Mike felt the aircraft descending. Through the window, he saw the ground looming up, sand and rock as usual. He looked at his men sitting coiled for action, their rifles clasped vertically between their legs. Most were becoming animated, the adrenalin beginning to course through their bodies. No doubt too, they were longing to get out of this thundering, vibrating, metal box.
With a gentle bump as the wheels sank into the sand, they landed. At the ‘all clear’ signal from the aircrew, he gave his troops the order to disembark. Once outside, he saw the other helicopters discharging their payloads of troops. Barely had they done so then the aircraft were on their way again.
“No hanging about for these boys,” said Mike.
The platoon commanders got together with Captain Ferguson for a quick appraisal of the situation and checked the communications between themselves and Control at Bastion. Then the platoons fanned out and commenced the march to the target village 2 miles away.
Through the darkness, sixty men marched silently towards an unknown destiny. Captain Ferguson maintained radio contact with Control, under the command of Colonel Manning who received continuous intelligence updates sourced from drone reconnaissance aircraft and listening devices which Special Forces had planted.
Mike felt the last vestiges of tiredness slip away as he breathed in the cool air and stretched his legs to the regular marching pace.
“I never did like walking through sand,” he chuckled quietly towards Corporal McIntyre two metres away from him.
“Ah, a stroll in the park!” Gary joked.
A blinding flash lit the night.
“What the fuck was that!” Mike exclaimed, his voice raised just over a whisper.
“Sorry guys,” said Steve. “My flash went off accidentally, I was trying to get a night shot.”
Mike ran over to Steve and grabbed him by the collar.
“You fucking idiot, you could get us all killed! Get that flash off before I ram it down your throat, you little shit!”
“OK,” Steve sounded embarrassed, “the batteries are out, it won’t go off again I promise.”
“Wanker!” Mike said between gritted teeth.
As he walked off he gave Lieutenant Larson a withering look which said ‘I told you so!’
The lieutenant looked shocked and gave him an uncomfortable nod of apology.
Half an hour passed in silence, and then Captain Ferguson gave the command “halt!” over the secure radio net.
“Attention all personnel, Intel indicates movement between us and the target. Wait up.”
After a short pause, he added, “activity is indicated just outside the village. Lieutenant Larson, send three men ahead as scouts, give them 100 metres, then all advance.”
Messages of acknowledgement came from all platoon commanders and NCO’s.
“Colour Sergeant, make it so,” Lieutenant Larson said to Mike.
Mike moved over to Corporal Frost, “take two men and advance, night sights on, maintain radio contact every minute, we’ll be right behind you.”
“Okay, Colour,” said Colin Frost.
The three soldiers moved ahead until they were out of sight. The eastern sky was beginning to brighten.
Captain Ferguson came over the net, “We need to maintain the benefit of darkness, move quickly but carefully.”
Regular reports came back from the scouting party indicating nothing seen. They were now 200 metres from the village.
“Advance party halt, await the remaining force to join you” ordered Captain Ferguson.
The remainder of Bravo platoon caught up with the scout group and everyone waited for the next order. At that moment two shots rang out.
“Where the fuck did that come from!” someone shouted as they all hit the deck.
“Casualty reports!” said Captain Ferguson over the radio.
One by one the platoons responded, no one had been hit. The air remained silent.
“Control, this is Oatcake Mission commander, 200 metres from the target. We have come under fire, en.emy has fired two rounds.” Captain Ferguson reported.
“Roger that, gunship helicopter is at immediate readiness, 20 minutes your location” replied Control.
‘”Hold for now,” said Ferguson.
Lieutenant Larson gave instructions to Steve, they were taking shelter behind a large rock, “whatever happens now, you fucking well stay right here, understood?”
“Understood” replied Steve. He looked frightened.
Mike took cover behind a small sand dune and called his two sergeants over to speak to them off the radio net.
“Guys, we’ve got to sort this shit out. Anyone see where those shots came from?”
“Alan and John reckon the shots came from the left of the building, the one identified as the arms dump, but didn’t think they were aiming in our direction,” said Colin.
Mike reported this to Captain Ferguson who replied “thanks, I’ll go along with that, I received the same report from Charlie platoon.”
