"I owe you a beer, bro."
One of the first things I noticed about Afghanistan was the terrain; in particular the numerous mountain chains which loomed over the populated areas like silent sentries. There was a permanent air of austere beauty within the barren mountains. They sat in defiance against the summer sun and winds, which baked the lowlands and swept them with the detritus which blew up from dusty settlements. In the winter they adorned themselves with the shiny white coats only the tallest peaks shivered under during the warmer months. I chuckled quietly to myself as I drank in the sharp clean air sitting atop one of those large, dark precipices which overlooked a dank valley below me. It seemed one hell of a contrast: the pretty shores of Auckland and a Taliban controlled sliver of Afghanistan thousands of miles away.
"Hell of a view, eh, Smithie?" a bearded and bushy haired face poking its' way towards me whispered. I nodded my reply as he crept closer to my position and noticed him carefully carrying a mug of tea, which steamed softly in the crisp morning air.
"Cheers, bro." I whispered as he handed it to me.
"No worries, mate." he replied with a grin and lift of the eyebrows.
It was customary amongst New Zealanders, and Australians, to refer to each other as mate. The "bro" reference was common amongst the indigenous Maori people in New Zealand, but the courtesy was afforded to us white-boys too, in their presence. Once we got to know each other, we white-boys could flick the moniker back. Sonny, my Maori colleague, nodded in the direction of a small village which was isolated in the bottom of the valley. I shook my head, sipped my tea and quietly filled him in on the last few hours, as signs of life ricocheted as echoes out of the village and off the mountain walls.
Sheltering in the leeward side of a group of seriously steep hills, we'd set up shop in a strong defendable position which also afforded a quick exit if the proverbial hit the fan. I looked behind me to where the rest of the patrol was lying up. It was an unusual nine man team on this occasion. There were five of us Kiwi's, including an SAS officer who was in overall charge of the patrol, three American Navy SEALS and a CIA spook who was along to visual ID a Taliban big-wig we'd been tracking. By all accounts the big-wig was a nasty individual who enjoyed bullying and threatening the local inhabitants and a key player in the region. He remained allusive and our chance to snag him, or slot him, in the mountain passes had missed us.
Blasting our way into the village was out of the question during daylight and would undoubtedly result in significant civilian casualties not to mention our own. We were a fairway off the beaten path and support was currently a way off, increasing the risk factor. Like so many operations in the NZSAS, we found ourselves in situ, patiently watching and waiting from afar. The decision for now was to wait until the Americans decided what the next step in the process was to be - as long as the patrol commander thought that was in our best interests - and gather as much intel' we could without compromising our position.
I snuck back down the hill side and approached "The Boss" who was having a serious and quiet conversation with the CIA man over a "cuppa" (cup of tea). As the 2ic in the patrol, The Boss had no qualms in seeking my opinion. His decision would stand regardless, but different perspectives were always sought and we mused over the problem. The British Royal Marines were on standby to help us out and were the only group to have made contact with the village elders. It was always difficult to determine whether the village was loyal to the Taliban or to the NATO forces who promised them assistance. Hearts and minds campaigns took time and even with the best intentions, it was often found that local Afghans remained loyal to whoever seemed to possess the most sway in the region. Given the early stages of the relationship and the strength of the Taliban in the area, it could only be assumed that the village was basically hostile. Nailing the Taliban big-wig could be a major coup to our cause, but if we obliterate the village in a fire fight or an airstrike, we'd loose all credibility in the area.
Discussion centered on the possibility of sending the Royal Marines in again to reconnect with the villagers and perhaps flush out the big-wig. However, as the CIA man, whom one of my fellow Kiwi's had nicknamed "Bushy", due to the rather large eyebrows he possessed, rightly pointed out that this could lead to an ambush for the Marines and still lose our target. The Taliban were exceptionally crafty and with the superior eyes in the skies NATO possessed, tended to travel in small groups, and generally at night, when moving VIP's around. Thus, there may be less than ten Taliban in the village or there may be a small hive dug in out of sight within the village walls. Prudence dictated we hole-up and see for the time being, and wait until nightfall before trying to surround the village with additional support from the Marines. It was while we were discussing the permutations of this plan that a signal from Sonny quickly had all of us on high alert. Communicating though hand signals it seemed the Taliban were attempting to surround us. The village must have contained a small hive we guessed and we'd inadvertently stirred up the hornets nest.
It was always impressive how snoozing and dozing men on a patrol like this turned on the turpentine and moved like lightning when situations demanded action. There was a friendly rivalry between Special Forces groups from different countries, since it was such an exclusive club and measuring yourself against other groups was always good for the ego. However, when put together the professionalism was a force to be reckoned with and we pulled together on this occasion - lives depended on it after all. A quick appraisal of the situation revealed that a group of Taliban fighters were snaking their way up to higher ground on the ridges to our left and above our position. The fact they were being so brazen was not necessarily an indication they were unaware of our position. Even in daylight, if they had the numbers stacked in their favor, they could be as bold as brass and although we couldn't see them yet, it was likely a similar group was making their way up on our right somewhere. It was a simple pincer movement, but highly effective if performed successfully somehow we'd walked into a trap.
