Warrior Brothers (20 page)

Even the most daring members of the patrol were apprehensive about the latest variation to our task. Something didn't feel right. But there was no point wasting time. We were acutely aware that we had one hell of a stomp before us. There was no need to check our maps or GPS. The mammoth shadow of the mountain to the north-west was more than identifiable. We knew it was potentially dangerous, as it dominated the area and could have accommodated dozens of armed men in defensive positions covering all the major approach routes.

We decided to scale a less obvious section of the mountain – in all likelihood a much safer route, but agonisingly steep. We donned our packs but, to begin with, didn't really notice the weight due to the adrenaline that was already pumping through our bodies. We headed into the darkness, not knowing who or what was ahead.

We walked for about a kilometre before we came to a significant
wadi
with banks at least eight metres high. This was a dangerous descent. We established a sentry and attempted to locate a suitable location from which to drop into the dry riverbed. We balanced our way down the precarious, jagged banks and each man passed his pack down to the man on the rock ledge below. Our heart rates had increased significantly with the effort and we had still not yet
entered the
wadi
, let alone scale the bank on the other side or tackle the mountain.

Waiting for my turn to cross the
wadi
was torturous. I covered Grant across the open area as an annoying rock ground into my right knee. This did, however, take my mind off my aching shoulders, which were being squeezed lifeless by the straps of my pack. Increasing the burden on one shoulder by elevating it above the other provided some relief, but this game of shrugs was really a short-term fix. The shoulder that was burdened with the extra weight would quickly begin to numb and circulation to the corresponding arm would be restricted.

After a tense and careful crossing we located an appropriate spot to scale the opposite bank. Kane secured the top while the remaining patrol members assisted one another up the bank. While our arms and legs quivered from the strain, climbing up was actually a little easier than climbing down, and within five minutes we were perched atop the
wadi
, ready to assault the mountain.

Distantly in the east, we heard the distinctive sound of a large-calibre machine gun. The deep-thudding slow rate of fire indicated it was probably a 14.5-millimetre DSHK. The enemy were also known to have 82-millimetre mortars and 107-millimetre rockets. Since the firing was not directed at us, we began the murderous climb.

Movement was difficult from the outset, as the severity of the gradient was physically exacting and the knowledge that any moment could reveal an enemy with weapon poised heightened the mental anxiety. We had constant reminders that this was a formidable force we were facing, not a ragtag group of dissidents. At one point, we walked directly into a well-organised, but thankfully empty, defensive position. It was secured with overhead protection – serious fighting bays designed to protect the occupants from indirect fire and air attack.

Several members of our troop had been in numerous engagements, but the level of anxiety on that climb was greater than any we'd experienced before. Our nerves were as strained as our bodies as we heaved and pushed our way up the mountain.

We were wearing NVGs, which require an enormous amount of concentration as your depth perception is severely limited. The NVGs were attached to our lightweight helmets, a far more comfortable configuration than the classic face bracket, but the old problem of sweaty steam and goggles reared its ugly head again. Our eyes stung but we wiped them clear and continued to scan for movement, light or anything resembling a human figure. Our ears were also straining, like those of a guard dog that has been startled in the middle of the night. With each step our anxiety rose. We approached another false crest, and this time climbed directly into a second defensive position that was large enough to accommodate an entire platoon. Thankfully, it was also empty.

With aching backs and tense minds, we were now close to the summit. We decided to get our heads down and find a suitable spot for an OP before the sun rose, which was just over four hours away. In the military, sleep is obviously over-rated, so we threw in a bleary-eyed 80-minute piquet to enjoy. An enemy defensive position was as safe a place as any to spend the night. We had spent the best part of five hours walking, so wasted no time in readying ourselves for bed. A sleeping bag nestled into the side of a rocky slope felt near enough to luxury. We were happy to grab sleep anywhere, but not before changing out of our soaking-wet military fatigues.

In the end, it was a fraught sleep anyway, interrupted by the whooshing sound of a 107-millimetre rocket being fired across the valley. We established communications with our vehicles and, after receiving the all-clear, passed out under the glow of a starlit night. I lay awake for a while, waiting for
sleep to take me. Looking into the sky, we could have been anywhere. We might as well, I realised with a disoriented start, have been camping back in Australia. Only the absence of the Southern Cross provided the reminder of the reality – that we were lying on the side of a mountain, trying to grab a few hours sleep without being shot, in the rugged terrain that was Eastern Afghanistan.

