Attack State Red Read online

  Immediately Holmes replied, ‘One Zero Bravo, roger, out.’

  He had been unable to do much out in the open, pinned down. But now there was a modicum of cover, and he was not going to lie dormant here with his men. Holmes was one of the hardest, most proactive and aggressive leaders in the battalion. He was going to defend against enemy attack, then he was going to manoeuvre to a better position, then he was going to counter-attack. He called along the wall to his men: ‘OK, looks like they’re coming to get us. Get your bayonets out. If they get to this wall we may have to use them.’ The men stared at him in disbelief as they heard for the first time in a real situation the words ‘Fix bayonets!’

  2

  The sniper team were moving on the left flank of the company, covering the area of open ground and providing some protection at the rear of Holmes’s platoon and Tac HQ, the company commander’s command team made up of indirect fire controllers and signallers. When the battle began, the snipers moved forward on to rooftops to try to get into a position to help the troops in contact.

  Privates Oliver Bailey and Clay Donnachie, on top of a building, had identified a group of Taliban several hundred metres in the distance, firing at Holmes and his men.

  Bailey said, ‘Donnie, I’ve got a head shot. Can’t see him clearly. I’m going for the muzzle flash. When I fire, it’ll kick up so much dust they’ll be straight on to us. You need to keep really low.’

  Other than his lips Bailey did not move any part of his body when he shouted above the deafening racket of machine-gun fire and airbursting rocket grenades. Peering intently through the Schmidt and Bender telescopic sight, he trained his heavy sniper rifle firmly on the target, open right eye stinging with the sweat running into it, elbows resting painfully on the unyielding mud roof. He centred the sight picture precisely over the muzzle flash, then edged it a few millimetres right, to the exact point he knew the fighter’s head would be. He was ice-cool, but also concerned about the reaction his next movement was certain to provoke.

  Remaining perfectly still, he took the first pressure on the trigger, inhaled, paused… and then slowly exhaled, squeezing in the second pressure. The rifle jerked back, biting at his shoulder. The .338 Lapua Magnum bullet sliced through the air at supersonic speed, forcing up a swirl of dust to his front.

  The muzzle flashes had ceased. Kill!

  Private Jimmy Long, another sniper, clambered up on to the roof and was greeted by a hail of fire as the Taliban machine-gunners trained on to the dust kicked up by Bailey’s shot. The fire was intense, and the three men pressed their bodies into the sun-baked roof. For a few minutes they couldn’t move: they were pinned down and expecting to be hit at any moment.

  When the fire slackened slightly, they crawled to the sides and dropped down into the alleyway below.

  ‘There’s nothing for us to do down here,’ said Bailey. ‘We’re useless in alleyways. The Taliban are obviously trying to infiltrate and split up the company. We’ve got to find another roof to get on to.’

  Donnachie and Long headed off down to the left. Bailey slung his sniper rifle over his shoulder. It was pretty much useless in the tight complex of narrow alleys, mud walls and low buildings. He drew his 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol, already cocked, and led the way to the right, looking for a suitable rooftop firing position. Behind him were Lance Corporal Werner van der Merwe, cover man, and Lance Corporal Jock Flight, another sniper.

  The incredible din of gunfire and explosions continued, echoing and reverberating around the walls of the village, preventing any idea of where any of it was coming from or going to.

  The alleyway bent hard right. Bailey was about to turn the corner when he almost walked into a tall, tan-skinned man with a huge black beard, wearing a dirty grey kurta, an AK47 assault rifle at his hip. Shocked, Bailey leapt back. As he jumped, he fired his pistol, hitting the wide-eyed fighter in the leg. Everything was happening in slow motion. He could see the man gritting his teeth with pain; his eyeballs seemed to be popping out of his head. Off-balance and reeling, the man fired wildly with his AK47. Shooting one-handed, Bailey got him in the chest with the second round, driving him back round the corner. As the man staggered backwards, Bailey continued firing and emptied his magazine at him.

  Behind Bailey, van der Merwe and Flight had momentarily frozen, amazed at what they saw, and astonished they hadn’t been hit by the AK47 bullets ricocheting around the narrow confines of the alleyway.

