No Worse Enemy (16 page)

‘He’s got something on his side, like something slung.’

‘A rifle?’

‘I don’t know, he’s leaving.’

‘There’s three people now.’

‘Man this sucks.’

Another group of marines looked in the opposite direction. ‘He’s looking awfully suspicious, just standing there looking at us.’ The men they were talking about were fewer than
two hundred metres away. They took a few steps towards us, then turned back and walked quickly away.

‘If they pop up and start firing, lay into ’em.’

I sat next to Doc Morrison, one of the corpsmen, or medics. He lay on his stomach with the men in his sights. He was chewing such a big lump of tobacco that his jaw looked broken. He spat out
some tobacco juice, looked at me and back at the men. In the distance we heard the dull thuds of exploding IEDs.

‘That’s three in the last ten minutes’, said one, ‘and it’s still early.’

Sergeant Black stood up to point out another group of men he’d seen moving around behind a wall. ‘They’re just doing their thing, you know? Being shit-heads. See where that
black cloud is at? There’s a wall. I guess one of them is just chilling behind the wall. Then there’s that tree line and they keep moving back and forth between there and that
wall.’

There were at least four groups of about five men each: one at either end of the road and two on the other side of the field in front. A few men drove around on scooters, some with passengers,
some carrying long objects wrapped in blankets. Another explosion sounded in the distance.

The rules of engagement meant the marines couldn’t fire on anyone unless they saw an undeniably hostile act being committed. General McChrystal had made the prevention of civilian
casualties the top priority, even if it meant the marines took more casualties themselves. He called it ‘courageous restraint’. The Taliban had already worked out how to use it to their
advantage, moving around without revealing weapons, mobile phones or radios. They knew that as long as it stayed that way, they wouldn’t be shot at. The marines knew they were watching a
perfect ambush being set and there was nothing they could do about it.

Hillis walked over to Sergeant Black. ‘You can see a lot of people over here.’

‘All they’re doing is probing our lines without shooting, to see how far we’re stretched out.’

A man on a scooter, carrying a propane tank, drove slowly towards us, then turned around.

‘They’re just trying to see how we’ll react to a suspicious vehicle. Who straps a fucking oxygen tank to a moped?’ asked Sergeant Black.

‘Someone that wants to go scuba diving, probably’, said Hillis.

Hillis and Black shared some chewing tobacco and made jokes about what the Taliban might be saying to each other, giving them redneck accents. I wondered what kind of a person thought this was a
situation normal enough to make jokes about. ‘I’m really not too thrilled about my feet’, said Sergeant Black, looking at his boots, which were just lumps of wet mud at the bottom
of his legs. Then he saw that mine weren’t as high as the marines’ and laughed. ‘Look at yours, you must be soaked.’

Hillis thought we were almost surrounded by at least forty Taliban fighters. Unless we walked back in the direction from which we had come, we would walk right into them whichever way we went.
Sergeant Black decided to take his men across the field. There, they’d have no cover at all, and would be completely surrounded.

‘Do you want some ass?’ said Hillis, offering some of his machine-gunners. Black said no, he wanted to leave them in the ditch.

Walking behind five other marines, I followed Doc Morrison into the field. I asked him what had happened to the advice we’d been given about not walking anywhere that hadn’t been
swept for IEDs. ‘I guess that don’t fly here’, he replied.

We weren’t fifty metres into the field when a burst of three shots crackled over our heads. Everyone fell to their knees and tried to work out where it had come from. Then came a much
longer burst of fire. We ran back to the ditch. Suddenly, dozens of bullets fizzed past us. I scrambled into the ditch and tumbled down towards the putrid stream; Doc Morrison screamed at the last
man left in the field to ‘get back’.

Bursts of gunfire came from all sides. Some bullets passed so close over Doc Morrison’s head that he ducked and slipped down into the ditch for a second. The firing filled the air above
us. Bullets hit the mud where we lay, so close that some marines flinched as they felt them. But they got straight back into position, trying to find something they could shoot at. I caught
glimpses of facial expressions, sometimes from great distances and only for fractions of a second. They were as vivid and readable as a photograph: terrified and confused, panicked and lost, making
me realise how bad the situation was.

