At about 4 p.m., the huge soldier I’d watched collapse was loaded on to a makeshift stretcher and carried by six struggling soldiers. We walked wearily back to the patrol base. Almost thirteen hours had passed since the Grenadiers had entered the Green Zone; eight since they had first come under attack. The depressingly familiar trend had continued. An area had been cleared but couldn’t be held. It would have to be fought for again, another day. As the sun started to sink away and stop punishing us for a few hours, the news came in over the radios. The Taliban had retaken the compounds.
On the way back, I rested against a wall, next to Lance Corporal Mizon, for whom this was the latest of many bad days. Two weeks earlier, his platoon commander, Second Lieutenant Falorin Kuku, had been blown up right behind him. A week after that, he’d been in the front of the jeep hit by the suicide bomber. One of his friends had been killed and four others wounded.
‘I expected it to be bad but these last two weeks have been fucking ... ... really bad.’ I said it was a lot for someone to take. ‘I suppose it is but I try not to think about it.’ He wetted his lips and shrugged slightly: ‘I’ll be alright.’
It didn’t help they found it hard even to see the Taliban. ‘They’re up for it, as you’ve seen today. We’ve gone two kilometres in about seven hours, which is fuck all. They’re hard to fight. It’s rare you even see them. Most people here haven’t ever seen them. And as soon as it’s getting a bit rough and they look like they’re gonna get it, they drop their weapon, pick up a pitchfork and they’re Farmer Joe for the day.’
‘Does that make you suspicious of everyone?’
‘Yeah, especially after that suicide bomber. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t let no one near me any more. If someone’s coming towards me on the same path, I cross the path.’ He looked down; suddenly, you could see the impact of it all. ‘I just want to go home’, he said. A lost little boy, not the GPMG-carrying bruiser who was always first into the fight that everyone else saw.
He found it hard to understand the Taliban. ‘They fight as if they want to die. They’re the kind of people that believe when they die they’re going to wake up with twenty-seven [sic] virgins. How can you fight against someone like that? Someone who doesn’t give a shit. If as soon as I died I’d go back to Tottenham, I’d be running at the bullets.
‘The ANA aren’t much different’, he said. ‘As soon as the bullets go down they get stuck in but they don’t put no flank protection down, they don’t bring no water or food and as soon as they’re hungry they come to us. “I want water, I want food.” Well, I haven’t got no water meself. If we wasn’t here, they wouldn’t get no water. If we wasn’t here they wouldn’t give themselves flank protection or rear protection. If a mine goes off, we get down, stand still and poke our way out, carefully. It takes hours and hours. They get in a straight line and just walk through it. They’re all gonna get blown up. But that’s their way of thinking.’
I asked how many times he’d fought for ground and then had to give it up again. ‘It always happens, you take ground then you lose it. There’s no one to hold the ground.’ In the past, they had established small patrol bases, supposed to be taken over by the Afghan police. But the police hadn’t turned up.
When we finally got back to the base, most of the soldiers collapsed on the floor. They struggled to string sentences together, if they tried to speak at all. Most stared straight ahead, so exhausted they appeared to be in shock. How could they have been through all that only to end up handing the ground back to the Taliban?
The next day, I asked Major David what had happened. ‘The resistance was so fierce and it very soon became apparent that without a considerably larger force it would have been extremely difficult to hold there.’ I asked if it was pure chance that the family – indeed, a section of his men – hadn’t been killed by the Hellfire missile. Major David was admirably honest. ‘I was fortunate that none of them were injured. I directed that attack. I gave clearance for it to fire and the responsibility lies on my shoulders. In this instance, I’m extremely lucky that there were no casualties, either friendly or civilian. But that is combat. In the confusion that follows an engagement like that it’s extremely difficult sometimes. Yesterday was probably the hardest day I’ve had in seventeen years of service and I think all the others who fought in it would agree. It was eight hours of unrelenting combat against a canny, wily and determined enemy who was prepared to fight to the death to defend the ground that they held.’
