Warrior Brothers (13 page)

As usual, our initial rush of excitement and elation proved to be premature. After a couple of weeks in Kuwait, we boarded a C130 Hercules aircraft bound for Bagram Airbase in Afghanistan, pumped to finally be on our way. A five-month wait for someone who has never been known for his patience is an acute form of torture. Under the cover of darkness, the aircraft circled high above Bagram but severe weather conditions forced us to return to Oman in the Arabian peninsula.

I was like a child who, after a sleepless Christmas Eve, has been told that Santa's sleigh couldn't make it due to inclement weather. Suffice it to say, Corporal Patience was well and truly pissed off.

The following night we again boarded the aircraft and departed for Bagram. Several hours later, like a scene from
Groundhog Day
, we were once more circling the airfield.
Those pussies had better take us down this time
, I thought to myself. There was considerable shifting in seats and shuffling of feet as we watched the load masters busily walking up and down the aircraft. After what seemed like forever they turned to us, thumbs firmly up: ‘We're going in!' they yelled. Finally, our time had arrived.

We exited via the rear ramp and were confronted with a night so cold that it stung our eyes and sucked away our breath. The air carried the thick, distinctive aroma of recent
rain. There were no lights and we were herded off the runway to a tent to have our details recorded. It began to rain as we trudged towards the dank building that was to be our home for the next five months. The mud stuck to the soles of our boots like toffee in your teeth.

The squadron sergeant-major (SSM) gave us a quick brief on what to do in the event of an incident during the night and then told us to get some sleep. It was surreal. Who wanted to freaking sleep? We were in Afghanistan. There was plenty of time to sleep when we returned home. I found a piece of muddy carpet, pulled out my sleeping bag and shut my eyes. Sleep? No chance. Lying flat on my back with my eyes closed would have to be close enough.

We rose early the next morning but were not permitted to explore our surrounds. Bagram Airbase is located about 47 kilometres north-east of Kabul. It has a long history in serving the military and played a key role during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan from 1980 to 1989. It's like a mini city in its own right, with many large hangars, a control tower and numerous support buildings to house equipment and thousands of soldiers. That morning, my first in Afghanistan, we assembled outside our sleeping quarters and took in the clear day and the cold, distant sun, which provided light but little warmth. A magnificent ring of snow-capped mountains framed the base to the north, east and south. The distant peaks radiated strength and beauty; their sheer size was imposing, while a blanket of snow softened the image. The contrast was breathtaking.

My attention shifted from the mountains back to the SSM, who had begun speaking. He informed us that we'd soon be deploying to the mountainous eastern region of Afghanistan. Our task was to establish an observation corridor to look for signs of enemy infiltration into the country. The SSM also
provided a thorough orientation of our compound, with particular emphasis on the mined areas. Bagram was the most heavily mined location in Afghanistan. Tragically, most days a silent killer screamed to life and claimed another victim. Sometimes they were soldiers, but sometimes they were children. We paid extra attention to this warning as an SAS soldier from a previous rotation had stepped on a landmine. Can you imagine what he must have felt? Not the way any of us wanted to be sent home.

Establishing an observation corridor in Eastern Afghanistan sounded like a straightforward, if dangerous, mission. We were to fly from Bagram to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Khost, located approximately 150 kilometres south-east of Kabul and 100 kilometres from Gardez, in the Paktia province of Eastern Afghanistan. During initial assaults in Afghanistan, the Soviets had used Khost Airfield as a base for inserting troops into the combat zone. History was now repeating itself. Once we arrived in Khost, we would make final preparations before deploying into the mountains.

The aim of our operation was to move progressively closer to the Pakistan–Afghanistan border and gather intelligence. We were to log all ‘pertinent' information and relay the intelligence to squadron HQ via high-frequency communications. As with many similar patrols, we knew in advance that there would be a lot of sitting around, minimal conversation, thirst, heat and food rationing. But if we'd wanted lives of comfort then we would have chosen different careers.

With the operation parameters made clear, there was no more waiting around. A British C130 Aircraft Special Forces crew were to provide our ride into south-eastern Afghanistan and by all accounts they were a highly proficient team. As a forward operating base, Khost Airfield regularly came under rocket and small-arms attack. This meant that, on arrival, we would have to unload swiftly so the plane could slip away into the relative safety of the moonless night. Seatbelts were
left unclasped and we sat silently in our blacked-out aircraft as it felt its way through the rugged valleys. It was a flawless piece of flying, low and fast, gliding across the terrain with the confidence of an eagle searching for prey. At touchdown the ground staff moved about with an air of urgency. Chains were removed and vehicles rolled onto the airfield under the protection of darkness. Within seconds the aircraft roared down the blackened runway and launched back into the night.

On the ground we kept noise to a minimum, a task made easier by the use of night-vision goggles (NVGs). After positioning our vehicles, the Boss delivered a brief set of orders covering ‘actions on' – these included which bunker to run to should we come under indirect fire attack. We then found a place to sleep. It was like a scene from a Hollywood movie, but without the directors, actors or the ability to call ‘cut' if things didn't go according to plan. Together yet alone, we lay listening to the unfamiliar night sounds, grateful that the blanket of darkness was masking our apprehension about what lay ahead.

