Warrior Brothers (15 page)

I have never been a gun nut. In all honesty, firing a weapon has never really excited me. During my time in the SAS, I spent countless hours improving my marksmanship skills not because it gave me great enjoyment but because, as a soldier, they were skills that could well save my life. I also hated not being the best at something. The hard work did pay dividends, and although I usually struggled to outshoot Kane, which wasn't through a lack of trying, my time on the range firing tens of thousands of rounds into targets was to prove invaluable in combat.

I vividly recall the first time I fired a weapon. At the time I had no concern for the furry little rabbit that I planned to blow away. I was more consumed with the awareness that to miss from a range of less than 10 metres would be somewhat embarrassing. I was 17 and accompanying my girlfriend (now wife) to a family property in New South Wales. My brother-in-law Ian, a man 16 years my senior, had asked me to go shooting. I said yes and I'm sure I appeared genuinely enthused, but after 30 minutes of driving around the scrub in a beat-up four-wheel drive looking for vermin, I was getting pretty bored. Just as the sounds of outback radio drove me to within an inch of insanity, Ian spotted a rabbit.

Thank fuck for that
, I thought. Not because I lusted over sending that furry little bastard to the big warren in the sky, but because it was an opportunity for me to escape the heat of the car and the monotony of that music.

I grabbed the rifle, and although Ian told me to fire a shot through the open window, I jumped out of the car. After much fumbling around I managed to cock the weapon, a bolt-action rifle, and slide a round into the chamber.

I first moved to the other side of the car, where I could rest my elbows on the bonnet. Although this provided me with a stable platform to fire from, I reckoned that the additional three metres would severely erode my chances of success. So I moved to the front of the vehicle, pulled the rifle up to my shoulder, held my breath, and attempted to line up the target with my front and rear sights.

After a minute or two of stuffing around I was perplexed – why wasn't I able to maintain my sights on the rabbit? I wasn't frightened but for some reason my rifle was shaking wildly. I didn't realise that my Hulk-like strangling of the weapon was the cause of my unsteadiness. I decided that I must be too far away so I crept several metres closer. It's fair to say that Bugs was an excellent sport for not running away. I was now only about five metres and one trigger-pull away from glory, but I still had trouble locking on to the target.

The longer I waited, the more pressure I put on myself to make the shot, the tighter I squeezed the weapon and the more my sights rocked and rolled. I decided to steady myself against a tree, although it was another metre or two further away.

After several minutes a voice bellowed at me from the vehicle: ‘Just shoot the thing! Are you waiting for the bastard to run away?'

Fearing failure, I gritted my teeth, snarled and snatched the shot. The firing pin sprung forward, striking the percussion cap on the base of the round, which in turn ignited the propellant behind the bullet. The bullet accelerated as it rotated to the right and spiralled out of the barrel, gaining momentum. The round cut through the air and hit the dusty earth moments before the rabbit would have heard the shot.

Flinching from the recoil and sound of the weapon, it was a moment before I opened my eyes and scanned the scene ahead
nervously for success. There was none. To my complete and utter horror, I saw the rabbit darting through the bush while a roar of laughter crash-tackled me from behind. I could make no reply.

I uncocked the rifle and got back in the car. Ian was one of the most patient and laid-back guys in the world. I'm sure that his heart only beats because it is an involuntary action that he cannot control. Sporting a smirk that made me furious, he asked if I was ready to head back to the house. My reply was characteristic: ‘We are going to stay out here until I learn to shoot straight.'

Ian gave me a few tips and allowed me to stand on the rear tray as we searched for rabbits and kangaroos. The roos were in abundance and had taken a fancy to the crops, so Ian was happy for me to have a crack at them. I didn't care about the crops; I didn't care about the roos either. All I gave a damn about was restoring my pride.

And then my chance came. A large red roo stood proudly at the base of a small hill. I listened to Ian's instructions carefully before propping my elbows on the roof and aligning my sights. This time I felt steady and pulled the trigger with a greater level of determination and confidence. The bullet burst out of the weapon and struck the roo in the middle of the chest with a tremendous thud. Not content with this, I nailed another two roos that afternoon.