For the first time in Afghanistan, I felt I was not on the strongest side and I’d finally pushed my luck too far. The feeling of fragility you get from so many bullets passing so close is
almost impossible to describe. Imagine a snowman in the rain, a spider in a toilet or a piece of bread floating along a river that has miles of falls and rocks ahead. I thought that there was
nothing I could do except lie down and wait for the bullets to enter my body. It seemed inevitable, and the way I accepted it made me wonder if I’d discovered I was a coward, after all. I
remember hoping meekly that I might wake up in a few days and see doctors. Then I imagined waking and looking at the feet of our attackers. A rocket whooshed over my shoulder and exploded against
the small wall that ran alongside the ditch, filling the air with dust and shrapnel.

‘AW FUCK, I’M HIT, I’M HIT’, screamed Morrison, next to me in the ditch. His right leg was covered in bright red blood that gushed from beneath his knee.

‘WHAT THE FUCK’, he moaned.

‘I’m hit too’, screamed the marine on the other side of me, holding the back of his left leg.

‘Am I bleeding?’ he asked, moving his hand away briefly.

‘No, you’re good’, I said, sounding calm for a second. I rolled on to my back, expecting to feel pain or a warm wet patch somewhere. The bullets clattered above us and the
screams around me seemed to be saying the same thing.
We don’t know where it’s coming from and we’re all going to die.

Sergeant Black ran along the bottom of the ditch towards Morrison.

‘Come here, come here, GET DOWN’, screamed Black. Morrison sat upright, groaning in pain.

‘Where you hit at?’

‘In my fucking leg, dude.’ He looked down at his right leg, still gushing bright red blood. He rolled backwards. ‘AAAAGH I’m hit, what the fuck?’

Someone else screamed he’d seen one of our attackers. ‘I GOT EYES ON, I GOT EYES ON.’

Sergeant Black got out a tourniquet and screamed at the other marines. ‘HEY WE NEED TO GET EYES UP AND START CLEARING THIS SHIT’, pointing to the top of the ditch. Bullets cracked
over our heads from all directions and another awful clatter broke right above us.

‘WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT COMING FROM?’ screamed a marine, just in front of me. They still weren’t shooting back, still didn’t know where the fire was coming from. One of
Hillis’s machine-gunners started firing but that only seemed to encourage the enemy. More bullets fizzed over us.

Sergeant Black put two tourniquets on Doc Morrison’s leg. ‘I got you bud, I got you’, he said, looking up to see what his men were doing. Morrison apologised. Black told him he
had nothing to apologise for. Bullets kept landing on the mud, chopping through the dry grass at the top of the ditch. Occasionally, one zipped past so crisply I was sure it was just inches away. I
imagined the first one entering me, then the second, then slowly fading away as the third, fourth and fifth sank in. Someone screamed at everyone to get their heads up and start firing back.

Slowly, the frantic movements and flinches, the panic and the confusion ebbed away. Marines started to fire steady bursts down the ditch or across the field. The marine next to me shouted
instructions and started firing single shots, slowly and methodically, just like Hillis had said grunts couldn’t do when things weren’t going to plan.

Soon, more fire came from the marines than from the Taliban. I thought I was witnessing a miracle; survival suddenly seemed possible. I swore that if I did survive, I’d never go out with
these guys again, and never come back to Helmand.

Three or four men ran across the road and hid in the buildings near us.

‘SHOOT ’EM’ screamed Black, still looking after Morrison.

‘START SHOOTING, MOTHERFUCKER’, yelled someone else. ‘We’re still taking fire from left and right.’

‘It’s from every direction, Staff Sergeant, every direction’, pleaded one marine.

Doc Morrison sat up and looked more annoyed than in pain. ‘Hey, call in some fucking air, man’, he shouted. Another burst cracked over the ditch.

Suddenly, a steady stream of bullets came right at us in the ditch. At least fifteen, each closer than the last. Next to me, Black and Morrison ducked. I pressed myself to the ground.
‘WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT COMING FROM?’ screamed Black.

‘CALL IN SOME FUCKING AIR’, screamed Morrison.

Everything went quiet. I heard someone shout: ‘I got his ass, he was right there on the fucking corner.’

Staff Sergeant Young, a short and stocky marine, walked towards us. He stopped to shout to some other marines that they still needed positive ID before they could shoot. He didn’t walk in
the stagnant water at the bottom of the ditch. He didn’t walk along the inside of the bank. He walked right along the top, in full view of whoever was shooting at us.

