear. My stomach turned as I knelt beside him. Chappy was holding his hand: ‘You’re gonna be fine, Sam, nothing to worry about.’

  Sam tried to lift his hand to his face, but was gently stopped by Chappy. ‘Don’t touch it, you’re going be OK.’ I was raging, wanting to scream, what a waste. It’s one thing to get injured by the enemy, that’s part of the deal and perhaps expected. But this was something else.

  Sam was in a very bad way. His breathing was laboured and his body was convulsing violently. A medic arrived and immediately went to work, ordering the lads to back off and give him some space. He checked Sam’s vital signs, his breathing and heart rate. He gently opened Sam’s eye to get a clearer look at the wound. He winced as though he could feel Sam’s pain. I stood up and walked towards Lewis Mackafee, who looked shell-shocked.

  ‘Lewis, give me the satphone. I need to speak to the Ops Room. And then go sit with Harry.’

  I walked about the compound trying to get a satellite lock on my phone. Behind me I could hear the signaller calling in the nine-liner, basically a casualty reporting system that enables the Mobile Emergency Response Team (MERT) to be deployed.

  Back in Bastion, one of the watch-keepers answered.