Apache

14. OP GLACIER 2: THE JUGROOM FORT

All the bigwigs were delighted with the attack on Koshtay, from the generals at PJHQ in Northwood to the brigadier in Lashkar Gah.

Happiest of all though were the hundreds of young marines of 3 Commando Brigade out on the ground. Word about the raid had spread fast up and down the platoon houses and district centres of Helmand province. The guys had taken a pasting from the Taliban in the three months since they’d arrived. Now we’d given a bit of that pasting back. Not just in self-defence for once, but a really good, hard offensive kick where it hurt – right in the Taliban’s bollocks.

The brigade were now keen to capitalise on the enemy’s disarray. For the first time – possibly in the whole Helmand campaign – the Taliban were on the defensive. The brigadier wanted to keep it that way. The order came down to launch Operation Glacier 2 as soon as possible. So the next carefully targeted attack was set for the early hours of Monday, 15 January, just four days after the Koshtay raid. Again, Attack Helicopters were heavily written into the plan.

This time it was 3 Flight’s turn on the Deliberate Ops roster. Nick and Charlotte would fly in the gunners’ front seats with FOG and Darwin behind them; callsigns Ugly Five Two and Ugly Five Three respectively. Nick, the senior of the two front-seaters, was mission commander. A chorus of surly grunts of approval from pilots echoed around the evening brief when the Boss announced it.

‘Yeah, about time someone else apart from HQ Flight got a peachy job,’ was the refrain. Envy was still rife over Koshtay.

We didn’t mind. We’d had more than our fair share of excitement down there to last us the rest of the tour. Instead, our flight were on the IRT / HRF shift – the quick reaction force to scramble for any emergency in the province. But judging by the amount of stuff they were going to be chucking at Op Glacier 2’s target before the assault, we reckoned that there was only a slimmer than slim chance that the four of us would have anything to do with it. Yes, it was going to be another whopper all right. If we’d got the cherry, 3 Flight were getting the icing.

The second target on Op Glacier’s list of five was the second furthest away from Garmsir, nine kilometres south-west of the town, continuing the plan to funnel enemy fighters north and ever closer to our killing zone while depriving them of anywhere to retreat. It was also the largest of all five.

Glacier 2’s mission was to destroy the Taliban’s main forward operating base in southern Helmand – their Camp Bastion. It was a giant, high-walled rectangular compound, 200 metres long by 100 wide, on the banks of the Helmand River where the Green Zone borders the GAFA desert in the west. It certainly looked the part of a sinister enemy hang-out. It was extremely well fortified, with stone and adobe walls ten feet high and three feet thick, and guard towers at each of its four corners. It was known locally as the Jugroom Fort.

Jugroom was originally constructed centuries ago to defend the area from a river-borne invasion. Nobody knew exactly when or by whom. Alexander the Great might have had a hand in it, for all the locals could remember.

With the river to its south and a canal running close by its western wall, the fort had lush poppy fields to its north. A deserted village stood along its eastern flank; the locals had moved out long ago, and only returned during the hours of daylight to tend the fields.

It had been pinged as a target early on during the recce; every time ground troops passed anywhere near it they received a ferocious volley of fire. From the air, the Nimrod MR2 footage revealed that the guard towers had been recently reinforced, and were permanently well manned. It also confirmed that the place was of huge tactical importance to the Taliban. Just as we were airlifted into Camp Bastion from Kandahar air base – our initial arrival point in the country – so their fighters were moved up from Koshtay to Jugroom on the next stage of their journey to the front line. There they would be rested, fed, equipped and briefed, then pushed forward to individual battlegrounds: Garmsir, Sangin, Musa Qa’leh, Now Zad and Kajaki – wherever they were needed. Our knowledge of the base’s layout was patchier. Inside was believed to be a command centre building, several barracks blocks and a large underground weapons cache.

Force 84 was initially offered the job of taking it out. But the SBS said it was too big for them. You didn’t hear a full squadron of Special Forces guys saying that too often. It wasn’t their type of target and they didn’t have the firepower if it turned into a big scrap. The planners were undeterred. The intelligence suggested there were no more than twenty to thirty enemy fighters inside the fort at that time. It was midwinter, so the number of new arrivals would naturally be down.

Colonel Magowan planned the operation from deep within the Desert of Death. The plan was an excellent one. He didn’t just want the fort – he wanted to dispatch as many Taliban as possible along with it. Magowan’s Fragos – Fragmented Orders: the fragments of the operation that the pilots needed – were read eagerly by Nick, FOG, Charlotte and Tony.

The scheme of manoeuvre was simple: first, the place would be pummelled relentlessly with a massive bombardment from fast air and artillery. It would begin at midnight and last for four hours. An incredible total of 100,000 lb of bombs dropped by B1s would test the Taliban’s resolve. If they still wanted to stay around and defend it after that, the fort would be every bit as significant as the colonel thought.