I asked if so much damage and trauma – five compounds bombed and one flattened – wouldn’t lose the support of the local people or even make them turn to the Taliban, if they hadn’t already. ‘It’s a fine line’, he said. ‘I think if we were completely indiscriminate in our fire then yes, we could lose support quite quickly. But we always try to minimise collateral damage. Yesterday, I agree we were reasonably lucky that the family weren’t injured but these are the risks in this kind of combat. When the ANA spoke to that family afterwards, they said the Taliban had forced them to stay in that compound. They are very canny. They understand, probably more than our public at home, that any collateral damage plays directly into their hands. The civilians yesterday said that the Taliban said “we won’t kill you, we’re just here to protect you”, but they also made them stay in the compound, knowing that they would probably be killed or injured by the coalition air strike.’
Major David thought that seven Taliban had been killed and six injured, out of probably fifty fighters. I asked how fifty fighters with old AK47s had managed to cause 160 British and 130 ANA soldiers, with air support, so much difficulty. ‘I’d have had an easier time if I’d had only had British troops under my command. The ANA have come on leaps and bounds but their command and control isn’t quite as advanced as ours. My men took significant risks yesterday to push them forward. Or should I say pull them forward? As such, it’s a significantly harder battle to wage.’ While their job was supposed to be to act as mentors for the Afghan Army, they were still commanding them. When I asked what had happened to the ANA’s company commander, Major David couldn’t quite stop himself from breaking into a huge smile. He was a bit more diplomatic than most of his men: ‘He manages to locate himself in the safer rear areas on most occasions. Yesterday, he was not present and I had to command his companies.’
I followed the Grenadiers as they cleared the abandoned village of Rahim Kholay. We walked into a small valley filled with walls, buildings and caves, hiding perfect bunkers, trenches and firing holes; invisible until you were so close you’d be dead. They were deserted, but there was no relief, no joy at this lucky break. Their exhaustion was so complete it was impossible to care. Even when mortar fire sent the ANA, who were ahead of us, sprawling, there was no reaction. No one had enough energy or strength left for fear, anger or the desire to fight back. Only when the ANA started moving dangerously close to another British position did Hennessey, Mizon and a few others send jeeps to cut them off and direct them back into the village, where they were less likely to get into trouble. ‘It’s like herding cats’, said Hennessey. ‘Cats with guns.’
Rocky, the ANA Captain, didn’t want to clear Rahim Kalay, because he thought the Taliban had just moved into some nearby trees, and were waiting to attack. ‘These poor soldiers have not come here to die in vain. War has its own tactics and I am not going to be in the front. I’m not a boy of fear, I wouldn’t go back to the womb of my mother from where I have come. I would obey you and go to anywhere you send me, even unarmed, because you are my boss. If I don’t go you can shoot me but please let us fight this war with our own tactics. The enemy has entered those orchards. If I move forward I will be destroyed.’
Major David, one of the most thoughtful and considered soldiers I’d ever met, lost his patience. He interrupted this speech, snapping: ‘The best thing is just to do what you’re told’ and walked away.
That was translated as ‘Yes, that’s fine, do whatever you want to do.’
* * * *
*
I left the Grenadier Guards. They’d been told they were to rest, as they had been out on operations for seventy-four days. I was persuaded to believe in the ridiculous idea that I could get a helicopter ride back to Bastion, go out on operation with the Light Dragoons and return to the Grenadiers before they headed back into the Green Zone. Instead I spent three days in a tent, waiting for a seat on a chopper that never materialised. In the meantime, the Grenadier Guards were told that rather than heading back to camp for showers and some good nights’ sleep in an air-conditioned tent, they would be taking the town of Adin Zai.
While I was desperately trying to get back to them, the Guards had walked towards the town and had immediately come under fire. By the end of the first day, they had dropped twelve 500lb bombs, lost one soldier and had two seriously injured. They thought they’d killed around eighty Taliban fighters. I regularly heard such assertions but the overall numbers of Taliban never seemed to drop. I never saw anywhere near enough bodies or blood to back up the claims of enemy casualties. The Taliban were very good at evacuating their dead and injured, but not that good. I assumed they exaggerated their losses on the radio, perhaps to ease their escape or possibly to keep the British focused on buildings that had long been abandoned.