“‘What do you reckon Colour, night watchman shooting tin cans?” said Gary.
“I hope so, but we’ll see,” Mike replied.
A new order came from Captain Ferguson, “Charlie platoon break off to the east, Alpha platoon to the west. Bravo platoon advance from the south. We’ll come at them from three directions. Keep your heads down lads.”
All platoon commanders acknowledged the order and began to disperse in their relevant directions, stooping as low as they could manage under the weight of equipment. Though the sun had not yet risen they were starting to lose the advantage of night cover. The delay with the gunshots and the intelligence report concerning movement had cost them valuable time. Bravo platoon delayed their advance until the other units were deployed in position ready to begin the pincer movement. Five minutes later they were ready.
“All units advance, weapons free,” ordered the Captain.
“Here we go lads, keep alert, anything could happen,” Mike said to his team. He was in full battle mode now; all anxieties vanished as his attention focused down to the present moment, second by second, and the task at hand. He knew, on reflection, that telling the lads to be alert was a superfluous statement. The adrenaline began to surge; all senses were heightened to the maximum. They would all be feeling it.
The troops closed in on the primary target and identified the layout of the village exactly as portrayed in the briefing. The explosives manufacturing facility, building ‘X’, was off to the left with a cluster of 12 dwellings to the right with various animal pens scattered around.
As they continued a man exited the building smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in traditional long robes, a skull cap on his head and had a rifle slung over his shoulder. As he turned to face the advancing platoon he froze, astonished at what he saw. Panic gripped him, he reached around for his rifle and brought it to bear in the general direction of Bravo platoon. Simultaneously screaming and shouting, he fired off several shots which flew wide of the platoon. An instant later the soldiers returned three shots and the man jerked backwards, arms out flung and fell to the ground with blood pouring from his chest and head.
Raised voices issued from the same building and others, including civilian dwellings. Half a dozen armed men staggered from their slumbers, uncoordinated and confused. Each, in turn, was wrenched from his stupor as they saw the mass of arms surrounding them less than 100 metres away. Three were instantly cut down while raising their weapons, the remainder found what cover they could. More people rushed out from their dwellings, running randomly in all directions except those that were clearly armed and intent on defending the village.
By now, all the soldiers were on the deck awaiting orders. The element of surprise had gone, the platoon commanders had to make instant decisions. The situation was changing by the moment.
Captain Ferguson spoke on the radio, ‘Mission Control, this is Oatcake, request immediate backup, close quarters fighting taking place, do not open fire without my command.’
“Oatcake this is Control, dispatching gunship now.”
If nothing else, the sight and sound of the helicopter would add to the enemy’s confusion and fear. A single gunship could raise the entire village to a pile of rubble in minutes, most of the enemy would know that.
Sporadic shots rang out from both sides. With the number of civilians scattered amongst the armed men, there was a risk of either losing control of the battle or a massacre of civilians. Neither was an acceptable option.
Mike was trying to make sense of the scene before him; it was chaos, no distinct target yet shots were being fired against them.
“Men, we need to advance, get closer. Civilian casualties must be avoided. We can’t see who is who from here,” he told his platoon.
“Should we wait for orders from the Captain first,” said Corporal McIntyre.
“He’s got no more idea of what’s happening than we have, we’re going to have to play it by ear,” he replied.
On their bellies, the men crawled ahead, trying to identify who were the enemy and who were civilians. Mike knew anything could happen now. This wasn’t how the mission was planned. It should have been simple; advance under cover of darkness, surround the buildings and pin the entire population down before they knew what was happening. But this is where he excelled, living on the edge.
The gunship came over the radio net, “Oatcake Mission this is Apache gunship, call sign Ugly Five-Five, over.”
“Ugly Five-Five this is Oatcake, over,” replied Captain Ferguson.
“Oatcake, Ugly Five-Five, we are 5 minutes your position, over.”
“Roger Ugly Five-Five, do not open fire, repeat, do not open fire, fighting at close quarters. Circle the village but keep your downdraft away from my troops, over.”
“Understood, hold fire. We’ll breathe down their necks buddy, awaiting further orders from you.”
Mike heard the communication with the gunship. He smiled then said: “that should shit them up, eh Corporal?”
