Alex Duncan - Sweating the Metal

A relief force led by Capt Jim Philippson of 7RHA was put together and despatched to assist the patrol that had been bogged down in a firefight, but sadly Philippson was killed outright by Taliban fire as he manoeuvred across a field to get to the patrol’s location. He was just twenty-nine.

Another relief force was raised to assist both patrols and it too came under contact. Sgt Maj Andy Stockton of 18 Battery was hit by an RPG round which took off the lower half of his arm. Despite this, he continued to return fire with his pistol.

All this is going on while we are being despatched to pick up the first casualty, Lance Bombardier Mason. All we know at this stage is that the Taliban are still in the vicinity and the firefight is ongoing, so there is a bit of nervous tension in the cab as we fly towards the grid. Craig is captain of the aircraft and the handling pilot. I’m in the left-hand seat doing the nav. I feel tired, having been woken by the call just as I’d dropped off, so I guess my cognitive function is a little less than 100%. That’s my excuse anyway – how else can I explain my interpretation of what happens next?

We are transiting to the HLS and I am looking at the Apache escorting us thinking how glad I am to have it along when, completely apropos of nothing, I see the most beautiful shooting star arcing between us; it’s absolutely awesome – I’ve never seen one last as long as this one. Then my cognitive function kicks in: a shooting star at 4,000ft, climbing up instead of descending? Get a fucking grip, Frenchie; it’s a rocket! And then I work it out. Someone has fired a Chinese 107mm rocket at us and missed. Those things are evil – they’re already breaking Mach 1 as they leave the firing tube. If they’re aimed in the right direction, you’re toast. That really wakes me up and refocuses my mind.

The Apache goes on ahead to check out the HLS and comes over the radio to report that it is ‘cold’ – good to go in. Craig says, ‘I’m putting 100 on the light so bug the RadAlt to 80 on the noise. I’m going in fast and low, into the bottom of the wadi and we’ll look for the grid.’ As Craig flies the approach, I am talking him down on his height and speed so he can remain visual.

We crest a hill and drop to low level. Craig makes a steep turn and, after a quick look at the grid, I see the marker held by one of the soldiers – it’s our signal.

‘Yeah, I’ve got it,’ Craig confirms and then greases us down in what has to be one of the most beautiful landings I’ve ever seen at night, particularly as I can see nothing whatsoever of the landing site in the last few seconds. It is a perfect zero speed landing and if ever a zero speed landing was required, it’s now. When the dust clears, both Craig and I have an ANA soldier literally five feet in front of us. And between them and the front wheels of the aircraft there is a one-metre deep ditch – literally three feet from the wheels. Directly behind us there are another three or four ANA just feet from the ramp. They’ve performed a perfect demonstration of ‘All Round Protection’, except they’ve fucked up their drills and made the landing site so small that only a perfect zero speed landing would prevent total disaster. And luckily for everyone that’s exactly what Craig delivered.

In the cockpit, I am anxious for us to get airborne again. A bizarre thought comes into my head that I can’t chase away: ‘If an RPG hit us now, would it hurt?’ The troops on the ground run forward with Lance Bombardier Mason on a stretcher. He’s only eighteen – no more than a kid really – and is bleeding profusely. The entry wound is on his left shoulder. The bullet has hit the back plate of his armour, bounced off and come out through his chest, missing the main arteries to his heart by millimetres.

The Apache comes over the radio. ‘Guys, you need to lift. Enemy have got the HLS zeroed and are setting up to launch.’ I can hear the sound of the AH’s 30mm chain gun raining fire down on enemy positions across the airwaves.

‘Ramp up,’ says Jonah, just in time.

‘Lifting,’ says Craig.

‘Clear above and behind.’ And with that, Craig pulls pitch and we lift into the sky. Seconds later an RPG slams into the ground exactly where our cab had been.

‘Fuck, that was close,’ I say out loud.

‘Thanks for that, Captain Obvious. I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t been here!’ Jonah quips. That breaks the tension: laughter fills the space over the intercom.

We always ask the medics what sort of exit they want, as we can climb to height and transit back with a more stable run; it takes longer because you lose speed on the climb and descent, but it’s safer. Or we can fly at low level; it’s significantly faster, but it’s a lot rougher.

The doctor’s voice tells us all we need to know about our casualty: ‘We’ll go as fast as we can on this one; we’re just trying to stabilise him.’

We make the flight back in record time and the medics are waiting for us as soon as we land. We later hear that our casualty was back in the UK within forty-eight hours, stable and on the road to recovery, which gives everyone a lift. It’s a lovely feeling when you know you’ve made a difference and someone has lived who, had we not performed as we did, might have died.

We start shutting down. Craig and I discuss the sortie. The blades are still spinning.

‘Mate,’ I say, ‘that was the most amazing fucking landing I’ve ever seen! It was tighter than a gnat’s chuff in there and you nailed it.’

Craig being Craig plays it down. ‘Nah, it was nothing special. You’d have done exactly the same.’

I nod in agreement, knowing full well that I’d never have been able to execute a zero speed landing in the dark like that one.

‘I just hope we don’t have to go back there tonight – with the Taliban having the HLS zeroed now, I wouldn’t fancy revisiting it!’ Craig says.

Just then I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look round: Woodsy has walked up the ramp and is standing there with a sombre look on his face. My heart sinks.

‘Guys, I’m really sorry but you’re going to have to go back.’

Craig and I just look at one another and shrug. There isn’t much else we can do. The Taliban are waiting; they saw us on the last mission and fired at us. Now we’re needed again so we’re going back. It isn’t a nice feeling.

‘What have we got?’ I ask.

‘A patrol went out to support the one you’ve just picked the casualty up from, and was engaged. You’ve got a T1 with serious injuries – potential traumatic amputation to his arm.’

We spend a few minutes debating our strategy. We need another Apache to escort us for starters, as the one we’d had for the first sortie remained on station to support the guys on the ground and is still in contact. We debate using one of the vehicles that had been hit in the ambush for a diversion, with the AH firing at it and causing an explosion so the enemy would get their heads down, but that isn’t an option. In the end, it’s decided to move the casualty to an alternative landing site.

I am the handling pilot for the first leg of the return – aside from anything else, I think Craig could do with a break after the last sortie. Our Apache has gone on ahead to recce the new landing site, so we hold off in an orbit about fifteen miles or so from the grid and remain visual with him. We have quite a wait. Long enough, in fact, that the standby Attitude Indicators topple because I’ve been flying circles at the same altitude for so long the gyros are confused.

One of the most impressive elements of the Apaches is their ability to engage the enemy from distance. The imagery they can see on their screens from the Target Acquisition and Designation Sight system they’re equipped with is quite incredible – its array of lenses includes a 127-times magnification day TV camera that can read a car number plate from over 4km away. It means they can rain fire down on an enemy that can’t see them, and that’s exactly what they were doing as we sat in orbit and watched.