Ross Kemp on Afghanistan Read online

  My first excursion was to the northern FLET. No contact, but an interesting conversation with a local. When I asked him what would happen if he told us where the Taliban were, he gave me a sinister grin and slid his forefinger across his throat. Later, we learned from the interpreters that the enemy had spotted us: ‘The American spies are here. We can see them. They're wearing dark colours and they've come to take the commander.’

  The only people wearing dark colours – much to the Marines' amusement – were me and the cameraman Mark. Fan-fucking-tastic. The fact that the enemy thought we were spies coming to get them added a certain je ne sais quoi to our next excursion, which took place that afternoon.

  Big Top is a Taliban stronghold to the south-west of the main base at Kajaki. It's reached by travelling down the 611 highway, and I was to accompany the FSG to this region while they provided cover to a contingent of ANA who were going into the green zone to talk to the locals. The Jackal was the vehicle of choice. Unfortunately there was not enough room in these three-man vehicles for the cameraman Mark and me to travel inside, so we were given the dubious pleasure of perching on the back, along with Wes, who was in the fifty-cal gunner's position.

  Mark and I felt exposed, to say the least, stuck up there like a couple of coconuts in a shy.

  ‘This doesn't look good,’ Mark muttered in his Derry brogue.

  ‘I'm not feeling too good, either,’ I replied. We were like sitting ducks, only not as pretty.

  The calm before the storm is always the worst. My brain started asking me questions.

  Why are you here, Ross?

  It was your stupid idea in the first place.

  You're not doing this again.

  Fuck me, I hope we don't go over an IED.

  Fuck me, I hope I don't get shot.

  Wes smiled at us. For him and his mates, this was an everyday danger; for us, it was a very special day – one we'd like to see the end of. I tried to stop thinking about the dangers and get on with the job in hand. It's at this moment that you tell yourself it's not going to happen to you, then try to stop your brain replying, ‘Yeah, Ross, but that's what everyone's saying…’

  Yeah, but… No, but… Yeah, but… No, but…

  Progress, as always, was slow. Four hours to move 2 klicks. The Jackals had to stop at regular intervals so that the road ahead could be swept for mines. It had rained recently, which meant the guys checking the way ahead had to scrape back mud rather than dust. The job of a brave man. In time, we headed up towards the high ground so that the FSG would have an arc of fire over Big Top if necessary. But the Taliban knew that they used these locations, and as a result they were more likely to be IED'd.

  Icom chatter. ‘We're prepping the big thing up in the hills so that they never come back.’

  Something big waiting for us? Or a big wind-up? No one knew. But it didn't help my state of mind.

  I decided we should dismount at the bottom of a small hill overlooking Big Top. We would have to make it to the top by foot but before we could do this, our way ahead needed to be secured. Chalk lines – made by squirting white powder from a plastic bottle – were drawn to show the path that had been swept for mines. Step outside the lines and you're stepping into the unknown. Not a good idea.

  Once the way ahead was cleared, we prepared to ascend.

  Icom chatter: ‘Engage them as soon as you see them.’

  The lines were narrow, but I concentrated on staying within them. There was a strange stillness in the air. You could somehow just tell that things were about to kick off. There was no cover here – this wasn't like the green zone, where you could hide among the vegetation or the irrigation ditches. We were well and truly exposed.

  Ahead of me were Scotty and Sven, in charge of the FSG. They stopped. ‘Back off,’ the instruction came. It meant they'd found something.

  As we turned down the hill, the enemy could see their big surprise wasn't about to come off. They opened up with PKM rounds from the general direction of Big Top. Wes made it a two-way range by returning fire with his fifty-cal. I ‘swastika'd’ – army slang for the shape of your arms and legs when you're running like hell – back down the hill. I slammed right into Mark the cameraman, who was doing his best Bambi on ice impression. We dived, rounds still flying everywhere. A voice from behind – Sven. ‘It's all right, they're only over your head!’ Thanks, Sven. Very reassuring!