Too soon it was ‘nudge, nudge' time. Being woken for your turn on piquet after being asleep for less than an hour is almost cruel, but the piquet list is rotated – everyone shares the most unpleasant shifts. We got moving quickly, and just before first light our recon patrol crested the feature. There, at the top of the mountain, we found a comprehensive bunker system that was clearly designed to accommodate up to 30 men, with crawl-trenches and overhead protection. There was no doubt that whoever put in this amount of effort knew what they were doing.

With this added incentive, we moved onto the forward slope of the feature and found a suitable location for our new OP – a thinly wooded re-entrant, from which we could easily observe the villages and defensive positions to our front.

Our nerves were still strained, and we remained silent and focused while we prepared our new home. The sense of misgiving about our task was palpable; our stomachs swung between feeling knotted one moment and fluttering the next as we waited for dawn to break. The vehicle-mounted patrol had now departed for Khost and we were once again isolated in a volatile region of Afghanistan, utterly in charge of our own destinies.

We were a small contingent, so our security was closely tied to our ability to remain concealed. Support was anywhere from two to four hours away, if we were lucky. Noise and movement-discipline were emphatically
maintained. We were all too aware that this was a long time for a small band of six to be in contact, especially if the patrol began to suffer casualties.

Life in the Regiment isn't always so serious. Although a gas mask may hide a grin, it has also been the subject of many practical jokes over the years. On one training exercise our team was kitted up in our assault vehicles waiting for Buzz to give the orders for an emergency action (EA) assault to take place. The exercise involved the use of CS gas – tear gas – so a mask was imperative, unless you wanted to become a dribbling wreck halfway through the assault.

I was Buzz's driver. While he stood in front of the troop vehicles, I took the filter off his gas mask and hid it in the glove box. Buzz came racing back to the car with his trademark grin, yelling, ‘Let's go, tool!' He feverishly fitted his gas mask, followed by earmuffs and helmet.

Our vehicles were soon roaring towards the target. As we drove, Buzz placed his hand over his filter as part of the standard confirmatory check to ensure he had a seal. He froze in his seat when he noticed he was lacking that one crucial piece of equipment. Without it he would lose all credibility, running out of the stronghold in tears.

I couldn't conceal my joy and was almost in hysterics as I tried to control the vehicle, which was screaming around the bend on the way to the target building. I regained my composure and, with full concentration, I steered the vehicle – with the three assaulters standing on the back – around the sweeping left-hander while also shouting ‘glove box' to my very pissed-off team leader.

Buzz frantically tried to screw on his filter. He cursed me, but I was again having difficulty concentrating, unable to suppress a series of debilitating belly laughs. Mr Cool was in a somewhat flustered state as the vehicle came to an abrupt stop. Our team blew in a window before scaling a ladder and launching into the first floor, but Buzz was the second-last man up the ladder, a position that he was not familiar with. He kept this little incident in his memory bank.

In another assault Buzz ordered that there would be no CS gas, and so team Z3 had taken the soft option and decided to go in with Oakley facemasks rather than the vision-restricting gas masks. Our team, Z1, were playing enemy and decided to teach Z3 a lesson by taking in a shotgun filled with CS gas.

I heard Z3 make entry so I pumped three or four CS rounds into the room I was hiding in. It wasn't long before two members of the assault team entered, and the sound of them choking on the gas, as cruel as it sounds in retrospect, was hilarious to our entire team. The Z3 assaulters lost all composure and ran for the exit.

I sprang out of hiding and shot the two fleeing men in the arse with paint rounds that would often draw blood if they hit exposed skin. The two men would be sporting a couple of cherries on their tender bum cheeks for the next few days.

Needless to say, they had their revenge. The team grabbed their gas masks before re-entering the stronghold. They located the individual who had caused them so much embarrassment and managed to shoot me several dozen times from a range that was probably well below the minimum safety distance for training purposes. I had bleeding fingers and split skin all over my arms, shoulders and thighs.

Later that evening, I groaned as the hot water of the shower touched my welting skin. A member of Z3 just laughed and asked if I thought it had been worth it. I was in no doubt. ‘Absolutely!'

Nearer to our deployment in Afghanistan, our troop commander (the Boss) managed to secure the boys a ride on the training fighter aircraft – a PC9. These were like little sports cars and were capable of pulling over four Gs.

