Paul Grahame: Fire Strike 7/9

I’d never once thought about totting up the kills. I guess I’d been too busy doing them. In any case, body counts always have a degree of inaccuracy in them and frequently get overestimated. And there were better measures of our success — like the fact we’d seized and held the Triangle for many weeks now.

Throp pointed out that it was 199, not counting the thirteen killed by the crazed Arrow Apaches, plus the thirty-four MIAs reported by the elders after the battle for Rahim Kalay. He was determined that we’d top the official two hundred mark by the end of our tour. We’d have to get busy. We had barely a week left in the Triangle. But before we could kill any more of them, they were going to have a seriously good try at killing us.

At first light the 120mm was back in action, pounding PS Sandford with a murderous barrage. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone got killed. I’d been with the 2 MERCIAN lads for five months now. We were deep in Helmand, besieged and surrounded in the heart of bandit country, yet to a man the lads had taken it all in their stride. These young soldiers were Britain’s finest. They were true warriors. And they were relying on me to nail that enemy mortar crew. I decided that there was only one way to kill that mortar team. I’d have to flatten the entire six-hundred-metre-square grid located by Mikey’s radar gizmo. I dialled up a B-1B that was inbound into my ROZ. I’d had good dealings with the pilot before. We’d bonded over a couple of big actions. I reckoned he’d be up for what I had in mind.

‘ Bone Three Seven , this is Widow Seven Nine , d’you copy?’

‘This is Bone Three Seven , nice to be working with you again, Widow Seven Nine . What can I do for you, sir?’

‘I’ve got a 120mm mortar located to grid ref 1798617486. You’ll find it in the Pizza Pie Wood area on your GeoCell map. It’s zoomed in on our position, and we’re getting murdered down here. You reckon you could flatten that entire grid?’

‘No problem, sir. If that’s what you’re wanting, just give me the word.’

‘What’re you carrying?’

‘I’ve got a full load, that’s seventeen munitions. Two two-thousand-pound JDAMs, two one-thousand-pounders, and thirteen five-forty- and five-hundred-pounders. I can saturate the entire grid, if that’s what you’re after.’

‘Aye, too right it is — your full load. You get clearance your end, I’ll get clearance mine.’

‘Roger that. Standin’ by.’

I put a call through to the Widow TOC. I explained that we had the 120mm mortar located to a ten-figure grid, and that I had a B-1B on standby to flatten it. I asked for clearance to proceed. Unfortunately, the duty operator at Widow TOC didn’t seem to understand what I was asking for, or why.

‘What munitions exactly are you intending to hit them with, Widow Seven Nine ?’

‘The entire bloody lot, mate.’

‘The entire ordnance package of a B-1B?’

‘Aye. The Yank pilot’s happy enough, so am I cleared or what?’

‘But that’s… four-point-five million dollars’ worth of bombs.’

‘Listen, mate, I don’t care how much it costs — am I cleared?’

‘Negative. Not for one mortar, no. Why can’t you just use one JDAM?’

‘Listen, mate, I don’t think you get it. Ever been pinned down by a 120mm mortar? Any idea what that’s like? I need to flatten the entire grid, before one of us lot gets killed. That’s what the Yank pilot has agreed to. So am I cleared, or what?’

‘Negative, Widow Seven Nine , do not proceed with the attack.’

‘You’re saying I can’t hit it, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Listen, mate, get me Zeus.’ Zeus was the codename for the brigadier in charge at Widow TOC.

‘I can’t. He’s asleep.’

‘Well go fucking wake him. And tell him what I’m asking for, and get me bastard clearance.’

As I waited for Zeus, I got the B-1B pilot back on the air. He’d just got the green light from his commanders at Kandahar. Result. Now all I needed was Zeus to give me the go-ahead.

Five minutes later the TOC duty operator came back to me. The message from Zeus was that he wasn’t very happy to have been woken. Well, having a B-1B overhead, fully bombed up and with an enthusiastic Yank pilot at the controls wasn’t an everyday occurrence. I reckoned I had every justification in waking him. But the answer Zeus had given was a negative. He refused to authorise the airstrike.

‘ Bone Three Seven, Widow Seven Nine . Sorry, it’s a no go. Those dickheads at Widow TOC won’t authorise the strike. Seems like it’s all down to the cost of the bombs…’

‘Gee, that’s a bummer. Just a pity it ain’t us that calls the shots, eh? Well… let me know if you need me for anything else, won’t you Widow Seven Nine ?’

I told the B-1B pilot that I would, and signed off the air. A few minutes later there was a blast on the air horn and another 120mm mortar came howling down on us. It slammed into what remained of the medical centre, leaving nothing but a massive, smoking crater where the stretchers and drips and monitors once had been.

Over lunch — one of Sticky’s classic bacon and sausage fry-ups — Mikey Wallace made a passing remark that he’d love to get a 120mm tail fin. It was the biggest mortar that he’d ever come across.

I liked Mikey. He did the crappiest job in the Triangle, staring into his radar screen all day long, sweating his bollocks off and trying to stay alert in the boiling heat. It was a boring, thankless task. The least he deserved was that tail fin.

‘No dramas, mate,’ I told him. ‘We’ll fetch you one.’

When it had cooled down a bit, Sticky, Jess and I set off. We decided to head for the eastern side of the base, where a 120mm round had landed that morning. Mikey wanted an intact fin, and the ground was soft enough over there maybe to have preserved one.

It was the dead quiet of a burning, cloudless afternoon as the three of us wandered over in our shorts and flip-flops. By now my flip-flops were well knackered, and held together by green army string. We clambered over the HESCO-reinforced wall, and there in front of us was a giant crater.

Sticky grinned at me as we worked the tail fin loose. ‘Gleaming, mate, gleaming.’ He was like a kid with a new toy.

‘Aye,’ I grunted. ‘Once we get it free it’s back over the wall.’

‘Let’s have a butcher’s,’ Jess asked. Sticky passed the fin, and Jess weighed it in his hands. ‘Awesome,’ he whistled. ‘Fuckin’ awesome.’

‘Tell you what,’ I remarked, ‘wouldn’t it be fuckin’ mad if the air horn went off now?’

No sooner had I said it than there was a long, deafening ‘BWAAAAAAARP!’

Sticky glanced at me, a weird, unfocused look in his eyes. After months under siege in the Green Zone I reckoned I probably looked the same, or worse.

‘They’re fuckin’ joking,’ I snorted. ‘They saw us go over the wall. It’s a wind-up. Got to be.’

There was a second ear-splitting blast on the air horn. For an instant Jess just stared at Sticky and me, and then he legged it for the nearest bunker.

‘I tell you, Sticky, it’s a fuckin’ wind-up,’ I insisted. ‘The lads’ll be on the other side of the wall laughing their cocks off. Jess’ll get murdered with all the piss-taking…’

The air horn went off with a third, much longer blast. Sticky’s eyes met mine. ‘It’s not a wind-up, is it, mate?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s not.’

From the air horn’s blast to the 120mm mortar’s impact was about forty-five seconds max. We were running out of time. Sticky and I sprinted towards the HESCO barrier, and then started running around in circles, laughing maniacally. We were like headless chickens. There was no way we could get over that massive HESCO barrier in time. We took the only option, and dived for the cover at the base of the wall, although being on the wrong side of it didn’t feel too clever.