Later that night I reflected on the fact that I had killed three animals. It didn't sit well. The roos were destroying the livelihood of the local farmers, so I had no problems with pulling the trigger, but to kill for fun made no sense to me. I'd rather go for a surf.

Many years later, in the final weeks prior to our deployment to Afghanistan, our troop was carrying out a live-fire practice on a rifle range outside Brisbane. We had completed several live-fire serials when a large kangaroo hopped onto the range. At a range of 150 metres, we were initially excited to have a live target, so half a dozen of us began to fire at the fleeing
marsupial. I saw rounds striking the ground around the animal before it bounded onto the road and fell. Then it limped into the bush.

A sick feeling enveloped my stomach. I halted the range practice and ran down the road, where I followed the blood trail for 30 metres into the bush. At last I came across the wounded animal. The kangaroo's left paw was shattered and it had also been shot through the right thigh. Without hesitating, I approached the animal, lowered my rifle and shot it in the head.

While walking out of the bush I met Kane, who asked if I had put the roo out of its misery. I nodded. He could see how much it unsettled me, and I felt the need to explain: ‘Hey, bro – two minutes ago that roo was very much alive and now it's dead. Its life was ended for no good reason at all.'

Kane agreed. ‘What's the point in killing something that can't fight back?'

At that moment I made a decision that, unless a situation demanded it, I would never shoot an animal again. Engaging enemy troops in combat was one thing. I'd reflected about the death of the Timorese militiaman, but I wouldn't hesitate to go out and do the same thing again. I've thought long and hard about why this is so. Why does the slaying of an animal disturb me, yet taking an adversary's life, a human life, affects me less?

In the end, it comes down to choices. The enemy combatant has made his own choices. The kangaroo and the rabbit have not. If I were to take a bullet on the hills of Afghanistan, far from home and those I love, it'd be because of a choice I made.

We had a couple of options for how to proceed as a smaller patrol. We could head back down the mountain towards the border and spend another fruitless day in a creek before continuing on our way the following evening. Alternatively, we could stay where we were and locate a position from which to observe the nearby villages. None of us had forgotten the two armed men we had seen several days previously. Keeping an eye out for them seemed like it might be a better use of our time.

There were only two hours of darkness remaining, so we decided to gain some altitude and see if anything was going on in this area. Our party of five moved onto the forward slope and located an adequate OP position in the middle of a cluster of small palms and bushes. We collected additional vegetation to provide us with a greater depth of cover. Having established the OP by first light, those of us who were not required were able to grab some much-needed rest. Our decision to stay put was to pay dividends, and quickly.

At 07:50 I identified four armed men standing at an intersection on the track below. They were too low to observe with the swift-zoom but it was not long before they began moving along the track. From the OP we could use the optics and examine the four suspects closely. One of the men was of athletic build, square-jawed and possibly an Arab. He stood
with his shoulders pulled back, oozing confidence as he brandished his RPD 7.62-millimetre machine gun and 150-round drum magazine. He was an impressive individual, dressed in brown fatigues and a Russian-style webbing vest – a far cry from the average lean Afghani farmers we had been observing. The other three men were armed with AK-47 assault rifles and were also wearing webbing vests. There was no time to report the information back to base as the men were heading along a track that wound its way back towards the border.

The Boss quickly commanded Grant, the patrol sniper, to initiate contact. I was to follow with my Para Minimi – a 5.56-millimetre light machine gun with a high rate of fire and 150-round pouch attached. The patrol M4 assault rifles –5.56-millimetre modular rifle system – would supplement the attack, despite the fact that they would be far less effective due to the distances involved. While Grant was moving into position, I took the time to lightly oil the bolt of the machine gun to decrease the risk of the weapon jamming.

Kane, aided by a laser range-finder, reported the distance of the targets to us at regular intervals. Tension was beginning to build. In a sense, this was ‘the calm before the storm'. The hard treks of the previous days had affected the accuracy of Grant's sniper rifle, so caution and preparation were vital. As Kane gave the enemy's last range as 740 metres, Grant checked his breathing and squeezed off a round in the direction of our intended targets. It missed.