I approached the pilots before we left and told them that they looked like a ‘bunch of pussies'. They were shocked at first, but then looked at each other with a smile. I am no mind-reader but I had no trouble working out that they were going to make me pay for such frivolous comments. This was all the motivation these pilots needed to make an SAS guy vomit.

The flight began violently. Even on take-off the pilot was throwing the high-performance machine to the left and right. As we gained altitude, he threw the aircraft into some serious aerobatics. I was now regretting my little taunt but the bravado continued, although with a little less conviction.

The pilot held the aircraft in a continuous loop-the-loop which seemed to last an eternity.
Shit
, I thought, as the sickening feeling that had taken control of my stomach moved upward. The pilot pulled back hard on the joystick until alarm bells began to signal – the aircraft stalled and then plummeted back towards the earth in a death roll that a saltwater crocodile would have been proud of.

The aircraft spiralled no fewer than seven times before being pulled back into the sky for another round of gut-wrenching torture. I was now totally over being a smart-arse and realised that a hugely embarrassing moment, a violent vomit, was only minutes away. I did everything I could not to vomit inside my oxygen mask as the pilot threw the trainer into a valley. The contours were the last thing my screaming, heaving stomach was craving.

The pilot asked me a series of questions before holding the aircraft in a four-G turn. I was unable to speak. The G-suit contracted around my thighs, squeezing the blood back up towards my torso and brain. I looked briefly at the ejection handle and contemplated how much trouble I would get in if I just bailed out of this sickening ride, but I just tensed my stomach and held on.

I was massively relieved when the pilot allowed me to take control of the aircraft, which gave me some much-needed recovery time. The pilot encouraged me to perform a few aerobatics – with his guidance, of course – but I had no intention of doing anything but flying with as little sideways and up-and-down movement as possible.

The pilot soon realised what I was doing and took control of the aircraft for another sickening set of aeros. As we finally approached the runway to land, I ripped off my oxygen mask and began dry-retching. The vomit entered my mouth but I forced it back down into my stomach. I simply refused to give the pilot the satisfaction of knowing that he had won.

At last the trainer touched the ground – not a moment too soon, as far as I was concerned. The pilot wasted no time in searching for some evidence of weakness, and my pale face showed a man who was clearly defeated.

‘You'll pay for that,' I spluttered as I stumbled out of the aircraft.

It wasn't long before I had my revenge. That afternoon, the SAS soldiers took the pilots for some pistol training and I had Mr Top Gun in my sights – not literally! My pilot was actually a natural and easily outperformed his colleagues. He was hyper-competitive and winning was everything to him.

I decided to run a shooting competition, a prospect about which he was orgasmically excited. This was a chance for him to outshine his peers. Little did he know that I was setting him up for a dramatic fall from grace. The course required the pilots to fit their gas masks and helmets, run 100 metres, then load their pistols and shoot at a target. Each missed round would result in a two-second penalty.

Top Gun was confident that he would destroy his less coordinated peers. He'd had no trouble in nailing the bullseye during the practice. Having recovered from my near-death experience at his hands earlier in the day, I wanted revenge. I inserted a little piece of cloth inside the filter of his gas mask. When I tested it, the lack of suction did not appear sufficient, so
I inserted another piece of cloth. I had now severely restricted the amount of air that could be inhaled through his mask.

The men were lined up and Top Gun began to struggle from the outset. He had never worn a gas mask before, so thought that his difficulty in breathing was normal. With each breath the gas mask was sucked hard against his face and his eyes looked like they were going to be sucked from their sockets. I tried to contain my glee.

His colleagues were off and running while he was gasping for air and yelling, ‘I can't breathe! I can't breathe!' As the pilots ran, Top Gun slid further and further behind the group. His peers had reached the firing point and released all of their rounds before he had even completed the run. When he attempted to fire his weapon he couldn't land a single round on the target – he had lost all composure and appeared to be entering an oxygen-depleted panic.

He was horrified by his pathetic performance, while all of his mates were in hysterics. Top Gun was shattered, with his confidence left somewhere around the 100-metre circuit.

As the pilots unloaded their weapons, I unscrewed Top Gun's filter in front of the group, before apologising to him that I might have ‘accidentally' left a couple of pieces of cloth in the filter. Top Gun was distraught that he didn't get the chance to show off his shooting prowess. We both had a good laugh and considered our little battle a draw.