Stephen Grey - Operation Snakebite

The Gurkhas reached a fork in the river and had to cross waist-deep water. It was horribly exposed, and, sure enough, just as the headquarters got across, the gunfire began. At the time, Connolly and his platoon were still in the water. They watched bullets skim across like pebbles. The Gurkhas just laughed.

Two Dutch Apaches were overhead to help in theory. But Pitchfork recalled: ‘They were offering advice of where the civilians were but not about where the enemy was.’

The same Apaches were also working with the 2 Yorks. Scott remembered begging them to fire but the Dutch reacting with ultra-caution. ‘What they wanted us almost to do was to stand on top of a compound and then go: “This is where we want you to fire.” Some of these compounds were sticking out like a box on a boulder, and he still wouldn’t fire. If it had been the Brits or American, it would have been wasted.’

The mortar line in Sangin and artillery guns at Inkerman were now helping the Gurkhas, firing phosphorus shells to billow a cloud of bright white smoke to cover the men as they continued north.

Just after 16.00, the patrol was finally in range of the guns at the Sangin main base. And when the final ambush came at 16.40, there was a blaze of supporting fire from the .50 cals on the fire support tower. The Gurkhas lay low for a while, waiting for the light to start fading. Then, under a rolling barrage of smoke from mortars, they trudged into base. It was 17.35. A Company had been on patrol for fourteen hours, and in battle for the last ten.

Pitchfork gathered his men. ‘There was a tangible buzz, a real energy. I was on a high. I called the boys together for a short chat: I wanted to stress that we had just shared the experience that defines a soldier. A special moment in many ways and an important moment. A coming of age. A day we would all remember.’

Connolly, who had never experienced combat before but had had the lives of twenty-five men in his trust, felt a weird feeling of elation, like he had been ‘tested in the ultimate way’. Three days later he was flown away for his R&R and had the surreal experience of walking on Oxford Street in London. ‘I found myself after a few days just wanting to be back in Afghanistan, because I suppose you had a taste of something there that you couldn’t experience anywhere else.’

If the Gurkhas had felt that 10 December was a test, for the Taliban who fought that day it was a horrific disaster. Their usual tactic was to hit and run, escaping when outgunned. But Pitchfork’s apparently risky plan had worked. It cut off their retreat, headed off a successful attack on Sangin and crucially kept the fighting out of the urban area. Intelligence would suggest an estimated sixty-eight Taliban were killed that day. They were being fished out of the Helmand River for weeks.

Mullah Sadiq, who had been there all day, called Qais, the journalist, to describe the battle of Sangin. The Taliban had been attempting to divert attention from Musa Qala, but it was a disaster. ‘I lost two of my relatives. I was there. The whole thing was a bad idea. We had bad intelligence about where the foreigners were going to be. The enemy had some losses, but ours were very bad. Maybe hundreds killed. It didn’t work.’ Sadiq was, as ever, paranoid. ‘I believe there is a spy in the team… the foreigners got the right report and we got the wrong one.’

Jake and Captain Dan, the special forces A-team commander, took a step away from the line of parked vehicles, out of earshot of the men. Darkness was approaching, but the orders had come through to move forward now to the edge of Musa Qala. This would be the last camp before the entry into the town. Though in Kabul they were celebrating the fact that Musa Qala had fallen and the BBC World Service was already saying that the Taliban had fled, nothing from intelligence had been passed down to the company. They had to prepare for the worst. Jake knew that only a handful of stay-behind hardened fighters could make the Afghan Army’s triumphal entry into the centre a bloody disaster. Fighting through an urban area was no joke – even with the best-trained troops.

Dan looked as cool and calm as he always did, and his uniform was as clean and pressed as when he left camp. Some speculated he had an ironing board and launderette in the back of his Humvee. But Dan’s unflappable exterior disguised a nervous tension. He was pawing the sand with his right boot, sketching out the lines of the following day’s attack and the Taliban lines of defence. ‘These people could get decimated,’ he said, waving towards the Afghan trucks close by.

But Dan had a plan. He wanted to get the armour involved. One look at a tank, he said, and from his experience the Taliban would flee. Why couldn’t Chris Bell’s Warriors from the Scots Guards join the attack? They could sweep through the green zone in parallel to the ANA’s push northwards through the town. The ANA could still claim credit for taking the urban area but would have armoured protection on their right flank. ‘We’ll still achieve the IO victory,’ he said, referring to the ‘Information Operations’ value of demonstrating it was the Afghans that took Musa Qala.

Jake agreed. As far as he was concerned, anything that made his troops safer was a plus. ‘You push that up your command chain and I’ll push it up mine,’ said Dan. Jake nodded.

A little earlier Jake had addressed his men. He spoke to his officers and sergeants first. Orders had come in, he said, that the following day they would enter the town. Jake spoke quietly but clearly: ‘Brigadier Mackay is concerned about us destroying the town… This will not restrict us in doing what we need to do. If blokes are in contact then we will get CAS [close air support] or I won’t let you fucking move on!’

Then Jake got the whole company together. It was the first time he’d addressed them since that night on the ridgeline with Jonno’s body.

‘Fellas,’ he said, ‘things have gone better today. Tomorrow the kandaks will be entering Musa Qala.’ There had been news reports that the Taliban were fleeing ‘but whatever the situation is, it doesn’t mean there isn’t going to be a shit load of fighting tomorrow. I need you to put your fear to one side. Be aggressive, fellas and go for it… We will be more controlled. We will take things nice and slowly. But tomorrow morning we have to be on the ball. Get aggressive. I know some of you will be scared. Someone will scare tomorrow. But just switch it on, work hard. It’s got to be done tomorrow.’

In the hours before battle on Tuesday, the men had risen from their bivouacs and cleaned their kit for the final time. Black smoke belched up from the flames of the paraffin burners that cooked their last hot meal. And the Afghan soldiers crept to the edge of the camp and bent down to say their prayers. Jake Little went round and shook every man’s hand. Then the cry went up: ‘All on Fong.’ Fong was the company’s unofficial chaplain. His prayer was spoken in Fijian, a language that no one understood, but everyone knew its purpose and all said, ‘Amen.’