In that moment I knew why I loved the Army
quarters, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself. ‘Roger. Engaging now.’ The sound was deafening. All hell broke loose as the gunship’s Gatling vomited ammo right over my head. The rounds were not going into the target (later I found out there were families in the compounds the Taliban were using as firing points), but were tearing up the ground no more than 80 metres to my south. It was now or never. I got up and ran for the ditch in front of me, where a collection of soldiers was now simultaneously engaging the enemy positions with machine guns. It was the noisiest battlefield I had ever heard.
I’ve never been very quick on my feet, and this was no exception. It was only 300 metres or so, but it felt like a bloody long way. I didn’t feel out of breath but my legs were very heavy indeed and the ground was thick. As I ran I braced for the pain of a bullet ripping through me. I tried not to think about it, but it was tough.
With the terrain and the weight of the kit, it took me about a minute to cover the distance.
I dived into the ditch on my a***, behind the machine gunner.
‘F***ing hell, boss, that was like something out of a film,’ said a soldier I didn’t recognise.
‘ Let’s get the f*** out of here, lads,’ I said.
The Afghan soldier who had been hit in the initial contact was deter- iorating fast. The company commander wanted to get a helicopter into the field behind us. I advised him that the medical evacuation and response team (MERT) may well come under contact again. I did not think the enemy position had actually been hit.
The MERT Chinook – accompanied as always by a UK Apache helicopter – landed OK, but almost as soon as its wheels were down a massive volley of shots rang out.
Someone fired off an RPG from right next to me. I could not hear a thing.
In the chaos, I looked back over my shoulder at the Chinook. The boys were running a man on a stretcher out to it. We could not lose the Chinook.
The MERT pilot was ready to lift. He called for clearance on the radio. I was pressing it so hard to my ear that it must have looked as if I was trying to insert it.
‘ Stand by to lift. Await my call,’ I shouted. I yelled over at the company commander for an increased rate of fire. The patrol responded, as did the Afghan army unit. I could hear the Apache engaging as well. These enemy were giving it a good go. They wanted to down the Chinook.
I paused. The noise was insane – I could tell by the vibrations around my head more than anything, since the RPG had knocked out my hearing. The Apache was continuously firing above me. The Chinook’s rotors were turning as it waited on the deck some 50 metres behind me. The entire patrol was engaging
into the enemy positions from the berm line I was crouched behind.
‘MERT, you are cleared to lift. Cleared to lift!’ I shouted. In that one moment, I realised why I loved the Army so much. The teamwork was extraordinary. I distinctly remember thinking how brave those pilots were, sitting there with just a Perspex screen for protection, waiting for the command to lift. The lads all had their heads above the berm as they engaged the enemy position, determined to protect the helicopter. The pilot of the Apache gunship was coolly placing himself in harm’s way to protect the MERT. Discipline; control; courage; professionalism; teamwork; sacrifice. The British Armed Forces codified in one moment of battle.
‘Roger. Lifting now,’ said someone very calmly into the radio. The weight of fire increased. The Chinook raised and flared backwards. The noise remained intense. He continued to lift and eventually he was nose down, chugging away from the scene and back to Bastion. As the noise from the helicopter faded, so the enemy fire seemed to dwindle and stop.
By now we were only about two kilometres from PB Khaamar, and we started moving back in that direction, at a quicker pace now that the casualty was gone. I was last man in.
After surviving a heavy contact, the rest of the patrol had an overwhelming feeling of having got away with something, and the boys were understandably quite boisterous. I headed back to the tent, unable to speak. I felt the blood run to my head.
I pulled out my cigarettes. They were s oaked with s weat and squashed. I tried to light one, but the sweat from my thumb had dampened the flint on the lighter. I couldn’t get a flame out.
I put my head in my hands and shut my eyes, struggling to get a grip. I couldn’t stop shaking. The stress of co- ordinating the joint fires as a solo effort; the experience of being left behind on my own; the repeated stamping on the monkey of fear in my head and keeping it under control – I think I was beginning to max out with what I could cope with. I could literally feel my head reaching saturation point.
Corporal Shaun Barrowcliff, known as Baz, a junior NCO from the Queen’s Royal Lancers, came in and lit my cigarette. My hand was shaking more than usual; I couldn’t get the butt into my mouth. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in the bloody field on my own.
I chain- smoked three or four cigarettes and gently forced my mind to settle down.
I had, by this point, come close to being killed a few times, and my coping mechanism was very simple. The more I thought about it, the worse it got. So I forced myself to think about other things. If I was struggling to get out of the cycle of thoughts about dying, I would get up and do something else – physically move my body, go for a run. Eventually I settled down.
Later, the company sergeant major appeared at our tent door. ‘One of my blokes has just told me that we left you behind today. Were you ever going to say anything to me?’
‘ I didn’t want to say anything – it was a genuine f***-up in the fog of combat, and I didn’t want to make a fuss.’
‘OK. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just felt I should come over and apologise. You did seriouslyy f***ing well today. Should never have happened.’
‘No dramas. Move on,’ I said.
I was the senior, most experienced and – given my control of joint fires – the most capable soldier on n the ground in this area of operations. If it was going to happen to anyone, it may as well have been me.
And so much of this f***ing war was luck.
A commander will earn his rank in the heavy moments – the moment when someone gets shot, the weapon jams, the enemy is 20 metres away, and the radio isn’t working.
The truth is, it is f***ing scary – we’re all f*** ing scared. Seeing someone lose half their body and scream all the way on to the helicopter is traumatic. Seeing someone shot dead is traumatic.
In those moments you just want to run on to the helicopter, go home and be done with it. That, I feel, is when you earn your rank. It’s just a piece of embroidery other- wise. Leadership isn’t all about riding your horse at the head of the parade.
There are some f*** ing hard, bloodsoaked, dust-encased, shaking-with-fear, s***-yourself yards you have to find it in yourself to make – you as an individual, not encouraged by others. But everyone has their limit and these guys were being pushed to it and beyond.
Abridged from We Were Warriors: One Soldier’s Story Of Brutal Combat, by Johnny Mercer, published by Sidgwick & Jackson on June 1 at £18.99. Order your copy for £14.24 (25 per cent discount) at www.mailbookshop.co.uk or call 0844 571 0640.