Then, at 4am, he would launch a ground assault, move into the fort, and effectively plant an ISAF flag on its ramparts – a red flag to the Taliban’s raging bull. They would counter-attack with all available manpower – probably with their trademark encirclement manoeuvre. Zulu Company would then withdraw swiftly just before dawn – leaving the Taliban fully exposed. Magowan’s pièce de résistance would be to send in the Apaches to pick them off and identify any hidden bunkers they attempted to escape into, so fast air could close them down – for ever.

Instead of the SBS, the assault would be done by the 120 Royal Marines of Zulu Company, 45 Commando, with supporting fire from 105-mm light-guns and the Scimitar armoured vehicles of C Squadron, the Light Dragoons.

3 Flight got the specifics for their part in the mission from the Detailed Tasks and Timings section of the Fragos. They were to be on station at 0330 hours local. The bombardment would cease and they would be cleared into the target. Their initial mission was to destroy any Taliban seen on or attempting to escape the fort complex. Their ‘Be Prepared To’ task: to provide close-in fire support for Zulu Company as they moved into the fort. 3 Flight’s final mission: to destroy any remaining Taliban when Zulu Company withdrew back across the river. They were then to return to Bastion, rearm, refuel and be prepared to redeploy to the fort to cover the troops as they pulled back into the desert. The Annexes to the Fragos contained the usual aerial photographs and sketches of the fort, along with a list of enemy vehicles known to operate from it.

‘It looks like someone’s done their homework for this one,’ Nick said approvingly.

There were no call-outs for the IRT / HRF on Sunday, the day before Glacier 2 was launched. It gave me a chance to catch up on a mountain of paperwork – as mind-numbingly boring as I always found it. Time not fighting was time wasted in my book. But the Boss had encouraged me to write a paper for a new type of thermobaric Hellfire that I was after, and I’d finally made a start on it. If Monday was quiet, too, I just might be able to finish the bloody thing.

On Sunday night, the Boss had gone over to Kandahar for a meeting with the regiment’s new Commanding Officer. Geordie backfilled his place on HQ Flight, as he often did. The four of us woke up as usual at 6.45am on a chilly but crystal clear Monday morning. We were in the special IRT / HRF tent, fifty metres from the Ops tent. I’d had my shower and shave, and was sitting on my cot bed doing up my boot laces and ribbing Geordie about missing his hairdresser’s car when the insecure Motorola radio crackled into action. It was 7.05am.

‘Superman – Batcave – Roadrunner.’

It was Comic Heroes theme week for the radio codenames. Superman was code for the IRT, Batcave meant the Joint Helicopter Force Ops Room, and Roadrunner meant as fast as your legs can carry you. Carl and I were the IRT that day. I grabbed at the radio.

‘Superman to the Batcave: Roadrunner.’

In twenty seconds, we were up and over the Hesco Bastion wall on our homemade ladder and into the Ops Room. The watchkeeper was waiting for us.

‘It’s a Casevac, guys. A single Apache to protect a CH47 down to Garmsir.’

The drill was well practised by now. Without another word, Carl ran straight out and jumped into the Land Rover. His job as the pilot was to get down to the flight line and flash up the aircraft immediately. I snatched my Black Brain from the secure locker, and with Billy now at my side, I ran onto the Joint Operations Cell tent next door to get a better idea of what was going on.

‘It’s a busy morning.’ The 42 Commando 2i/c looked stressed. ‘The yanks have had a serious RTA in Nimruz province. They rolled a vehicle and have got two T1s and two T2s. It’s a benign area so we’re sending two Chinooks out to them; there’s only one left here now. It’s the stand-in Casevac and it’s going to Jugroom Fort; that’s the one you’re responsible for.’

He gave me a grid for the Chinook’s landing site.

‘How many casualties?’

‘Five.’

That wasn’t good. They shouldn’t be taking casualties more than three hours after the ground assault was supposed to have gone in.

‘All gunshot wounds,’ he added. ‘Don’t know what state they’re in yet.’

‘Why aren’t the two Apaches down there going to protect the CH47?’

‘They’re busy fighting.’

Billy and I gave each other a knowing glance – here we go again. The Taliban weren’t giving up Jugroom Fort without a proper ding dong. Things were obviously not looking too good, but whatever the problem was, I didn’t need to know about it. We just needed to get that Chinook down there sharpish.

I ran the final 500 metres to the flight line. The air chilled my lungs as I mounted the berms and ran up out of the ditches. Carl had already got the Auxiliary Power Unit running but the Chinook 100 metres to our left was empty. The RAF guys only need five minutes to flash up a Chinook. As soon as I slammed my cockpit door shut, Carl threw forward the engine power levers and our rotors began to turn. A minute later, he radioed into the Ops Room.