  Now van der Merwe grabbed Bailey by the daysack and pulled him back behind him. Levelling his SA80, van der Merwe fired a UGL grenade, hoping to bounce it off the mud wall and kill any further Taliban waiting round the corner. But the grenade just dug in, and van der Merwe quickly lobbed a high-explosive hand grenade, blasting out lethal fragments of hot steel that would have taken care of anyone waiting to rush out at them. Van der Merwe cautiously peered round the corner, leading with his rifle. The dead Taliban fighter was sprawled awkwardly across the alley floor, one leg bent under his body.

  The three men moved back down the alleyway and entered a small mud compound to get their breath. Inside was a filthy wooden table with a lukewarm tea pot and a couple of hypodermic syringes with some small open twists of white paper. This must have been where Taliban fighters had been resting when the fighting started. Or maybe just some of the village’s innocent residents, who had fled when they saw the approach of the Royal Anglian soldiers.

  Van der Merwe handed a water bottle to Bailey. Bailey glugged down the water, still hyped with adrenalin and speaking fast even for him, ‘How didn’t his shots get us? Don’t want to do that again in a hurry. Amazing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said van der Merwe, ‘Thank God you got off the first shot, otherwise we’d probably all be dead. And Major Biddick too: that bloke was heading straight for his Tac.’

  3

  When he realized Holmes was under fire, Biddick had raced forward with his Tac HQ to get into the best position to command the three platoons and the fire support elements of A Company Group, The 1st Battalion The Royal Anglian Regiment.

  Thirty-two-year-old Major Dominic Biddick had been in the Army since the age of seventeen, when he had joined the Worcestershire and Sherwood Forester Regiment as a private. Later commissioned into the Royal Anglian Regiment, he had extensive operational experience in Northern Ireland and in Afghanistan, where he had completed two previous tours, one in Kabul as battalion operations officer, and the second as senior intelligence officer with HQ 16th Air Assault Brigade.

  Biddick’s thirty-man platoons were dispersed around the deserted eastern section of Nowzad town. Known as Sorkhani, it was a tightly packed area of small compounds surrounded by 2- to 3-metre-high walls. The narrow streets were compacted dusty mud tracks, flanked on either side by open sewage ditches. The whole place, ideal ground for Taliban flanking moves, infiltration and ambushes, was criss-crossed with narrow alleyways, tunnels, rat-runs and mouse-holes between buildings.

  Biddick weighed up the situation. Captain Charlie Harmer, his FST commander, had already called for air support and was confident that a pair of US Air Force F15 Eagle tactical fighters would be on station within minutes. Biddick had already engaged the Taliban with mortars, and, with the weight of fire they were putting down, was confident that he was regaining the initiative. But he still needed to know exactly where the enemy were. He spoke to Lieutenant Graham Goodey, commander of 2 Platoon, who were deployed further back into Sorkhani: ‘Graham, can you and maybe some of your NCOs get up on to high points and see if you can figure out where the fire is coming from? If you are able to get any weapons into a position to engage that would be even better.’

  Biddick was considering how he could rebalance the company. He would need his two forward platoons to link up to form a stronger defence against the Taliban, or to assault should the opportunity present itself to move forward and attack. At the same time he was worried about enemy out-flanking teams moving around in Sorkhani, getting behind his troops. At all costs he had
to secure against this potentially deadly infiltration – a speciality of the Taliban.

  Biddick spoke on the company net: ‘All stations, this is Bronze Zero Alpha. SITREP. Callsign Bronze One Zero is under heavy contact with the enemy on the eastern edge of the built-up area.’

  He repeated the description of the enemy position given to him by Holmes, and then continued, ‘I estimate Taliban in up to platoon strength. I am engaging the enemy with mortars and preparing to engage with air when I get the necessary separation and more accurate confirmation of enemy positions. I intend for Callsign Bronze One Zero to relocate and be prepared to attack the enemy if the situation allows. Bronze Four Zero Alpha, roger so far, over.’

  Colour Sergeant Andy Faupel, the fire support group commander, high up on ANP Hill to the south-west, replied, ‘Roger over.’

