momentary grim humour aside, the truth is that every attack is getting a little too close for comfort. Their IDF may not be as accurate as the Taliban would like, but we all know that it only takes one lucky shot for someone’s day to end badly. Not today, though.
I always appreciate that every man out here has a story to tell, so I dust myself off and move on, safe in the knowledge that my brother will be watching over me from somewhere. I tally up the casualties, mentally noting who was injured, and when. My body and mind alike are fatigued. I gather the medical team and make sure that they are okay. I may be in a command position, but these are my guys, and their safety is always my concern. We would become great friends during our time in Nad-e Ali. My medics and I are involved with every attack, whether inside or outside of the base. We rely heavily on each other to get things right.
I think back to the summer 2006 when I deployed here with the 3 PARA. I never fully understood what it meant to be under siege when the young paratroopers spoke about the battle for Sangin. Nad-e Ali was turning into our Sangin – you had to be in the shit to understand what it felt like.
The true lay of the land is known only by the enemy; this is their backyard, and they know every inch of it. When most units deploy into a base such as Nad-e Ali, they are supported by a small artillery unit, as well as an engineer squadron building up defensive walls. We have nothing: we were sent on patrol, and now we are holding a line that is very much closing in on us. The one useful asset that we managed to steal from the Throatcutters was a joint tactical air controller (JTAC), usually assigned to special ops. Remaining nameless and in the shadows, he saved more than a few lives, and for that we will always be grateful.
For the most part, things are grim and getting grimmer. Rations are quite literally being rationed. The young men fighting are ageing well beyond their years. Our intelligence support is superior on all levels, along with our interpreters, who give our company clear understanding of the Taliban’s intentions and plans through ICOM chatter. It’s evident that we are outnumbered: every village within a five-kilometre radius is housing Taliban fighters. Plans are afoot to overrun our small PB, but I wouldn’t learn this little belter until months later.
Another night passes. Activity in the PB starts early; everyone is up as Monty prepares to take his platoon out. As soon as any patrol leaves, everyone goes on to a heightened state. The thought of being overrun is always at the forefront of my mind. One of our guys has already killed at least twenty fighters. He doesn’t shout about it, but his success is well known across the company. The Apache gunships that have been regular visitors have torn up many more.
The Taliban’s battlefield replacement plan seems to be working well: no matter how many we kill, they are able to replace them, and fast. We are lucky if we have two full platoons left. Monty’s platoon is out for less than half an hour before getting hit. I can hear Monty’s fire control orders clearly over the net; it’s almost as if he is standing in the same room.
He calls for CAS, and our JTAC wastes no time in getting it to him. It sounds like some of the lads have been pinned down on the wrong side of a ditch. It’s not like the films where you can run along tracks and dodge rounds. If you are up and running, the likelihood of getting shot generally multiplies.
Cpl Tam Rankine, one of the more-experienced section commanders, knows that the boys are in trouble. He sprints across the open ground to try to give them more fire support. During this rescue, he is shot in the hand, getting off lightly.
After more accurate use of the 66 mm, the men manage to make good the ground that they have lost. Jen treats Tam when she can, calling in her casualty over the net. The guys are in the middle of a firefight, so
I always appreciate that every man out here has a story to tell, so I dust myself off and move on, safe in the knowledge that my brother will be watching over me from somewhere. I tally up the casualties, mentally noting who was injured, and when. My body and mind alike are fatigued. I gather the medical team and make sure that they are okay. I may be in a command position, but these are my guys, and their safety is always my concern. We would become great friends during our time in Nad-e Ali. My medics and I are involved with every attack, whether inside or outside of the base. We rely heavily on each other to get things right.
I think back to the summer 2006 when I deployed here with the 3 PARA. I never fully understood what it meant to be under siege when the young paratroopers spoke about the battle for Sangin. Nad-e Ali was turning into our Sangin – you had to be in the shit to understand what it felt like.
The true lay of the land is known only by the enemy; this is their backyard, and they know every inch of it. When most units deploy into a base such as Nad-e Ali, they are supported by a small artillery unit, as well as an engineer squadron building up defensive walls. We have nothing: we were sent on patrol, and now we are holding a line that is very much closing in on us. The one useful asset that we managed to steal from the Throatcutters was a joint tactical air controller (JTAC), usually assigned to special ops. Remaining nameless and in the shadows, he saved more than a few lives, and for that we will always be grateful.
For the most part, things are grim and getting grimmer. Rations are quite literally being rationed. The young men fighting are ageing well beyond their years. Our intelligence support is superior on all levels, along with our interpreters, who give our company clear understanding of the Taliban’s intentions and plans through ICOM chatter. It’s evident that we are outnumbered: every village within a five-kilometre radius is housing Taliban fighters. Plans are afoot to overrun our small PB, but I wouldn’t learn this little belter until months later.
Another night passes. Activity in the PB starts early; everyone is up as Monty prepares to take his platoon out. As soon as any patrol leaves, everyone goes on to a heightened state. The thought of being overrun is always at the forefront of my mind. One of our guys has already killed at least twenty fighters. He doesn’t shout about it, but his success is well known across the company. The Apache gunships that have been regular visitors have torn up many more.
The Taliban’s battlefield replacement plan seems to be working well: no matter how many we kill, they are able to replace them, and fast. We are lucky if we have two full platoons left. Monty’s platoon is out for less than half an hour before getting hit. I can hear Monty’s fire control orders clearly over the net; it’s almost as if he is standing in the same room.
He calls for CAS, and our JTAC wastes no time in getting it to him. It sounds like some of the lads have been pinned down on the wrong side of a ditch. It’s not like the films where you can run along tracks and dodge rounds. If you are up and running, the likelihood of getting shot generally multiplies.
Cpl Tam Rankine, one of the more-experienced section commanders, knows that the boys are in trouble. He sprints across the open ground to try to give them more fire support. During this rescue, he is shot in the hand, getting off lightly.
After more accurate use of the 66 mm, the men manage to make good the ground that they have lost. Jen treats Tam when she can, calling in her casualty over the net. The guys are in the middle of a firefight, so
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