‘Ugly Five One, ready.’

We waited for the Chinook – then it dawned on us: the IRT / HRF pair had just left. This one was not due out for two hours, so the crews would have been sleeping during the shout. Another busy day for the RAF. Just as the Chinook started to turn and burn, the second surprise of the day arrived. ‘Ugly Five One, this is Ops, hold. The CH47 will go down alone. Wait out for more information.’

Now what was this about?

‘Look who’s coming,’ Carl said. Billy and Geordie ran across the flight line towards the Apache alongside us as the Chinook lifted and thundered over their heads.

‘Ugly Five One, this is Ops. You will be joined by Ugly Five Zero. You are now going to RIP with Five Two and Five Three down in Garmsir. RIP time is 0820 hours.’

‘Ugly Five One copied.’

‘Ugly Five Two will brief you en route. Out.’ We’d be lucky if we could make that.

So we’re going to do a Relief in Place with 3 Flight. We rarely did unplanned RIPs on deliberate attacks. There just weren’t the spare aircraft or crews. It meant only one thing – life was under immediate threat down there, and would continue to be for the foreseeable. Things had obviously gone badly wrong.

Billy and Geordie flashed up in record quick time, ‘Ugly Five Zero Flight Airborne at 08:01 hours.’

‘Ops, good luck.’

A minute into the flight, Billy came through on the Apache FM radio net. ‘Ed, I’ve got a problem mate. Both our VU radios are tits. Crypto has dropped out; we have no secure voice.’

‘Bloody typical,’ Carl said.

‘Copied Billy. What do you want to do?’

Carl was right. This was a certifiable pain in the arse. Billy was down as mission commander for the day, as he’d planned to requalify Geordie on his flying skills if we were called out. Losing his VU radios meant he was off both the mission net for the operation and the Helmand-wide air net. The only people he could speak to securely over his two remaining FM radios now were the other Apache crews and our Ops Room – that meant nobody on the ground down at Jugroom, and not even the JTAC, so he’d have no way of following the battle. Normally we’d have gone back and Billy and Geordie would have jumped in the spare. There was only one answer when the clock was ticking for an urgent RIP like this, and we all knew it.

‘Screw it, let’s press on. Nick is already well short of gas.’

The mission commander was now flying deaf.

‘You better take tactical lead, Ed.’

‘Okay. My lead. Carl will relay.’

‘Copied. Thanks.’

I was now the point man with the outside world, while Carl listened in on the mission net and repeated everything to Billy and Geordie on the FM channel. Billy had to maintain command of the mission though, as he’d had a more comprehensive briefing on the battle. In our Apache I had mission lead but Carl was still the aircraft captain; we hadn’t had time to change our paperwork earlier that morning.

Billy sent an encrypted burst transmission. ‘Check data, Ed.’

With the push of a button Jugroom’s coordinates joined the tactical situational display on my MPD’s black map – the fort’s four corners were outlined alongside the firebase overlooking it on the western side of the river, six klicks east of our artillery’s gun line in the desert.

‘Good Data.’

The TADS was cool now so I readied it for the mission. The focus had jammed close up on me, making it utterly useless. The FLIR was shagged but at least the day TV camera was working. It was like opening a bag of tools to find you had a pair of pliers but no adjustable spanner. I could still do my job but it was going to be that much harder.

I broke the news to the rest of the flight, which was greeted by more groans from Carl. Billy would have to sort out all the thermal imagery we needed. This was getting complicated, even for seasoned multi-taskers.

We were cruising at 138 mph at an altitude of 5,000 feet, heading on the most direct line south over the GAFA, with Billy and Geordie about half a mile back to our left. It was a sixty-two-mile flight directly into the low and blinding winter sun. Even my visor couldn’t save me from having to squint.

Fifteen minutes into the flight, the casevac Chinook shot right under us on the way back to Bastion. It was a mighty quick turn around and they were bombing it, flying low and straight – route one. It meant the casualties were in a bad way. We’d heard over the net that they’d then be loaded up to the gunnels with ammunition for the 105-mm guns which needed an emergency replen.

At fifteen miles to go, I checked in with the JTAC. ‘Widow Seven One, this is Ugly Five One, how do you read?’

‘Widow Seven One, Lima Charlie.’

‘Ugly Five One are two Apaches, Ugly Five One and Ugly Five Zero. We have 600 rounds of thirty Mike Mike, forty-eight rockets and eight Hellfire missiles. We have the usual amount of playtime.’

‘Widow Seven One copies your last. You’ll need to route west around the gun line as they’re firing onto the target.’