  Biddick continued, ‘Callsign Bronze Three Zero Alpha is to be prepared to link up with One Zero and assist them to break contact if necessary. Remain in current location at present, no move till ordered. Callsign Bronze Two Zero to remain in reserve and provide rear security from current location. All callsigns are to be aware of the possibility of enemy reinforcement and attempts to infiltrate through both our flanks and to the rear. Radio intercept indicates enemy ordering all available forces into this area. Zero acknowledge, over.’

  ‘Roger out,’ came the response from Captain Paul Steel, Biddick’s 2IC and operations officer, back in their base at Nowzad District Centre.

  4

  Thirty metres east of Biddick’s Tac HQ, gunfire was still pouring into Holmes’s position behind the wall. He had to do something to get his men out of there and into safety, particularly if the Taliban were planning to infiltrate and capture them. With the weight of enemy fire, there was no way any of his men could even look over the wall. Raising themselves up to shoot would mean certain death. If the Taliban were skilful enough, it was certainly realistic that they could be on top of his position before he knew it. And unfortunately this group of Taliban definitely seemed to know what they were doing.

  I need accurate mortar fire, and to call it in I’ve got to get eyes on the enemy, thought Holmes. He crawled down to the end of the wall, took a deep breath and pushed his head round, just far enough to see, but half expecting to get it blown off at any second. To his front there was a sparse green woodline. Taliban! He could make out nine or ten of them, only the upper half of their bodies, some static, firing, others moving up and down the position. He was astonished to see white turbans on their heads, and they all seemed to be wearing white kurtas. Not even an attempt at camouflage. He didn’t understand it, but couldn’t spend time now trying to figure it out.

  He knew his own grid from his GPS, and he could estimate the distance to the woodline – about 200 metres. All he needed was a bearing and he would have enough information for a mortar fire mission. He took out his worn and scratched Silva compass and cursed when he saw a huge bubble in the needle damping oil. That’s all I need. Wondering whether it would have a significant effect on the bearing, he lined the compass up on the enemy position, took a quick reading and ducked back behind the wall. Fourteen hundred and ten mils magnetic. Just north of east.

  He hit the radio pressel switch and called the fire mission in to the company commander. Biddick flashed back: ‘Zero Alpha, roger, working on it. MFC cannot observe fall of shot. Can you?’

  ‘Bronze One Zero Bravo, er, roger, yes.’

  Why did I say that? thought Holmes, just about managing to smile to himself. Now I’ve got to put my head up again to adjust the mortar fire.

  Two minutes later Biddick was back on the net. ‘Zero Alpha, shot over.’

  ‘Shot out,’ replied Holmes.

  The word ‘shot’ meant that the mortars were firing their first round. This would more than likely not be on target, and the fire would have to be adjusted round by round until it was landing on the enemy position. Holmes slowly pushed his head round the wall again. Above the still-raging gunfire, he heard the whizz of the 81mm mortar and then saw it explode – 200 metres right of the enemy position and 100 metres beyond.

  Pulling his head back behind the wall he said, ‘Zero Alpha, One Zero Bravo, left two hundred, drop one hundred, over.’

  The company commander replied, ‘Zero Alpha, left two hundred, drop one hundred.’

  Seconds later Biddick came back with another ‘Shot over.’

  Wondering when his luck would run out, Holmes again looked around the end of the wall – just in time to see the second explosion. Barely waiting till he was back in cover, he said excitedly, ‘Bronze One Zero Bravo, on target. Fire for effect.’

  As he crawled back to his men, Holmes heard the continuous crump-crump-crump of mortar bombs landing in and around the Taliban position. He could also make out the distinctive thump-thump of .50 cal machine-guns, the rapid crack of GPMGs and the quick-fire explosive blasts of a grenade machine-gun (GMG). Biddick must have ordered the fire support group back on ANP Hill to engage with everything they had as well. Excellent!

  Holmes crawled up to Private Slater. The enemy fire had not stopped but was now sporadic enough to risk getting some fire down, and Holmes was desperate to do just that. The words imbued in him in basic training – win the firefight – had been in his mind since he first came under fire, less than half an hour earlier.

  ‘Slater, sorry, mate, it’s me and you, we’ve got to get some fire down. Come with me.’