By the time I reached them, the Grenadiers had taken Adin Zai and the Taliban were about to start their counter-attack. The first thing I saw as I ran from the Chinook helicopter was Company Sergeant Major Snazle on his quad bike, towing what looked like two bodies in a trailer. As he came closer, I saw that they were Afghan soldiers, apparently close to death. I solemnly asked what had happened: ‘One shot a dog. The bullet went through the dog and bounced off the floor and the wall. The fragments hit one in the leg and the other in the belly. They’ll be fine’, he said, with equal measures of annoyance and amusement. The rest of the Grenadier Guards told me it was even worse than Snazle had described: the ANA had missed the dog.
I walked with Major David through destroyed compounds. Most seemed to have taken direct hits. Within what remained of the outer walls, everything was reduced to rubble. We stopped at one of the first they had assaulted when they entered Adin Zai. It was possible to see where the rooms had been but the walls, roofs, supporting beams and even a tree now lay in a mangled heap, spilling on to the path where we stood. ‘This one had a large enemy position in it. Actually, coming back here now you can smell the bodies, so probably some enemy dead are still lying under the rubble.’
‘I don’t feel bad’, said Major David, ‘because we had to do what we did. There’s always going to be a slight tinge of sadness that human conflict leads to this and that there’s no way of dealing with it other than fighting.’
I followed Sergeant Major Snazle to a large house on the edge of Adin Zai: the soldiers’ base for a few days. Everyone was relaxed; most didn’t bother to wear helmets or body armour. An ANA jeep was parked outside, with a DShKa (‘dushker’) gun mounted on the back. A small crowd gathered to watch an ANA soldier fire it. Every time he fired, he lost control and bullets shot high into the air. Others ricocheted off the ground, far away from the Taliban positions. The gun was too powerful, even when the soldier grabbed it with both hands and sat back, trying to use his weight to keep it steady. His British mentors screamed at him to shoot down. Others shouted the now familiar question: ‘Are they shooting at anything?’ The answer was still ‘no’.
A young soldier was delighted to be given permission to fire a Javelin missile. (Each rocket costs about £65,000, three times the soldier’s annual salary.) Javelins are designed to destroy tanks but in Afghanistan they are regularly used to attack Taliban fighters. The missiles come in huge shoulder-mounted tubes, each with an infra-red monitor attached. A target is selected on the monitor and the rocket is fired, high into the air. You think it must land miles beyond its target. But just before it’s too late, it turns, moving almost vertically down. It’s as if it had forgotten where it was going, then remembered at the last minute. Then, it accelerates furiously towards its target. The missiles plop absurdly out of their tubes, falling towards the ground briefly, before roaring up and away. This always looked like a mistake, no matter how many times I saw them fired.
The Taliban fired back. Although they weren’t getting anywhere near us, they were very hard to kill or even see. Air support was called in and I saw a shiny white missile skim through the air over my left shoulder, landing just in front of us. A huge piece of hot metal fell at our feet. I thought I’d seen another mistake; the missile had come down barely a hundred metres in front of us. But it was perfectly accurate. It had landed exactly where the Taliban were. I put on my helmet and body armour.
The battle lasted into the night, more like an air show than a war. The range and power of the weapons dropped on the Taliban made the Brits cheer and the Afghans whoop and giggle, as if they were at a karaoke party. The climax came when a jet flew over and fired a Gatling gun at the trees in front of us, turning them into a row of fireballs whose black smoke rose high into the air. We saw the flash of the explosion, then its sound rolled slowly towards us across the field; one of the most evil noises I’ve ever heard. A deep and powerful roar (this version, the Vulcan, could fire up to six thousand rounds a minute) that made my internal organs quiver. The Taliban must have thought the foreigners had Satan on their side, burping fire from above.