‘Is there any way we stop the guns and route direct?’ A big loop into the desert to go behind the guns would lose us a few minutes and we’d miss the RIP time.

The reply was firm and impatient. ‘NEGATIVE. We have a situation here. Wait out.’

The JTAC was obviously having a bad day; we didn’t want to compound it. We didn’t subscribe to the ‘large sky, small round theory’ and didn’t fancy testing our armour plating with a 105-calibre shell. We would comply. Then everything changed.

‘Ugly Five One, this is Widow Seven One. No longer five casualties. Now four casualties and one MIA.’

I felt the rush of adrenalin and the all too familiar taste of metal flooded into my mouth. It was preparing me for fear.

‘All other troops have withdrawn, but the MIA is still on the objective. Repeat, the MIA is STILL on the objective.’

My mind flashed back to Sangin in June – our search across the fields for the two SBS lads. Looking down onto the desert floor I pictured what I had seen that day and remembered what the Taliban had done to them. Acid leaked into the hollow space in my lower abdomen. I could have put it down to missing breakfast, but I knew myself too well. Christ, not again.

Carl was on the ball immediately. He relayed the news to Billy and Geordie and shoved his cyclic forward. The aircraft’s nose dipped and the rotors growled as we accelerated to full speed.

‘Fucking hell,’ Billy said. ‘What the hell is going on down there?’

I tried to think it through. How the hell had they lost someone at the fort, and then all withdrawn without him? The Taliban were clearly still holding the place. Now they might have one of our guys, too.

There was a silence as the four of us shared the same thought. The memory of Sangin wasn’t the only thing disturbing me. There was also the fresh intelligence about the bastards’ plan for a TV skinning.

Geordie broke it. ‘Check Data.’

A text from Billy was waiting for us. It read MIA… NOT ON OUR WATCH.

I radioed in our reply. ‘Good Data. Affirm.’

Widow Seven One checked back in. ‘Ugly Five One, be aware Ugly Five Two Flight are chicken. They’ve only got enough fuel left for a direct flight back to base. They’re going off station now. We need you on station immediately to help locate the MIA. Send ETA.’

The bright green number in my monocle dropped from 11 to 10.

‘Ugly will be with you in ten minutes.’

‘We had to bug out without being able to look for him…’ Nick’s voice sounded tired and despondent. ‘We’re both completely out of gas and low on ammo too. We’ve been fighting solidly for an hour and a half. Stand by…’

Nick checked out with the JTAC before continuing.

‘We were held over the desert to the south-west for the initial bombardment then cleared in to look for leakers as Zulu Company prepared to cross the river. We saw a few Taliban, dispatched them with cannon. The place was devastated, apart from the north-east watchtower and main building. Five Three took out the watchtower and we both destroyed the building, all with Hellfire. We continued to observe but nothing moved. The place looked like Monte Casino.

‘It all started to go wrong just before H-hour. Zulu Company weren’t ready to move. The ground assault was put back so we went back to rearm and refuel. When we returned they still weren’t ready. They didn’t end up going in until just before 0700. The lost time must have given the Taliban a chance to reinfiltrate. We don’t know how they got back in.’

The marines’ twelve-strong column of Viking tracked armoured vehicles had crossed the river at an especially shallow point but dawn was already breaking. Their vehicles stopped in a line adjacent to the point one of the 2,000-lb bombs had blown a gaping hole in the fort’s southern outer wall.

The marines had debussed into the poppy field and pepper potted forward towards the wall. As soon as they got there, five of them were hit by a volley of machine-gun fire. A hail of small arms and RPG fire cascaded down the canal and from the village to the west. It was mayhem.

‘We covered them as much as we could with Hellfire and cannon, but it wasn’t enough. With five serious casualties they were in a whole world of pain, and had no chance of continuing the attack. It was now light and the Taliban had already begun to encircle them. The order was given to withdraw. We put down everything we could to protect them on the way out. I used all my cannon rounds…

‘The first we knew of the MIA was a few minutes ago, after we pulled off target. He was one of the casualties. We’ve no idea where he is or how it happened.’

‘That’s all copied. Thanks, Nick.’

‘Ford – that’s the MIA’s name. Lance Corporal Mathew Ford. Good luck guys. I’m sorry.’

He had nothing to apologise for. Getting the marines out of that hornets’ nest without any more casualties was a miracle in itself. Tony and FOG would have been flying harder than ever to keep up with the thrust of Nick and Charlotte’s offensive.

Colonel Magowan now faced every commander’s worst nightmare. There was no point in the marines going back in without knowing where Lance Corporal Ford was. With the weight of fire from the fort and the surrounding villages, it would have been suicide. The marines were still firing from the ridge in a desperate attempt to suppress the enemy. It was all they could do for Ford until they knew where he was.