Paul Grahame - Fire Strike 7/9

And when we returned, the enemy would be waiting for us with a bloody vengeance.

Our convoy of vehicles was parked in the open desert, with a skeleton crew as security. We rejoined them, and laagered up in all-round defence. I checked with the platoon commanders, and not a single man had been injured. It was an incredible result, after thirteen hours of intense combat at close quarters.

The lads gathered in the safe harbour created by the circle of armoured vehicles, and started throwing around an American football. We got a brew on using an empty 7.62mm ammo tin and some hexy solid-fuel blocks. You could get six good Jack flasks (Armyissue metal cups with screw-on lid) out of one ammo tin, so there was more than enough for the four of us in our FST.

Like every proper north-east of England lad, I can drink tea until it comes out of my ears. I’d been dying for a good brew all day long. But I’d barely taken my first sip when a call came through on the TACSAT. I had an F-18 inbound, call sign Voodoo Five Two . No rest for the wicked, I told myself, as I briefed the pilot on what I wanted doing.

I got him flying recces around the perimeter of our laager, and he reported the terrain as deserted. Then I tasked him to fly some recces over the battlefield. All he could see were a couple of tractors and trailers pottering about in the Green Zone. I asked him to take a close look. A few moments later the pilot was back on the air.

‘ Widow Seven Nine, Voodoo Five Two . Those trailers are stacked high with bodies. I guess that’s the enemy haulin’ out their dead and injured.’

Keeping one ear on the pilot’s commentary, I reached for the ratpack that Sticky was holding out to me. Over the past few weeks Sticky had taken it upon himself to be the FST’s honorary chef. He’d chucked four of the silver foil-clad heat-in-the-bag meals into the ammo tin, and boiled up some scoff.

I ripped off the top and stuck my nose into the steaming bag. Ah — lovely! Meatballs and pasta. I grabbed my spoon, which I kept jammed in the top of my radio pack, and dug in. When I’d finished eating I cleaned the spoon by giving my brew a good stir, then jammed it back in my pack.

I was fed and watered and dying for some kip, but I still had that F-18 on station. Keeping a listen on the pilot’s commentary, I pulled out my JTAC log, and did the next vital task. At the end of every battle the JTAC is supposed to submit a mission report (‘missrep’) on every live drop — a JTAC-controlled attack using an air asset.

One of the main reasons for doing those missreps is in case of friendly fire or civilian casualties. As every JTAC knows only too well, if we dropped a bomb or did a strafe and killed some of our own men, we would be held legally responsible. Likewise if we killed some Afghan civilians who had somehow wandered on to the battlefield.

Since leaving FOB Price at the start of the operation I’d done 115 air controls, so there were a good few missreps to write up. I scribbled away, my head torch casting a faint halo over my notebook — black pen for non-use of munitions; red for live-fire missions.

I ran through the missrep headings that I’d learned back in JTAC school: bearing; distance; target location (lat & long); target elevation; target description; attack heading; friendly forces; hazards; weather (if significant)… I tried to stifle a yawn.

Major Butt came over for a chat, which was a good excuse to break off what I was doing. He was a gruff, tough kind of commander, and not the sort of guy who gave praise lightly. The word was that the OC had been a professional rugby player in his youth, and he certainly had the size and the physique for it. I reckoned the guy could give Throp a good run for his money.

‘Bloody cracking op,’ remarked Butsy. He seemed in an unusually talkative mood. ‘Couldn’t have gone better. Everything went as planned. How about from your end?’

‘Aye. Top op, sir,’ I confirmed.

‘It all went without a hitch, sir,’ Chris concurred. ‘From the FST’s perspective, not a single problem with the guns or the air.’

Chris was actually the second most senior rank in the company after the OC. The mission plan allowed for him to take over command, if the major got injured or otherwise taken out of action.

‘Still, let’s not underestimate these guys,’ Butsy remarked. ‘Look how swiftly they reacted to us being on the ground. As we were massing for the op those black-clad figures were forcing women and children out of the village. They pushed their fighters forward, and got the civvies out. And you saw the sophistication of their dicking procedures? They had guys on the high ground flashing with mirrors and torches all around us.’

I took a slurp of tea. ‘Aye.’

‘There was one moment we saw them looking through their binos,’ the OC continued. ‘I had this instinctive sense of let’s not move forwards, and ordered the lads to stop. In that instant three RPGs flashed in front of us. If we hadn’t stopped the four of us would’ve been whacked. There was this voice in my head that told me to stop, and the RPGs flashed in front of our bloody noses. I reckon we make our own luck, but that was the first time I realised they were targeting the HQ element specifically.’

‘They were?’ I let out a half chuckle. ‘I guess that explains why it was you lot kept getting smashed. How many times did I put up the call — “HQ element surrounded and getting smashed…”’

The OC grinned. ‘There we were lying in the dirt, and eventually the penny dropped: they’re trying to take out the HQ . That’s how smart they were…’

For a while I lay on my back half-listening to the OC, and gazing up into the wide expanse of the burning, starlit sky. Then Sticky came to have words.

‘Bommer, someone’s trying to raise you on the air.’

‘Who, mate?’ I asked. ‘What’s his call sign?’

‘Fuck knows,’ he shrugged. ‘He won’t tell me. Says he wants the JTAC.’

I grabbed the TACSAT. ‘This is Widow Seven Nine for any call sign in my ROZ.’

‘ Widow Seven Nine , good evening, sir,’ came back the unmistakeably American voice. ‘This is Tin Can Alpha .’

I nearly choked on my brew. ‘ Tin Can Alpha !’ I spluttered. ‘Are you winding me up?’

‘No, sir. That’s our call sign, sir: Tin Can Alpha .’

I’d never once heard of the call sign Tin Can Alpha . It had never been mentioned, not even in the briefings I’d received at Kandahar airfield at the start of the tour.

‘Well, what kind of platform are you, Tin Can Alpha ?’

‘You don’t need to know that, sir,’ the voice replied. ‘We’re an American airframe in overwatch your position. Sir, I’m tasked to ensure that you don’t get ambushed down there.’

I felt a horrible sinking feeling. ‘Erm… right-oh, Tin Can Alpha , how long do I have you for?’

‘We have five hours’ playtime, sir.’

Oh shit . I glanced at my watch. It was 2300 hours. That meant I’d have this wanker until 0400, whilst everyone else was getting their brackets down. I was gutted. Three hours later Tin Can Alpha sounded bored shitless with flying orbits over a deserted patch of desert. But I’d bet my bottom dollar he wasn’t as bored, or as knackered, as I was. I switched from tea to coffee in a desperate effort to stay awake. As a way to kill time the pilot started asking me all about the battle for Adin Zai. In return, I started asking him about the capabilities of his top-secret aircraft, but he wasn’t telling.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that,’ he kept repeating. ‘It’s classified, sir.’