  The two crawled back along to the end of the wall. Without any further orders, Private Slater shoved the muzzle of his GPMG round the corner, rolling round himself, exposing his body to enemy fire. He hammered down 200 rounds, firing long bursts in rapid succession. Holmes was right beside him, equally exposed, observing over his shoulder for fall of shot. Slater was hosing tracer bullets up and down the woodline, carried away with the excitement of at last being able to give back to the Taliban some of what they had been giving out over the last thirty minutes.

  Holmes grabbed Slater’s helmeted head, and turned it to the Taliban position, ‘There – there’s your target. See them? There – there.’

  Slater opened up again, concentrating his fire on the spot Holmes had indicated. Holmes tried sending a SITREP to Biddick, but his radio had stopped working. He switched to his short-range personal role radio, or PRR, and called for any station that could hear him.

  To the rear, Corporal Chris Brooks, one of the section commanders in the platoon, and his point man had climbed on to the roof of a single-storey building to provide overwatch as Holmes advanced. But they had been forced back to the ground by a hail of RPG and machine-gun fire at the same time as Holmes was pinned down in the open. Now Brooks and the rest of the section were taking cover behind the compound wall, under heavy fire and in no position to support Holmes’s extraction to safety. Brooks heard Holmes’s transmission and answered, ‘Larry, I can hear you, talk to me.’

  As Brooks spoke, Holmes saw a flash of movement off to his right and, quickly turning, couldn’t believe what he saw. Just 50 metres from him, two Taliban fighters ran across a clearing. Before he could turn and shoot, they had disappeared into the foliage.

  ‘Slater, forget the front, I’ll cover the front, you swing right and start gunning them there. Just fire into that woodline where they came from.’

  He called into the PRR, ‘Brooksy, Chris, they’re flanking us. They’re going round to the right, to the south, get on the net and warn the OC and Three Zero. They’re coming for us…’

  5

  Second Lieutenant Bjorn Rose, commander of 3 Platoon, was listening to Holmes’s firefight, a few hundred metres away to the north, through the thick undergrowth of the area of Sorkhani known as ‘The Parks’. His platoon had gone firm, but he had told them to be ready to move immediately.

  He now received orders from Biddick. ‘Bronze Three Zero Alpha, this is Zero Alpha. Your callsign is to move north to assist Bronze One Zero to break clean from the enemy. You are to move now and get into a position
where you can provide fire support. If you can, link up with callsign Bronze One Zero Alpha. Over.’

  Bronze One Zero Alpha was Second Lieutenant Nick Denning, Holmes’s platoon commander and a close friend of Rose. Rose had heard Denning on the radio in the last few minutes, trying to help Holmes and coordinate fire support for him. Denning was the same age as Rose – twenty-five – and the newest platoon commander in the company, but Rose had been amazed at how cool he had been when trying to get control over what was happening. Rose had found Denning’s calmness reassuring in what was for both officers – and most of A Company – their first battle.

  Rose and his section commanders had been monitoring the company net, and they realized not only was there a huge firefight going on with Holmes, but it appeared the Taliban were trying to get round the flanks and infiltrate into the middle of the company.

  Rose told his section commanders, ‘You heard the OC on the net. We’re pushing north to help 1 Platoon. Get your lads moving. Corporal Moore, your section will lead.’

  At thirty-two, Billy Moore was one of the older men in the company and an experienced soldier: he had been in the battalion for twelve years. His father had served in 7th Regiment, Royal Horse Artillery, and rarely passed up an opportunity to remind Billy that they were senior in Army precedence to the Royal Anglians. Moore’s real name was Robert, but there was already a Rob in his platoon when he first arrived in the battalion, so he was immediately renamed, whether he liked it or not.

  Moore’s section, moving in single-file, led the way along a tree-lined alleyway towards the sound of the guns. Even in the shade, it was redhot, and the men were dripping sweat, buckling under the immense weight of ammunition and water they had on their backs. Point man was Private Chris Gray. The job of point man was incredibly demanding and dangerous and required special qualities: good fieldcraft, excellent tactical and situational awareness, alertness… and above all, courage – the point man was usually first to fight. Gray was nineteen and had only been in the battalion for seven months, but had proved himself to be an outstanding soldier, always keen, eager to learn and determined. He was a Minimi gunner, and Moore, wanting heavy firepower at the front, often used Gray at point.