‘“Too right, Colour! Just hope those Yanks don’t start getting trigger happy and screw things up!”
As the helicopter flew in and completed its first circuit around the village the pandemonium increased. Women, children and old men ran around aimlessly, bullets still flew over Mike’s head.
“Still can’t get a clear shot Colour.” Colin Frost bellowed out.
An explosion suddenly erupted from the far end of the village.
“Hope that’s not the Yanks,” said Mike.
“Colour!” shouted one of his fire team. “Looks like Alpha have got six prisoners, hands on heads!”
“Armed men or civilians?’
“Armed, rifles at their feet. I see three more, shot, down on the deck.”
“Keep your eyes peeled for anymore, we don’t know numbers,” Mike shouted to his platoon
A young girl darted 25 metres in front of him. Another huge explosion rocked the air, this time much closer. The last thing he saw as he ducked his head was the young girl flying through the air after taking the full force of the blast on her back.
“Fuck!” he shouted, “they must have blown the arms cache!”
He felt the heat of the blast wave searing over him. Sand, dirt, masonry and wood rained down around him, and then all was quiet.
***
Mike’s ears were ringing, but he could still hear the girl as she began to scream, the screams were interspersed with pitiful sobs. Without thinking, he stood up and walked towards the girl. As he drew closer he could see she was in one piece but her hair and her clothing were partially burnt.
"Medic!" he screamed. At the same moment he heard a loud crack and then an intense burning pain in his upper left arm. He fell to the ground and clasped his arm, his battle fatigues already sticky and wet from the blood flow. Stay low, he told himself. A vision of Hannah and the children flashed through his mind, it's not going to end out here, please God! For a few seconds, he felt disorientated until he remembered the girl. Another flood of adrenaline dulled the pain, increased his resolve, and tempered his fear and instinct for self-preservation. Struggling to his knees he saw she was only a couple of metres away and crawled over to her.
The burns to her back seemed minor, her clothes had given some protection. He turned her over gently. Sitting on the sand he placed her head in his lap. The girl had the most beautiful deep brown eyes but they were tortured with pain and fear. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Medic!” he called again. There was desperation in his voice.
Sergeant Bill Bradley, the platoon medic was already by his side. “Mike, I’m here. Shit, you’ve been hit!”
"Just a flesh wound. Never mind me, Bill, tend to this girl!" his breathing was laboured as he tried to ignore the pain.
“I need to take a look at your arm, you’re bleeding pretty bad.”
“I’m not dying Bill, this kid might be, sort her out first.”
“OK, but I’ll give you some morphine and get someone to dress the wound.”
Mike was too distracted to even notice the needle pierce his skin.
“Ben!” Bill shouted out to Private Phillips, “over here and get a dressing on the Colour Sergeants arm!”
“OK Mike, let’s take a look at her,” Bill said.
Ben began bandaging Mike’s arm.
Mike hardly heard the words; the girl absorbed him. He felt something slipping away, the pain in his arm was fading; the morphine was doing its work. But there was something else. He was losing sense of where he was, a different reality was emerging.
A commotion broke out a short distance away. Three members of the platoon had found and detained the last gunman, the one who had shot Mike. He had the sense to drop his weapon and surrender. His faith, promising martyrdom and rewards in heaven, wavered just in time; before his body was blasted to the four winds..
“Padar, padar,” the girl kept saying between sobs.
He had been out here long enough to know this was “father” in the local Dari dialect.
Bill gave the girl morphine and began examining her.
"This is not looking good. She took a hell of a hit from that blast. Bad internal haemorrhaging," Bill said, shaking his head.
But Mike was seeing something else.
He began rocking slowly back and forth repeating the words “my Katie, my Katie.”
The girl in his arms bore a striking resemblance to his own daughter, her physique and her facial features were similar with the same deep brown eyes. Only her skin and hair colour a little darker.
He began to replay in his mind a scene from six months ago. A car had knocked Katie off her bicycle on the road near where they lived. He was working in the front garden. On hearing the accident he ran down the street and felt sick as he saw her lying on the pavement. He cradled her in his arms and waited for the ambulance which a passer-by had already called. He was beside himself with anxiety and dread.