We were now a long way from Brisbane, Kuwait and Bagram Airbase. After months of waiting, we had finally arrived in the wild frontier of Eastern Afghanistan. We were fit, alert and excited, like a team of salivating greyhounds before an evening meet. That little hare didn't stand a chance. One of the better vehicle-mounted patrols in the squadron was responsible for our insertion. It was also filled with some of our closest friends. As we squeezed into the patrol vehicles, I looked around with a sense of contentment. It didn't get much better than this.

The vehicles wove their way along the tracks, while on the horizon, lightning and tracer fire could be seen. In the evening light the rugged beauty of Afghanistan was somewhat masked, but the jagged, barren countryside still gleamed with contrasting shapes and colours. Darkness made the distant mountains even more imposing; masses of muscled granite lined the road ahead – shoulder to shoulder, like the All Blacks glaring down at those with the gall to approach them. The lightning may have been the mountain's version of a haka.

Not a single word was spoken and all that could be heard were the gentle rumblings of the engines. The crisp breeze forced us deep into our Goretex jackets, but I'm not sure if the occasional shiver was from the cold or excitement. As is
common on night operations, most of the men retreated into their own thoughts. By night, whether preparing to enter the water on a midnight dive or leap from the back of a blackened aircraft, there is rarely bravado, no idle chatter, no emotion. Our training and our basic instincts left us locked in separate worlds of deep concentration, ready to instantly snap back to life the moment the task began. Operations provided a smorgasbord of adrenaline shots, and I already knew how addictive I found them. I liked not knowing what danger lay moments away. I liked the pounding inside my chest.

The insertion took longer than expected and we reached our drop-off point with just one hour remaining before first light. There was no time to waste. A series of handshakes and slaps on the shoulders saw our patrol and the mobility guys part company. Without hesitation, we stumbled into the darkness and began to make our way up the rocky incline. A couple of minutes later the gentle rumblings of the vehicles had faded. We were alone. We were racing the night. We could see our security blanket being peeled across the sky as we desperately attempted to gain altitude and find a place to hide.

Each man was weighed down by over 60 kilograms of equipment. The load was made even heavier by the severity of the gradient, not to mention all the unstable broken rock underfoot. NVGs were both beneficial and a hindrance. As useful as they were, they inevitably fogged up as the cold breeze met the steam and sweat that our exertion produced. Fresh no longer, our lower limbs, backs and shoulders were heaving with fatigue, yet despite the pain, for some of us this was pure ecstasy. A vigorous workout in treacherous conditions? The possibility of the distinctive crack of rifle fire as we cleared the summit? What more could we ask for? This was the definition of exhilaration.

But things didn't run quite as smoothly as they had in Timor. No sooner had we reached our destination and begun to settle in to our OP than a couple of young boys and a dozen grazing cattle meandered up a track to within 50 metres of our position. Something about our desert-pattern fatigues gave the game away; possibly the white glow of the uniforms against the lush green background of the local vegetation. The area, usually dry and barren, had received recent rain. We were as noticeable as someone at a funeral in a white tuxedo. The youths promptly ran in the direction of their village to raise the alarm. Great! While the engine noise and movement may have alerted the villagers to our presence, they now had confirmation.

Even the most adventurous adrenaline junkie feels a little nauseous in the moments after a patrol compromise. The anticipation, the fear of the unknown, can destroy a soldier. It was possible that we could soon be fighting dozens, even hundreds, of Taliban. When things go bad it is essential to think clearly, as to make a poor decision, to lose one's nerve, can be fatal. I remember glancing at my light machine gun and feeling confident in myself – the same type of confidence that I had observed in G back in Timor. We were well-trained, well-armed and motivated to keep on living. If we were to be overrun, then we would make it as difficult and costly for the enemy as possible.

The Boss immediately conferred with the patrol and we decided to carry out standard deceptive procedures, feigning a move in one direction before looping back to a more elevated position on the same part of the slope. We located a shallow ridge on the side of the mountain that offered excellent fields of view and limited protection. We now had a perfect vantage point, so we kept ourselves amused watching the villagers scour the slopes below for signs of an Australian SAS patrol that appeared to have vanished.

Village life in Afghanistan is a tough existence. The
country has been ravaged by decades of war, and these experiences are etched into its people's bodies. The men are heavily bearded, hard-eyed and lean. The leathery creases on their faces speak of lives of hardship; not just the indelible legacy of their torn past but also the wearing pressures of an exacting climate. Their strong, calloused hands indicate that they are no strangers to rigorous physical work.

Inadequate nourishment has left Afghani children under-sized, and their eyes suggest that their innocence has been torn from them far too early in life. The trademark cheeky grin of well-fed Western children is infrequent. These children stare back at us with an air of vagueness and distance that unsettles even the most hardened soldier. Perhaps detachment provides the only peace from their constantly hungry bellies, from bodies overrun by parasites. Their mothers and sisters were inevitably denied access to education, ostracised from the public sphere and otherwise oppressed under the Taliban. We rarely saw women without full body coverings. In the time we spent monitoring the local population, one observation came up again and again: living in a remote Afghan village is a gruelling existence.