‘Have we stopped the bleeding yet?’ he asked, as he climbed down the ditch towards us, out of breath.

‘You need to get down bro, we’re taking fire from fucking three goddamn positions’, said Sergeant Black, smiling.

‘We’ll be alright’, said Staff Sergeant Young, still standing. He jumped over the stream and got down on one knee. He said that most of the fire was coming from the direction
he’d come from. Then a burst of fire from exactly the opposite direction almost hit us. Staff Sergeant Young stood up again.

‘Hey listen’, Black yelled, ‘get down there. The next time those fuckers open up, I want you to unload some rounds on them.’

Young, still standing, ordered some of his men to follow. He waved his right hand in the air so they could see where he was. The Taliban must have thought it was a trick; I can’t think of
any other reason why they didn’t shoot him.

Bullets came into the ditch, right next to where the four of us sat. The bursts of fire from the marines had no impact.

‘Come on guys, get a better view somehow’, shouted Young, assuming the other marines cared as little about the incoming bullets as he did.

Jets roared overhead but did nothing. Usually, by this stage, the horizon would be exploding, as millions of dollars’ worth of bombs and missiles were dropped on to every building from
where the Taliban had attacked. In the past, the mere presence of aircraft – the show of force – was enough to discourage the Taliban. Now, they didn’t seem to be the slightest
bit concerned about the incredible technology high above.

Another burst of gunfire slammed into the ditch. ‘GET TO THE TOP OF THE FUCKING BERM’, screamed Young, ‘I WANT A 203 [air grenade] LOBBED OUT ON THE NEXT ONE YOU FUCKING SEE.
YOU HEAR ME? GET A FUCKING SHOT OFF.’ He turned back to Morrison: ‘you’ll be alright.’ Young stood and looked through his rifle sights, then lifted Morrison and carried him
along the bottom of the ditch to an easier crossing point. Young jumped into the water and put his rifle on the bank, ready to lift Morrison across. Morrison, still apologising for being hit,
wanted to make his own way across the water, with his weapon. His bandaged right leg was soaked in blood and his trousers, rolled above the knee, were dark red. ‘I’m worried about you
getting an infection. Come on, this could be very serious here’, said Young. He and Black lifted Morrison over the water. MEDEVAC helicopters were on their way.

I looked around. Blood, leafless trees, a bumpy dirt road, dark brown mud and stagnant water at the bottom of a ditch. It could have been 1916.

Sergeant Black sat down to get his breath back. ‘Fucking bastards, man.’ I asked if the buildings nearest to us, not a hundred and fifty metres away from where the helicopters would
land, were clear. He laughed. ‘No.’

Hillis ran back. ‘Fuck me’, he said. He and Black exchanged glances. ‘Fuck me is right’, said Black. ‘You can’t fucking see dick, dude.’

Another marine said he saw someone’s head appearing over a wall. ‘Then shoot his ass’, shouted Hillis.

‘If he pops his head up, you rip one off’, said Black.

‘There’s one down over there’, said Hillis.

‘Dead?’ asked Black. He giggled when Hillis nodded yes.

‘I got him and the other guy that was running to the left. They started firing from that compound over there.’ He pointed across the field. ‘There was eight of them and they
were effective. There was no pangs or claps, it was all TSINNNGGGGG! TSINNNGGGGG!’ he said, imitating the sound of bullets fizzing past your ear.

Black and Hillis planned the defence of the MEDEVAC helicopters that would soon be landing to pick up Morrison. ‘That compound’s live as fuck right there Black, we need air on that
motherfucker right there’, said Hillis, pointing the building where he’d seen eight men. ‘Every time that moped stopped at the other end, he was dropping guys off and they ran in
there, that’s where they were flooded. There’s at least ten to twelve now. Altogether I’ve seen about forty.’

He pointed at buildings all around as he spoke. ‘It’s not just one guy spraying, like we’re used to. These guys actually know what they’re doing. They’re probably
foreign fighters.’

Hillis was frustrated that air strikes hadn’t been called. ‘They’re worried about collateral damage affecting the people. You don’t want to take out innocent people but
it’s a ghost town. You got just a few guys in one compound where you’ve been taking fire. Even if they’re not holding weapons that should be enough. Alleviate the problem.
What’s more important: your marines or the guys shooting at you and then laying a weapon down?’