  The Jackal was at the bottom of the hill. All I could think of was getting to it, both because it offered cover and because we were out of the range of the enemy's trajectory when we were on the lower ground. Perhaps I should have stopped to help Mark up. I didn't. Self-interest kicked in. I pushed myself to my feet and continued to swastika down the hill. It was fight or flight – and flight had definitely taken over.

  When you're under fire, the last thing you're thinking about is running between two narrow lines of chalk. My primary objective was to get behind the armour plating of the vehicle at the bottom of the hill.

  I scooted outside the lines.

  Sven's voice. Urgent. Hoarse. ‘Ross! Stay on the track!’

  The air was alive with rounds. I veered back on course, into the chalk lines, and sprinted to safety. Behind me Mark was running too, Sven carrying his camera. It was a huge relief to get the Jackal between us and the enemy.

  The enemy fire subsided and the compounds from which we thought they were firing were hit by mortars. The FSG still needed to gain the high ground in order to support the troops going in; the route they were planning to take was barred because of the IED, so we turned round and looked for another way up. We travelled down to the compounds on the outskirts of Big Top, marking white lines all the way. Down one alley the Marines found another device – this was IED central – so we turned back again. Eventually they managed to find a suitable position and the ground troops moved in.

  It was at just that moment, of course, that the Taliban decided they didn't want to play any more. No contact. From our point of advantage the FSG could see the enemy walking around Big Top; but none of them were carrying guns, so we couldn't engage them – even though we knew they were the people who had just been shooting at us. We even saw two of them order a taxi to take them home. As one of the guys said to me: can you believe the neck on that?

  By now it was cold and we stayed up on that hill for four hours, after which time the ground troops started to leave Big Top while the FSG covered their withdrawal before heading back down. Mark and I had moved from Wes's Jackal to another one with a GMG gunner – Louis O'Brien – perched on the top. As we withdrew, the enemy opened up on us again. Wes's vehicle attracted most of the fire – thank God we had decided not to travel on the back of his Jackal, because the chances were that we'd have taken a hit. Louis opened up; more mortar rounds were called in to suppress the enemy fire and we eventually made it back to base. We heard that the Taliban were later boasting that they'd made us run away and destroyed five vehicles – total rubbish, but propaganda for any locals who happened to be listening in to their transmissions. Safely inside the base, Wes showed me just how close the contact had been. One of the rounds had hit the aerial of his Jackal, slicing off the top.

  The lads laughed. So did I. We all realized, though, that but for a few inches, the aerial could have been one of them.

  The base at Kajaki was a hell of a sight more comfortable than Musa Qala, but that didn't mean a good night's sleep was a given. That night, movement was spotted out on the ground: Taliban using the cover of darkness to plant more IEDs. The Marines weren't about to let that happen. Up at the observation posts at Sparrowhawk West and Athens, where the lads, as always, had been on constant watch all night, mortars were despatched. The enemy took cover in a bunker and suddenly the night sky was lit up by lumes to allow machine gunners to fire upon the enterprising Taliban. The mortars were re-zeroed to drop rounds on top of the bunker and yet again the Afghanistan night was filled with deafening explosions. It made a boring evening pass very quickly indeed.
There were no confirmed kills; all we could do was hope that the intervention had stopped the enemy laying yet another of their hidden killers.

  The following day we were up early, ready to accompany the Marines on their next mission: Operation Pyramid Hill. None of us knew, before we left, what a devastating day it would turn out to be.

  The plan was this: to walk 3 klicks north-west of the main base and lie up above a village called Kahalabad. Once there, the Marines could expect to be contacted by the enemy. When that happened, they would return fire and go after their main target, a place called Kaji – a Taliban stronghold just across the wadi from Mazdurak.