The outcome was that Katie had suffered a slight concussion, some minor cuts and bruises, but no long term damage. No one was to blame, it was an error of judgment, both by Katie and the car driver. But the incident had left a scar in his mind. A wound that was now beginning to open.
Time and space became distorted, what he saw now was Katie dying in his arms, that was his belief, his reality.
“Do something please! Save her! My Katie!” he pleaded.
Bill gently held his arm, “Mike, listen to me, this is not Katie” he said gently.
But Mike couldn’t take it in. The past, the present, the morphine; his mind was unravelling. He couldn't understand what was happening. It was still Katie who was in his arms.
With a last gasp and sob, the girl's body went limp as her life force ebbed away.
“No, no!” He screamed as tears streamed down his face.
Bill repeated, firmly, "Mike, it is not Katie!"
But he gave no response. He was lost within a nightmare world and began to recall memories; visions and flashbacks of atrocities he’d witnessed in Bosnia, Iraq and the Falklands spun through his mind. The Incidents were shocking at the time, but he managed to deal with them. Now they arose like demons to torment him. He looked out at the world through eyes blurred with tears, making little sense of it.
“What’s up with the Colour Sergeant?” asked Ben.
“Not sure lad, apart from his arm. Stress or trauma maybe, but we need to get him out of here.”
“Think I hear our transport choppers coming,” said Ben
“OK,” said Bill. “We’re about finished here.”
Groups of people under armed guard were being questioned. The American helicopter had landed outside the village and dispatched a military intelligence officer who was leading the interrogations. The newspaper man, Steve, had come out of his hiding place and was marching around taking photographs, adding a surreal air to the situation.
“Here Ben, help me get this girl off him.”
"She's sure pretty, Sergeant." Ben looked pale. Though barely 19 years old, he had seen a few corpses out here, but not a child.
“Aye laddie, she was a pretty girl.”
Mike stirred at this action, “this isn’t Katie, is it, Bill? Is it all over?” he murmured.
"I know your Katie, she's safe at home, we'll be out of here soon," Bill replied.
“Good, good. I don’t know what happened” he said quietly, slowly coming back to reality.
Bill assisted him to his feet, “we need to get your arm properly looked at Mike, we’ll get you to the hospital at Camp Bastion. Come on. Let’s get closer to the landing area.”
The three Merlin helicopters which had transported them to the mission returned and the troops began embarking. Charlie platoon was given orders to remain in the village to finish questioning and searching, so the third helicopter could be used to take the wounded to Camp Bastion along with Bill. Mike was still dazed and didn't speak much during the flight.
Mike felt numb as he stared out of the helicopter window. He recalled little of the past hour other than brief visions of gunfire, explosions, and pain. He thought of Hannah, how close had she come to losing him? A few centimetres to the right and that bullet would have gone through his chest. He dropped his head into his hands. They lived for each other, if anything were to happen to either of them, the one left would struggle to continue. His heart felt like it was bursting with the yearning to be with her. A feeling surged through him, urging him to break free from this life, to go home. He had been a professional soldier since leaving school, a very good one, and he loved it. But now something was changing, ending, he felt detached from what he had been. He vividly recalled holding the young Afghan girl in his arms and a shiver went through him when he saw Katie’s face once again in his mind.
Bill tried to talk to him but it was impossible with the noise of the helicopter. The chopper started to descend and as it touched down at Camp Bastion Mike saw a hive of activity outside including medical staff and a field ambulance. As Mike disembarked he noticed there was someone on a stretcher, he hadn't noticed on boarding the aircraft.
“Who’s that Bill?”
“That’s Andy Bell, a bad leg wound but he’ll be OK.”
Mike was soon inside the hospital and felt annoyed when he was directed to a wheelchair. "I can bloody well walk OK, just give me something more for the pain!" he grumbled.
The doctor and nurse attending took his attitude in their stride, injured men coming off the battlefield often responded aggressively or out of character. After giving him more morphine the doctor examined his arm once the nurse had cleaned it. Coming down from the high of being in battle, dealing with the pain and the extra morphine, he began to hit a low point; all he wanted to do was sleep.
“That’ll be fine . . . ?” the doctor raised his eyebrows questioningly to Bill,
“Oh. Colour Sergeant Mike MacDonald, doctor.”
