Ed Macy: Apache

The following is an account of operations involving 656 Squadron, Army Air Corps, in Afghanistan over several months in 2006 and 2007. At the time of going to print, some inquests have not yet been held into the deaths of British Army and Royal Marine personnel reported in these pages. The author has, to the best of his knowledge, reported events faithfully and accurately and any insult or injury to any of the parties described or quoted herein or to their families is unintentional. The publishers will be happy to correct any inaccuracies in later editions.

Identities have been obscured in a few cases to protect the individuals and their families.

27 June 2006

08.49

I flicked a glance at the digital clock top right on my control panel. Shit . The Paras had been on the ground for almost thirty minutes now, and I was starting to sweat. The longer we stayed in one place, the more time it gave the Taliban to put together an attack.

Maintaining the same gentle pressure on the cyclic stick, I continued our broad right banking turn into the sun. I felt its warmth on my face through the cockpit’s Perspex window. It was going to be another scorching day.

Two thousand feet below us, the Paras were about to finish sweeping the first field. It was twice the size of a football pitch. They had another one as big to do next. Half of them had fanned out across the length of it, weapons at the ready; the rest provided cover from the bushes and undergrowth along the southern edge. The company commander and his signaller followed closely behind the line, moving from west to east.

A crop had been planted, but not long ago. For once, it wasn’t opium. Much of the field’s surface was bare, dark earth, making the search easier, but the Paras still had to move painfully slowly, looking for the slightest clue as to the whereabouts of the two missing SBS men. Anything could help – a strip of clothing, spent ammunition shells, dried blood.

We’d seen no sign of the KIA or MIA since our arrival. It didn’t bode well.

Our flight had been scrambled at dawn to relieve the pair of Apaches up at Sangin before us. They – the Incident Response Team (IRT) – had been scrambled three hours previously. It had been a long night.

We’d been given a quick update on the ground as we were firing up the aircraft.

In complete secrecy, a small SBS team had lifted four Taliban organisers from a village near the northern Helmand town at 3am. The team were from Force 84, the British contingent of the Joint Special Forces command. They hadn’t notified the local Para garrison in Sangin’s District Centre about the mission – the usual SF drill to ensure total operational security. They were no different when I used to fly them around the Balkans during the 1990s.

The arrest had gone without a hitch. But on the way home the snatch squad was ambushed by a large and very angry Taliban force who wanted their people back. The team’s lead Land Rover was destroyed by the first enemy RPG, kicking off a massive fire-fight and a desperate chase through the fields. The elite SBS team had been pursued by at least seventy Taliban.

They only got out of there three hours later, thanks to a platoon of determined Gurkhas, who fought their way through the Talib lines twice, and close air support from two Apaches, an A10 jet and two Harrier GR7s. The Apaches stuck a Hellfire missile down the throat of their abandoned Land Rover to deny it to the enemy.

In the chaos, the SBS team lost a couple of their prisoners. More importantly, two team members were separated from the main group: SBS Sergeant Paul Bartlett and Captain David Patten, attached from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. Though their whereabouts were unknown, Patten was seen going down hard while sprinting across a field, and was already presumed Killed in Action.

The battle over, our task was to escort a company of paratroopers carried by two Chinooks into the area and help them locate the KIA and MIA. Somehow we had been given a reasonably precise grid reference for the search.

I was flying, and Simon, my Royal Navy co-pilot and gunner, was in the seat six feet in front of me. While the Paras combed the ground, we scanned the immediate landscape for enemy or hidden IEDs. Simon stared into his Target Acquisition and Designation Sight, constantly probing the treelines, bushes and shadows ahead of the Paras with the 127-times-magnification daytime TV camera lens.

An Apache crew always worked as a team, so while Simon controlled the telescopic view I maintained the overall perspective from the back seat. That meant covering the Paras’ rear as well as keeping one eye on the second Apache in our flight. They were responsible for the outer security cordon, keeping their eyes peeled for any new threat coming into the area. Anything already inside the lads’ two square kilometre radius was ours.

I had slaved the 30-mm cannon to my right eye. Its rounds would now zero in on any target in the crosshairs of the monocle over my right eye. All I needed to do was look at the target and squeeze the weapons release trigger on the cyclic with my right index finger. It left Simon free to scan. He’d be quick to pull his own trigger too if he spotted anything in the TADS’ crosshairs.

We were in close to the Paras on this one, directly overhead. We wanted anyone in the area to know that we were ready to engage in an instant if the Taliban wanted to start something again. It was normally enough to put them off, but not always. They’d stood and fought here once already this morning. That’s why I was keen to speed things up.

‘The boys are about to cross into the second field. You sure that irrigation ditch is clear?’

‘From what I can see it is.’

‘Nothing else of note?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Okay. I’m just watching the clock a bit, you know?’

‘Sure.’ Simon paused. ‘I’m going deep into the treeline on the far eastern end of the second field now. It’s the only place I haven’t yet been in detail.’

It wasn’t just here. I never felt comfortable anywhere inside the Green Zone. Nobody did, not for a single minute. It should have been called the Red Zone. It was where the Taliban were, and we weren’t – a thin strip of well-irrigated land, no more than ten kilometres wide at its broadest point, on each side of the Helmand River. The great waterway snaked its way down the entire length of the province, through vegetation dense enough to make it a guerrilla fighter’s paradise.