  As we approached Kahalabad, we trod as gingerly as ever inside the chalk lines. Accompanying us was a dog called Tangy that had befriended the troops and which had actually been there on my previous visit to Kajaki. The chalk lines, of course, meant nothing to him as he scampered all over the place. So far he had avoided stepping on a pressure pad. Must have been the luckiest dog alive. Our path took us uphill, into the high ground on Pyramid Hill. Another contingent of Marines, along with members of the ANA, were about 100 metres away across the wadi on top of a place known as Ant Hill. It was barren and exposed. We were in the line of fire from the enemy stronghold of Kaji and that was just where we wanted to be: the laws of engagement stated that we couldn't fire upon them until they fired at us. Somewhere high above us, a B1 bomber was circling, ready to dump its ordnance on Kaji the moment we were engaged. But there was a time limit: eleven minutes. If we hadn't attracted enemy fire in that window, the B1 would have to be redeployed and would no longer be at our disposal.

  The threat of IEDs was ever-present – the Taliban knew that the Marines used this piece of high ground, so it was regularly booby-trapped. It was hard work staying within the chalk lines; and nervy to say the least, knowing we were actively trying to attract enemy fire. When we reached the top of Pyramid Hill I was out of breath; but from here we had a good view of Kahalabad, Kaji and the mountains that surrounded us. It was a spectacular sight. The clouds bubbled and boiled around the rocky peaks as the morning sun glimmered over them. It was like something from Lord of the Rings, only with guns and fast air.

  We waited. And as we waited, an explosion blasted through the air.

  It didn't sound like any kind of ordnance I'd heard before and I couldn't tell which direction it had come from. There was a brief moment of silence.

  ‘Anyone know what that was?’ I asked.

  Another pause. Then the shout came up.

  ‘Contact IED. Ant Hill.’ A device had exploded and that meant only one thing: someone, or something, had activated it.

  I looked across the wadi. Sure enough, a plume of smoke was drifting across from Ant Hill. The smell of burnt chemicals hit my senses. Even from this distance we could tell it had been big. Soldiers had started scurrying around the brow of the hill. We heard shouts. ‘Get over here now! Get a medic!’

  And then the contact started.

  The minute the Taliban's rounds flew towards us, the Marines had the right to fire back under the rules of engagement. The FSG, high up on a place called Essex Ridge, started to rain fire down on Kaji; and from Pyramid Hill came rounds from the GPMG. As the battle raged, I started to pick up bits of shouted information about the situation on Ant Hill. One casualty. A Chinook had been called in to casevac him to hospital as quickly as possible. We didn't know any more than that.

  I could sense a change in the attitude of the lads around me. They were upset. Upset and angry. They were giving it everything they had on their attack on Kaji. Mortars were called in from the main base on enemy positions that the Marines had identified in Kahalabad while, at the foot of Ant Hill, medics evacuated the casualty on a quad bike towards a landing zone at a safe distance from the battle.

  As the fighting continued, word came through that the bomber was about to arrive. I could hear it in the distance, first a low rumble, and then louder. And louder.

  Then it dropped its package.

  I'd seen some bombs in my time in Afghanistan, but nothing like this one. As it splashed, it felt as though the whole world was shaking and the town of Kaji disappeared in a huge cloud of smoke and fire. The Taliban stronghold had just taken a direct hit with six 2,000-pound bombs. Believe me, that makes a very big bang. Enough to dampen the enthusiasm for the fight of whatever enemy was left, right?

  Wrong.

  Almost immediately, fifty-cal sniper rounds flew over my head. I'd just witnessed the biggest ordnance hit I'd ever seen, and still the Taliban were fighting. So, to follow up the destruction of the bombs, the Marines called in ground-launched missiles from a Guided Multiple Launch Rocket System (GMLRS) 30 klicks away at FOB Edinburgh in Musa Qala. This system, nicknamed the ‘70 km sniper’, can deliver 200-pound warheads with pinpoint accuracy over huge distances, thanks to a GPS system built into the missiles. They go up so high that an air corridor has to be cleared, and then they nosedive directly from above the impact point, minimizing collateral damage. I watched as the missiles went about their work, causing a massive drifting of smoke over the Taliban stronghold and, finally, a silencing of their guns. Unbelievably, I saw two Taliban running from what was left of Kaji. They were clearly in the sights of the GPMG gunner in front of me. Everyone knew we'd suffered a casualty and the temptation to pull the trigger must have been overwhelming. However, true to the rules of engagement, he let them slip from his sights.

