Trapped and alone in no man’s land, I said to myself: Make sure you die like a man
A Taliban ambush, bullets ripping past his head – and just one way out. A commando officer’s gripping tale of survival
IT’S the summer of 2010 in Afghanistan, and British soldiers are fighting bloody battles with the Taliban in Helmand. Captain Johnny Mercer of 29 Commando Regiment Royal Artillery, is on his third tour in four years, his job to call in artillery or air strikes on enemy positions. Returning to base with a patrol of 20 men from 3rd Royal Horse Artillery, they are ambushed and in the chaos he finds himself stranded in an open field, a sitting target for two Taliban positions. The year has already seen an appalling British death toll, and Mercer can only lie in the dirt, convinced he is about to be next…
ICOULD not move. I’d be dead if I had just got up and bolted. The rounds were now coming in single shots from two enemy positions, trying to pick me off. They were kicking up the dirt around me. I hoped death would be painless but I suspected it wouldn’t be. I’ve never been so scared, before or since.
People talk about what comes into your mind when you are about to die. Some mention poignant things like their mother, or their children, some think of regrets. Well, I may be a bit too simple, but I just wondered how much it was going to hurt.
I thought of British troops who had died so bravely at Normandy. I don’t know why I always thought of them. I remember as a boy learning about the war, struggling to understand the commitment required to lay down your life on the altar of your country’s freedom. I thought most of them probably died like this. Not in some glorious charge; not with others watching them sacrifice all they have for their freedom. Just s*** scared. On their own.
I thought to myself, Make sure you die like a man. Don’t embarrass yourself…
I was convinced I would die. I was lying face down in the dirt. I had tried to get up a couple of times, but found myself instinctively ducking down again as rounds ripped past my head.
It took almost all my courage to change magazines and get up on one knee and put some rounds into the enemy position, but this seemed to anger the enemy and their fire increased.
The rounds were ‘bracketing’ me – some landing to the left and some to the right. The Taliban usually had very poor or no sights on their weapons, but if they bracketed the target, they could correct their fire until they hit it. It was clear that sooner or later one of these rounds was going to find me.
I was totally fixed in position, on my own, being used as target practice by the enemy. The only thing that would definitely stop a round was my helmet.
I changed my body position to ensure that my helmet was facing the enemy, and got as low as I could between two ploughed furrows.
We had been conducting a standard doubled-up patrol (about 20 blokes) i nto an area t hat had previously been heavily occupied by the Taliban, but was now much quieter after recent weeks of fighting. As we headed out that morning I realised it was the August bank holiday weekend back home.
I thought of The Barbican in Plymouth, which would be a scene of carnage by the end of the day.
We had just begun our extraction back west towards our patrol base (PB) when a rocket-propelled grenade ( RPG) flew straight into a group of Afghan soldiers at the rear of our patrol, and was followed up with bursts of automatic weapon fire into all of us.
I was mid-way across a 500-metrewide field, ploughed and ready for planting. I followed the correct drills as I swivelled to my left in the direction of the lone firing point to the south, and dropped to one knee to start engaging the enemy with my weapon.
After a moment, I realised I couldn’t hear anyone else returning fire, and I looked around me. For reasons I could not fathom then or since, no one else returned fire. The troops in front of me had forgotten all their training and legged it to a ditch about 300 metres ahead. Simultaneously, the troops behind me had run 300 metres in the other direction to a ditch we had passed before entering the field.
I was alone in the middle of a field, now the sole target of enemy automatic weapon fire. As I threw myself to the ground, I could hear that the group behind me were dealing with a Category A injury (immediate transfer to Camp Bastion) to an Afghan soldier; the others seemed to be walking wounded.
The rate of fire from the enemy increased substantially – either because they knew we had taken a casualty, or they could see me alone in the field, I could not tell which. The rounds were getting closer. Finally I spotted some action in the fire team to my front. A young lad had seen me, and he was frantically calling his section 2IC (second-in-command).
The section 2IC just stared at me, mouth agape. It then clicked that the only person who was going to get me out of this was myself; no one was going to do it for me. The guys’ immediate reaction to leaving someone behind was to panic; the patrol commander was busy sorting out the Cat A casualty. I had the radio on my back and the skills to bring down some heavy fire on to the enemy position.
I resolved to blast my way out of this, or at least try.
I pulled my map out of my trouser pocket. I had a good look at where I was and where the gun battery was located. I was so nervous my fingers were damp with sweat. The guns had performed so well for me on this tour. I could bring them to bear relatively quickly and land a couple of rounds of high explosive in the field to my front; that should give the enemy a shock and enable me to run.
I did not want to overplay my situation – was I really cut off? I would hate to cause a fuss for nothing. But I did not want to die.
I calmed myself down and put a call out to the controlling joint fires station.
‘ Hello, any call sign, any call sign, this is Witchcraft four-three. Requesting immediate emergency CAS [ close air support]. Man isolated on his own in contact.’
A thick American drawl came over the net.
‘ Hello, Witchcraft four- three, this is Dealer one- four. I am a Cobra gunship. I am transiting now to you, confirm location of man left behind.’
I gave the pilot a brief, including my own grid position, trying desperately not to sound as if I was as scared as I was. I knew that this was being listened to in head-
I realised that, back home, it was August bank holiday I knew that sooner or later, one of their rounds would hit me