The four men turned around just as I released a 15-round burst from my Para Minimi. The rounds thumped slightly low and left of the enemy but flicked up into the man carrying the RPD machine gun, who staggered and fell backwards near a small palm tree. The enemy were on the crest of a small rise and quickly disappeared from view. Within seconds bullets were being returned from the thickets to the right side of the track. Grant began to adjust his fall of shot while I plunged 10- to 15-round bursts into the area.

With that, the sleepy, seemingly innocent valley was awake and boiling with aggression. The Boss was dynamic and quickly moved to establish the tactical satellite communications to report the incident and request air support. We were all very, very aware that a rapid-reaction force would take at least two hours to reach our position. I continued to pour long bursts of automatic fire into the crest of the small knoll 700 metres in front of us. There was now little chance of hitting anyone, but this strategy meant that the enemy would be unable to return fire.

I don't recall the enemy RPD machine gun kicking into life, and the roar of our weapons reverberating through the valley and bouncing back up the mountain made it impossible to be certain. Within minutes, however, we began to receive increasingly accurate fire from three separate locations. Grant concentrated on the initial contact site and managed to successfully adjust his fire and subdue another combatant atop a small knoll to the right of the initial contact location.

I scanned the terrain with a pair of binoculars and fired the odd burst of automatic fire. We were taking fire not just from these guys on the track, but also from a small village to our direct front. I was focusing on the initial contact area and on a couple of huts to our left. But there was also movement further along the ridge to my extreme left. Two men would pop up and yell directions to those down the hill. But I couldn't identify any weapons, so I had to treat the men as non-combatants. This is the etiquette of warfare.

We all had our targets, agreed on instinctively: the Boss remained calm and was attempting to source air support; Grant was hitting the knoll; Kane covered the village to the right; K-man covered our rear. We found that one of the fighting tactics in this area was to send unarmed men to vector in enemy fire, which meant our left flank was vulnerable.

I was having trouble observing both the ridgeline and the hostile village. My body was completely exposed and while I
concentrated on the village to my front, I was half-expecting a round to kick into my ribs from the two jokers to my left. For now there was nothing I could do about it other than sit it out and keep firing.

Kane noticed my vulnerability and took up a fire position behind me so he could maintain a visual on the left ridgeline. He was now in an exposed position and could have been killed for his troubles. I knew I liked this guy for a good reason. There were some worried faces amongst the patrol, but not from him. He was sporting a larger-than-life smile while chewing a piece of gum. In a brief lull in the firefight, he sent me a wink that said,
I got your back covered, bro. You nail those fuckers in the village
. Kane was with me: he was calm and even jovial, but more than anything else he was there by my side regardless of the outcome. I turned my eyes and weapon back to the village.

The enemy fire was generally high, cracking above our heads. The odd enemy round began to make things a little more exciting – at times they landed only metres from us. A round thumped into the ground near Kane. Incoming fire from three directions intensified; the Boss was now in contact with the squadron HQ and had requested air support. He had not been under enemy fire before, but I remember looking at his face while he calmly passed on our grid coordinates to a close-support aircraft. I doubt his heart rate even broke 100 beats per minute.

Our left flank was still exposed and it was time to seek cover. We were outnumbered and it was only a matter of time before a lucky enemy bullet found its mark. The patrol carefully covered each man and pulled back in pairs to a position that offered cover from fire and view. The incoming rounds didn't abate, but we weren't overly concerned as we had the benefits of high ground, superior weapons and training. The locals had the advantage of knowing the terrain, and their numbers were beginning to swell. Even so, we decided to find a defendable location and fight it out.

We moved into dead ground – a position that could not be observed by the enemy – and Kane and I cleared higher ground 120 metres further up the mountain. We crept up with weapons ready and fingers poised. With squinted eyes, we carefully scanned the high ground. We knew that if the ground to our front was occupied, we would have no choice but to take it by force. Securing the top of the feature was vital. Kane and I worked as a team and trusted each other. The thought that we or the rest of the patrol could be taken down in this hazardous situation simply did not arise.

Once we had secured the crest, the Boss, Grant and K-man made their way to join us and establish all-round defence. I positioned the Para Minimi to cover the slope that led to the contact area, Grant and his sniper rifle lay further to the rear of the mountain where targets of greater distance might present themselves, the Boss coordinated air support from the middle of the position, and the two remaining patrol members, Kane and K-man, were allocated arcs of responsibility on the opposite side of the feature. Enemy fire could still be heard but we were well-positioned and ready to face anything.