  In operational terms the morning had been a success, but everyone's attention was now firmly focused on the casualty. The Medical Emergency Response Team was due to arrive any moment by Chinook; but the helicopter, of course, would be a perfect target for any Taliban who still had the appetite for a fight, so everyone was on alert and ready to suppress any fire directed at the MERT.

  Mark and I started to hurry back down Pyramid Hill. We were still exposed, and on a steep gradient, so it would have been easy to slip out of the chalk lines. In the distance we saw the Chinook descending to pick up the casualty. All we could do was pray he'd be all right – whoever it was. We continued to extract, all the while concentrating on keeping in the narrow track, and eventually reached the bottom of Pyramid Hill in safety. One of the guys, Corporal Matthew D'Arcy, was waiting for us. Breathless, I asked him if there was any news of the casualty.

  D'Arcy's tone would have told me the worst had happened, even if his words hadn't. ‘Cat E,’ he said quietly. ‘He's gone.’

  ‘Cat E’ was a NATO triage category. It meant the same as ‘T4’: the wounded Marine was dead. ‘He died before we got back. The MERT came in 35 minutes. It was as good as gold. He'd lost just above the knee and lost an arm so it was massive trauma.’

  The dead man was Travis Mackin, part of a small OMLT team, which was why he was accompanying the ANA up on to Ant Hill. He had celebrated his twenty-second birthday just four weeks previously.

  There was an unbearably sombre mood around the camp in the wake of the operation as his friends came to terms with the death of a mate. Everyone knew that in the next few hours, his family would be receiving a knock on the door. The knock that they hoped they would never have to hear.

  In the days that followed the operation, I took the opportunity to chat to some of the guys about their friend, especially Marines Adam Burke and Scott Gourley. They painted a picture of a man who was genuinely loved by everyone in the company; a man who seemed determined to live his life to the full. For Christmas he had grown a big orange beard and dressed up as Santa Claus, going all round the camp delivering presents to everyone, including the OC, the CSM and members of the Afghan National Army. He sounded to me like the kind of guy who had the ability to put a smile on the face of everyone he met.

  But Travis Mackin wouldn't be able to do that any more. He wouldn't be able to do anything any more. In the harsh surroundings of the British base at Kajaki, I joined the men of Victor Company as they performed a memorial ceremony for their fallen friend. It was an incredible honour for me, a civvy, to
be asked to stand in line with the soldiers at that service; to listen to the heartfelt words of his colleagues; to stand, humbled, as two lumes were sent up into the Afghan sky either side of a minute of silence as a final gesture of respect. As I stood there at that bleak outpost, and having been just 100 metres away from Travis Mackin when the IED went off, the full significance of a soldier's death was brought home to me. It doesn't seem at all right that, as the war in Afghanistan progresses, such deaths no longer make the front pages of our newspapers back home. It doesn't seem at all right that we are at risk of forgetting just what it is that these young men are sacrificing, so far from home, on our behalf.

  Travis Mackin was the 139th British soldier to be killed in this conflict since 2001. As I prepared to leave Kajaki – and Afghanistan – for the final time, I knew that he would not be the last.

  As a young man, my father served for several years in the Royal Norfolk Regiment.

  Corporal Stuart Parker giving me my weapons training. Little did we know that he would spend thirty days in a coma.

  A wet afternoon in Surrey didn't quite prepare me for the heat of Helmand Province.

  Camp Bastion, the British Army's main base in Helmand Province.

  A sombre moment: the repatriation ceremony for Lance Corporal George Davey.

  Laying up overnight in the hills above Jucaylay before making a dawn attack.

  The FSG give me a lift in Camp Bastion.