For the next two days we remained in the OP undetected. The days were stifling. The weather had shifted from the chill of our arrival in Afghanistan; nestled amongst the rocks, we found no solace from the sun's brutal rays. We were hoping to remain secure in our reconnaissance for at least 10 days before requiring resupply, and this could only be achieved by extreme rationing of our water supplies. Trying to survive on 800 millilitres per day when staying largely immobile and exposed to the elements left the patrol severely dehydrated.

Before long we were no longer able to urinate. Attempts to sleep did nothing to ease the torturous thirst. Our night
demons became water sprites and giant sprinklers running amok in the parched desert. There was no respite and even our daytime thoughts came to be dominated by visions of guzzling water. A couple of mouthfuls of our carefully rationed supply would provide moments of delightful relief. Who would have thought there were such pleasures in drinking hot water from a bottle that had spent hours baking in the sun?

Each patrol member had been tested many times before, in the ordeals of SAS selection if nowhere else, and as a group we were resilient, but there are no training manuals describing how to cope with the experience of severe thirst. In just days, our faces began to age and wrinkle as the water drained from our skin. We were left with a tired, creased appearance, our eyes glazed, like an elderly dog's. Coupled with a lack of proper sleep, it's fair to say that foot patrols in the mountains of Afghanistan were challenging.

But the hardship did not detract from our patrol's ability to observe and record information. Each man ignored the pain and covered his arc of responsibility as diligently as the day before. Thirst is one thing, but a rogue bullet ripping through one's stomach is another. Patrol security remains first and foremost even in the most uncomfortable circumstances.

Despite our thirst and massive loads, our patrol was looking forward to being on the move again. We were to advance several kilometres towards the Pakistan border. After last light we wound our way down from the position that had been our home for two long days. Walking down a mountain at night with over 60 kilograms on your back is even less fun than walking up it. Each man managed accidentally to create moments of amusement for the rest of the patrol by losing his footing and toppling a metre or two into an array of jagged rocks. We all became familiar with the unstable surface and its stony traps. The sporadic groans of bruised bodies would bring a smile to the faces of those who were still upright, but
the satisfaction was short-lived. Every man suffered the embarrassment of these painful stumbles.

Once at the bottom, we crept carefully along a river before finding a small stream of running water. This seemed too good to be true. After drinking our fill and replenishing our water supplies it was now time to ascend another mountain. With our freshly quenched thirst and swollen bellies sloshing with litres of cool water we felt unreasonably optimistic. How hard could it be? The slope didn't look too daunting from where we stood and Grant claimed that there was only 500 metres to go.

But looks can be deceiving. Grant's calculations didn't take into consideration the evil number of contour lines that might have given some clue of how ghastly the climb really was. Within 30 metres we were struggling: panting and heaving like a pack of hunting dogs. Another two hours had passed before we reached the summit. As I crouched at the top, letting my breath return and my heart rate slow once more, Kane approached me and shook my hand.

‘Well done, gangster,' he said. ‘That was one bad-ass climb.'

I grinned. ‘Thanks, bro,' I replied. ‘But why in the hell do you still look so bloody fresh?'

I thought I had coped well but in Kane I saw a man who had thrived on the challenge of the climb, in spite of its brutality. He was an excellent choice for lead scout, as he was composed, sharp and still able to operate.

Others in the patrol hadn't fared so well. During the climb there were several redistributions of stores as some of the guys were virtually unable to go on with the combination of their heavy loads and the severity of the climb. Our preparation back in Brisbane seemed painless in comparison. Those of us with a passion for training had pulled up okay, relieved to still be coherent and physically (and mentally) capable of facing any action. We knew we were in the badlands and
would rarely, if ever, get a clearer example of how our dedication to training back in Australia was connected to our own survival. Adrenaline will only carry a soldier so far. Maintaining a high level of fitness at all times was about more than obsessiveness and drive. Our lives depended on it.

Although some members of the patrol had struggled more than others, the hike had been lightened by hushed banter. At one point Grant seemed like he might pass out, only to pipe up and ask, ‘Do you think army pants make my bum look big?' I nearly laughed out loud.

Once atop the mountain, we established a piquet and changed out of our soaking wet clothes before drifting off to sleep. Sleep on patrol is cherished, and usually interrupted. We managed to grab three hours before the security piquet gently woke us just prior to first light. The disorientation and nausea associated with being woken for your turn on sentry is without doubt the lowest point of a patrol day. No-one gets excited about sentry duty, but there is no point in complaining – it is part and parcel of patrol security. It is better to suffer the burden of a little sleep deprivation than run the risk of a never-ending siesta, compliments of a lead sleeping pill fired into the side of your brain.

That morning it was essential that the OP be established before the villagers began to stir. We did not want any accidental detection this time around. Unfortunately, in an area so densely populated, Lady Luck didn't appear to be by our side. It was not long before the distinctive sound of goats could be heard coming in our direction. I looked up to see an elderly woman traversing the top of the mountain. She was dressed in a dark local dress but her face was completely exposed.