The VM troop was only five kilometres away from our location and could hear the gunfire echoing through the valleys. One patrol commander commented that the rate of fire sounded like an SAS patrol in contact, and the VM call-signs established radio communications and identified that we were. The VM troop wasted no time and bounced their vehicles along the potholed tracks to reach our position in less than 75 minutes.

By this time all firing had ceased and we began to descend towards the VM troop under the cover of the two F18s carrying out low passes – an impressive deterrent. Five men in the middle of the badlands can be pretty light-on in the event that something goes wrong. The arrival of a full complement of eager VM operators eased the tension considerably.

We were relieved to see the boys on the track below, but we'd never admit it and still claim that we only called in the VM support so they could ‘pick up our brass' – referring to the empty brass cartridges left behind at the completion of a practice session on the firing range. The VM troop actually damaged one of their beloved vehicles in their haste to lend support. Many of the guys were involved in a similar situation two years earlier during the early stages of the East Timor deployment. There were striking similarities and the ribbing began almost immediately: ‘We're tired of bailing you guys out of the shit!'

Despite the banter, we were all aware of the gravity of the situation and recognised that the military language we used – terms like ‘subdue' and ‘contact' – was designed to draw attention away from the intensity of our situation. There was little doubt that we had left several of our antagonists dead on the mountain behind us.

But in a situation like this, the taking of a life is nothing personal. There is no joy or celebration, no anger or hatred. It is a neutral feeling. Few of us have been in an incident where we felt happy about what had to be done. The simple fact is that two sides, due to whatever circumstances, are pitted against each other and the fight is one of survival. It is about instinct. The fight stays on the field. They were doing their job. And we were trying to do ours.

We were two groups of men who may have been more similar than we realised. We were all soldiers who were fighting alongside our mates, and both sides were determined to end up on the winning team. To lose this game was to lose the gift of life. Sure, we were relieved to have come out unscathed, but we were still charged with adrenaline. Reflection would come later.

The US military command told us that two companies of the US 10th Mountain Division were being dispatched in five Chinook helicopters, and that a clearance of the surrounding
villages would be carried out. We were to secure the landing zones and hand over responsibility to the US commander on the ground. It was several hours before the Americans began to arrive, and it took at least another two hours before the search commenced.

The VM troop maintained security of the east–west track while our patrol tagged along with the mountain division, which was searching two of the villages. A series of tunnels leading into the mountains was found underneath several stone huts close to our previous OP position. The Americans decided that the most effective way to ensure they were clear was to toss in a couple of grenades. Two ammunition caches were found containing 80 boxes of 50-calibre ammunition, mortar rounds, grenades, landmines, detonators and rifles. The contact area was examined almost seven hours after the initial event. Traces of blood were found but all the dwellings were empty. Funny that. A track disappearing towards the Pakistan border was the likely escape route. The enemy were either watching the search from afar or were already long gone.

The VM troop departed in the late hours of the afternoon and our patrol returned to Bagram Airbase with the American soldiers. The air passing through the helicopter was crisp and seemed to cut deep into our souls. With the adrenaline gone, we began to feel the effects of the previous 11 days. Our heads were still filled with the recent events but, for now, we pushed those thoughts aside and relaxed. A sense of calm swept over our patrol as we dozed on the two-hour return flight to the airbase.

Upon arrival, things appeared no different than before. It was hard to think it had been almost a fortnight. Aircraft were taking off and landing, support crews were busy unloading pallets of stores, and soldiers from an array of nations were strolling along the primary dusty track, Disney Parade. What we'd just been through was nothing special – just part of
operations in Afghanistan. Today it was our turn, tomorrow it would be someone else.

Yet the thrill we had felt during the action – the hit of adrenaline – was unforgettable, something that some of us would hunger for over years to come. Is it normal to want to experience this again? I have no bloodlust or desire to take life. The very thought sickens me, but to be tested in battle, to experience the rush of combat and the fight to stay alive, is addictive. How much is too much? That's difficult to know. Every man seems to have a unique threshold for this kind of action. But one thing was clear: our work in Afghanistan was far from over.