“OK Mike,” the doctor continued, “no major tissue damage, the nurse will stitch you up and dress it, a few weeks you’ll just have a scar as a memento.” He smiled at Mike and walked off.
“Right," said Bill "I’ll leave you in her capable hands and take a wander, see how the other guys are doing. Catch you later, Mike.”
“Bill!” he said. His speech was slurred.
“Yeah?”
He gave Bill a smile and a nod “thanks.”
Bill nodded back, “OK, now get some rest.”
He was taken out of his combat clothes, given a gown, and shown to a bed.
“Let’s get you comfortable,” said the nurse, “anything you need, just ring the bell.”
"Thank you, nurse . . . ," Mike moved his head to see her name badge, "ah, Gill Taylor."
He felt an oppressive, heavy tiredness from the lack of sleep, the adrenaline, the morphine, the action and his injury. They had all taken their toll, physically and emotionally. He had no choice but to surrender as his eyelids grew heavy. Soon he was in a deep but troubled sleep.
***
He dreamt and plunged into a horrifying and vivid nightmare. He was back in the Falkland Islands on the 8th of June, 1982. Argemtinian aircraft bombed the supply ships RFA Sir Tristram and RFA Sir Galahad at Bluff Cove.
The ships came under heavy fire. The Sir Galahad received the brunt of the attack and took direct hits from three 500 pound bombs. Casualties were high. As thick black smoke billowed from the stricken ship, Mike’s unit, supporting the 2nd Battalion, Royal Parachute Regiment in occupying Fitzroy and Bluff Cove, were sent to give what assistance they could.
Soon, Royal Navy helicopters were hovering in the dense cloud of smoke, winching off crew members and troops. The shore was crowded with dead bodies, the walking wounded and those that had escaped unharmed. Mike’s unit did what they could in providing first aid, helping out with the simpler cases while the medics dealt with those more desperate. Screams of pain, the majority of injuries were burns, tore through his brain. Mangled, twisted faces, limbless bodies, he’d never seen carnage like it. In the end, 48 men died from the Sir Galahad that day.
Finally, he came across a face he knew, an old school pal, Dave Green, who'd joined the Royal Marines about the same time Mike had joined the Army. He was crying out in pain with substantial burns and his left leg was missing. Mike felt fear and helplessness. Compassion, sadness and pity whirled through him at the sight of his friend, just 19 years old, lying there in a pool of blood, his body all but destroyed. It was clear he was dying.
Mike knelt down and took his hand, "Dave, it's Mike, hi pal."
Dave's eyes opened and a brief look of joy flashed through them upon recognising Mike. "M . . . M . . . Mike," Dave stuttered, almost crying, "don't think I'm gonna make it"
Mike knew that could be the only outcome but tried to comfort him, “hang in there Dave, we’ll get you sorted.”
Dave’s voice was faltering, but he managed to whisper “don’t leave me,” he squeezed Mike’s hand tighter.
“I won’t leave you pal, I promise.” He caught the attention of a medic and called him over.
“Jesus!” said the medic.
“Can you do something for him? Please!”
The medic was slowly shaking his head, “morphine for the pain, try and get a tourniquet on his leg, other than that . . .” he looked sadly at Mike.
Dave spoke quietly, tears now in full flow.
“It's too late," his breath was coming out in short gasps. In the final moment, a smile crossed his face and he looked into Mike's eyes, it seemed to Mike that all his pain had disappeared. Dave squeezed his hand ever tighter and managed to utter, "take care Mike, look after yourself."
After one more rattling breath his grip went slack and he was gone.
In his hospital bed, he tossed and turned, covered in sweat, until he finally awoke with a shout, "no!"
The images of the scene kept playing through his mind like a looped video.
His shout aroused the night duty nurse and she attended to Mike. He appeared to be having a panic attack, short, sharp breathing, agitated movements, distressed words and sounds. Unable to ease his state by talking to him she called the doctor who gave him a 10mg injection of Diazepam.
“That should last until the morning nurse, but keep an eye on him.” Mike heard him say.
“Thanks, doctor," she replied.
Mike began to relax as the drug surged through his system, the dream faded and his consciousness gave way to a deep and peaceful sleep.