There was a brief silence. Then the sound of small arms fire came back. Pathetic-sounding after the air show but impressive in its defiance. I wondered if maybe the air support wasn’t as accurate as was claimed. Or perhaps the Taliban were so used to the planes and helicopters that they simply dived into ditches whenever they appeared, making anything short of a direct hit a waste of effort. A few soldiers admitted to admiring the Taliban, some for their tactical ability but mostly for their bravery. ‘Even when they’re on to a complete loser, they insist on pushing forward’, said Major David. ‘On the one hand, you have to admire that determination. On the other hand, you just feel rather sad. It’s just a shame that they don’t seem to be able to surrender, which would save us a lot of pain and hurt.’
I asked him how much he thought this engagement had cost. The overall British effort in Afghanistan had just topped a billion pounds. ‘Um, I wouldn’t really want to hazard a guess’, he said, laughing. ‘But, um ... a lot.’ His radio operator appeared, smiling. ‘I-comm indicates at least forty enemy dead, sir.’
The Taliban were so persistent, without any hope of assaulting the compound, that I eventually grew tired and went inside to sleep, bedding down on a pile of ration boxes in the back of an ANA pick-up truck. About 2 a.m., the sound of another 500lb bomb exploding woke me up. But once I realised it had landed outside the compound, I fell asleep again.
The Grenadiers moved into a recently-abandoned small compound not far away. Jack Mizon had been on the roof when the neighbouring compound, fewer than fifty metres away, had been destroyed by a 500lb bomb, again by mistake. The ANA found a girl’s bike, which they rode around inside the building’s walls. Major David moved into a tiny watchtower on the roof, where he finally got some time to himself.
The Taliban had faded away, so everyone had a few days off to sleep, eat, clean their weapons and play with the ANA. Ryan Lloyd taught them Monty Python-style drills and a young, boyish-looking Grenadier got a few excited by spending all day with his shirt off. Some of the other Brits played along, pointing at him, saying, ‘hey ... jiggy jiggy?’ He got very uncomfortable when the Afghans started touching his nipples, looking like they were about to lunge.
Major David sat on the roof, outside his little room, taking in the scenery and sudden peace. His hair had grown long and blew in the wind, and he had a thick salt-and-pepper beard. ‘Down here in the Green Zone it’s pretty spectacular, with the fauna and flora. It’s quite easy to forget where you are at times and that there’s some bunch of lunatics out there that want to kill you. It’s easy to transport yourself away from what’s going on here, just because of
the natural beauty of it all.’
The Grenadiers were relieved by the Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters and drove back to Camp Bastion for some rest. They had been out in the field for eighty-two days. Captain Hennessey was first out, as he was due two weeks’ leave. ‘In seventy-two hours I’ll be in Chelsea’, he said, climbing on the back of a quad bike, wearing a bandana and sporting a recently-grown moustache, ‘...in the bath, with a glass of champagne.’ Lance Corporal Mizon was also heading home on leave, back to Tottenham. In Britain, their lives were as different as their accents.
Back at Bastion, everyone attended the repatriation ceremony for Guardsman Daryl Hickey, the soldier who’d been killed as they had entered Adin Zai. His coffin, draped in a Union Jack, was loaded on a Hercules plane to be flown home. ‘I was looking forward to coming back’, said Mizon, ‘but I didn’t want to come back to my friend’s funeral.’
As the plane took off, everyone saluted. In return, it too saluted, dipping its right wing before climbing into the clear blue sky.
After four weeks at home, I was back at Camp Bastion. This camp was designed to accommodate 2,300 soldiers; it now held four thousand and the number continued to rise. Building was happening everywhere, as the army struggled to house the expanding population of soldiers. Other than the major bases in Kabul and Kandahar, which have airstrips, cafés, showers, beds and complete networks of perfectly smooth roads, this was the only place I ever saw serious construction in Afghanistan.
On the military flight in, we’d been handed a plastic bag containing a Yorkie bar, two Tracker bars, a tube of Polos, some Starburst chews, a bag of KP nuts and a small carton of syrupy orange drink. English MREs (‘Meals Ready to Eat’) were the same, with the addition of a packet of biscuits and a vacuum-packed main course and desert. The food was designed for English winters; in the Afghan summer it took ten minutes to wipe melted Yorkie off everything else before we could eat.