it’s down to me and Sgt Maj. Robertson to go out to retrieve our wounded. My man Duffy has also been injured, and it doesn’t surprise me that he is in the thick of it.
The Throatcutters are operating elsewhere, but they provide our QRF. We set off in three vehicles. I’m top cover for Davey, and there’s a 66 mm rocket beside me. As I check the 66 mm, it dawns on me just how lucky I am – my path in life could have been very different. I am in a world that few men or women have the chance to experience. All medics that hail from 16 Brigade who are attached to infantry companies are given an insight into all the weapon systems that the company employs.
The Taliban attack any call sign, and when it heads south, everyone, regardless of job description or cap badge, can look forward to getting a slice. This is not a conventional conflict with prisoner of war (POW) camps. The Geneva Conventions actually means something in such conflicts, but it means nothing here. The waving of a Red Cross flag doesn’t cut it, either. The soldiers that I support are fighting hard, and I would feel ashamed if I couldn’t offer a safe haven to them when they are injured. As medics, we protect our casualties by any means necessary.
We head to where the fire is coming from; driving into contact is not for the faint-hearted. All I can think about is that hideous heavy weapon that the Taliban have been smashing the base with. A direct hit from the DShK would cut me in half. I look in the distance through the sight on top of my SA-80 (also called a SUSAT, for sight unit small arms trilux). I spot Jen running with her casualties. The noise is deafening. Davey also sees Jen, and he makes a hasty stop.
We get out of the vehicles and pick our blokes up. I watch Jen go running back to the platoon sergeants group. Together, she and Monty just crack on. I like the fact that you can’t tell her apart from the others. When it’s real time, soldiers are soldiers – the guys don’t see Jen the female medic running towards them; they see ‘our’ medic.
The running we did around the HLZ back at Lash, always wearing our heavy body armour, is now paying off handsomely. I get my casualties in the wagon, and we head back to the PB. Once there, I examine Tam and Duffy. As per usual, Duffy finds something to joke about, laughing at the fact that they were ‘shitting themselves when they were cut off.’ I am relieved that Duffy is okay. Losing someone so young doesn’t bear thinking about, and I have grown quite fond of his once-annoying habits.
The boss needs a casualty report, and fast. I assess a gunshot wound to the hand and possible fracture to the lower limb both as cat-Cs, which means we have four hours to play with. Distal pulses on both are good, so they should be okay. Thinking tactically, I know the firefight hasn’t finished, so at the moment, the chance of more casualties is very high. Risking airframes for casualties that we can hold and treat is a non-starter. Sorting out fluids for both my injured, I think about the heat down here; it’s stifling today. The platoon eventually breaks contact: the guys are heading back in. I discover that Kev has already sent a nine-liner declaring that we have a cat-B casualty. I am angered by the lack of communication. This has become commonplace on the battlefield, and sometimes medics are too scared to speak out.
This is the wrong decision, and so I approach Maj. Clark, my OC. I get on well with the boss and Kev, so I don’t want any type of confrontation; nor do I want to make a situation out of nothing. Explaining to the major that the guys’ injuries do not require such a high priority, I advise him that we should change the category back down to a C.
Maj. Clark acknowledges my point, but then says, ‘What if the MERT team won’t come because Tam is just a cat-C?’
I explain that there may be more needy casualties upcountry, and if we start overcategorising patients, brigade HQ will
The Throatcutters are operating elsewhere, but they provide our QRF. We set off in three vehicles. I’m top cover for Davey, and there’s a 66 mm rocket beside me. As I check the 66 mm, it dawns on me just how lucky I am – my path in life could have been very different. I am in a world that few men or women have the chance to experience. All medics that hail from 16 Brigade who are attached to infantry companies are given an insight into all the weapon systems that the company employs.
The Taliban attack any call sign, and when it heads south, everyone, regardless of job description or cap badge, can look forward to getting a slice. This is not a conventional conflict with prisoner of war (POW) camps. The Geneva Conventions actually means something in such conflicts, but it means nothing here. The waving of a Red Cross flag doesn’t cut it, either. The soldiers that I support are fighting hard, and I would feel ashamed if I couldn’t offer a safe haven to them when they are injured. As medics, we protect our casualties by any means necessary.
We head to where the fire is coming from; driving into contact is not for the faint-hearted. All I can think about is that hideous heavy weapon that the Taliban have been smashing the base with. A direct hit from the DShK would cut me in half. I look in the distance through the sight on top of my SA-80 (also called a SUSAT, for sight unit small arms trilux). I spot Jen running with her casualties. The noise is deafening. Davey also sees Jen, and he makes a hasty stop.
We get out of the vehicles and pick our blokes up. I watch Jen go running back to the platoon sergeants group. Together, she and Monty just crack on. I like the fact that you can’t tell her apart from the others. When it’s real time, soldiers are soldiers – the guys don’t see Jen the female medic running towards them; they see ‘our’ medic.
The running we did around the HLZ back at Lash, always wearing our heavy body armour, is now paying off handsomely. I get my casualties in the wagon, and we head back to the PB. Once there, I examine Tam and Duffy. As per usual, Duffy finds something to joke about, laughing at the fact that they were ‘shitting themselves when they were cut off.’ I am relieved that Duffy is okay. Losing someone so young doesn’t bear thinking about, and I have grown quite fond of his once-annoying habits.
The boss needs a casualty report, and fast. I assess a gunshot wound to the hand and possible fracture to the lower limb both as cat-Cs, which means we have four hours to play with. Distal pulses on both are good, so they should be okay. Thinking tactically, I know the firefight hasn’t finished, so at the moment, the chance of more casualties is very high. Risking airframes for casualties that we can hold and treat is a non-starter. Sorting out fluids for both my injured, I think about the heat down here; it’s stifling today. The platoon eventually breaks contact: the guys are heading back in. I discover that Kev has already sent a nine-liner declaring that we have a cat-B casualty. I am angered by the lack of communication. This has become commonplace on the battlefield, and sometimes medics are too scared to speak out.
This is the wrong decision, and so I approach Maj. Clark, my OC. I get on well with the boss and Kev, so I don’t want any type of confrontation; nor do I want to make a situation out of nothing. Explaining to the major that the guys’ injuries do not require such a high priority, I advise him that we should change the category back down to a C.
Maj. Clark acknowledges my point, but then says, ‘What if the MERT team won’t come because Tam is just a cat-C?’
I explain that there may be more needy casualties upcountry, and if we start overcategorising patients, brigade HQ will
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