The tactics in this case would be classic Taliban: to mortar and RPG us into oblivion. Rather fortunately we'd gotten the heads up. In the village, there was considerable activity as well and Sonny had informed me a vehicle had only moments earlier arrived with several more armed men. It was deemed that the only course of action was to hoof it off the hill range and beat a path to safety. An emergency call for an immediate evac' was placed and the SEAL's had volunteered to re-scout the preplanned escape and evasion route. With little time to spare we packed our kit, ditching anything non-essential, and began moving off the hill range through the passes and then back to a pre-established rendezvous.
We broke the patrol into two four man teams in this instance, although the SEALS were responsible for their CIA man if things turned sour. The first team, containing the SEALS, went on ahead, carving out a path to ensure we weren't running into yet another trap. The rest of us covered the rear and we'd already left a few nasty surprises in our former lying up position to assist in our escape. If things really got bad, we could break into two man teams and hopefully disappear into the hills to reteam up at the rendezvous.
We'd been making good progress since we were all keen to escape the impending mortar barrage that could come if we dilly-dallied around from the encircling Taliban behind us. A burst of machine gun fire from Stevo's minimi alerted us to a contact up ahead. The four of us covering the rear quickly caught up with the front group who were now in a fully fledged fire fight with what could only be a group of Taliban intent on cutting off our escape route. The SEALS, Stevo and Bushy, had taken cover amongst an outcrop of rocks along the route and we had the elevation advantage against the ambush. An RPG round mercifully swished harmlessly overhead, thumping heavily into an unoccupied part of the hill side and well away from us. It became apparent that the ambush was ill-conceived and hurried.
We would be able to outflank the Taliban who, despite superior numbers, were not prepared for the fire power we carried and our determination to bust through them. The real threat was still behind us. If we got delayed engaging the threat to the front, the Taliban mortars would pounce on us from behind and make life exceedingly uncomfortable.
"Corporal, get on the blower and call in an air strike on that mortar position!" The Boss yelled at me. The black hawk coming in to get us would no doubt have some additional air support given the seriousness of our compromise. I was hoping for A10's which really are just amazing firepower on wings, but in these situations one couldn't be fussy. I scrambled to make the call and estimated the position of the mortar in relation to our current position. The front four were doing an excellent job of engaging our forward threat with a high rate of very accurate, withering fire.
Wing-nut and Serpent had scythed their way around to the side to outflank the forward threat and lend additional firepower while I was on the phone to a forward aerial controller patching in numbers. Kiwi's are quick to make up nick-names for each other. Wing-nut obviously had these rather sticky out ears and Serpent earned his nick-name after a hilarious incident with some sort of boa in Australia some years back. We were working on names for our American SEAL friends, for now they were known by their given names, with a splash of Kiwi modification. Mark, or "Macca" as we called him, alerted us to the fact that the Taliban were running. This was good news as the mortar barrage we were expecting had begun south of our position, with a few range finding lobs probing our path down the hillside. It was definitely time to move.
The whole contact had only lasted perhaps half an hour, but it was enough time for the pursuing Taliban to quickly set up their mortar. It wasn't until we had moved through the forward contact positions and the sound of jets overhead and an approaching black hawk did we feel some relief. The sound of the jets - F16's from the USAF this time - put a stop to the mortar rounds almost immediately. The ensuing explosion from a well placed air-to-ground missile finished off anyone who'd loitered behind in the mortar position. The lull allowed us to have a quick look at the kill zone from our contact with the ambushers, should it reveal any information about our attackers.
Amongst the seven or eight bodies was something rather disturbing. One of the bodies was blind folded and plasti-cuffed. It was clear the group were transporting somebody; tragically that someone was likely killed in our crossfire. It was a sobering issue for us in this insidious war: innocents in the line of fire. Bushy arrived on the scene and clapped eyes on our find. It seemed he recognized our blind folded body. Tearing off the blind fold he swore in a cough of anger and disappointment. The boy was not of Arab decent.
"Crap. Sorry, guys." he exclaimed. "He's one of ours." He was visibly angered and gritted his teeth through a thick beard. It was his stuff up.
We looked at the body of the young man at our feet, his body still soft and warm, bathed in blood and dust. He wasn't more than eighteen years old we guessed. Bushy pulled up one of his sleeves and fresh wounds painted savagely on the skin of his arm told the story of recent torture. It was obvious Bushy's Afghan contact had compromised us and Bushy confirmed he was the son of one of the elders in the village. He had personally made contact with him and the informant had given us good intelligence on our "big-wig."
It was a sober ride home in the black hawk. It would be difficult to hand the body of the boy over to his family, riddled with fresh torture wounds, our bullets and cuff marks burned on his wrists. Through bad luck the whole operation had turned to custard and we were lucky to walk away with out lives - so many people in this complicated war did not. The frustration etched itself on all of our faces. I looked at the mountains; their stark beauty remained untouched by our petty dispute. I wondered if they recorded the centuries of war that raged and echoed in the valleys of this ancient country, patiently waiting for us to retreat permanently like so many campaigns before us.
I looked across at Sonny who was sitting to my left his shoulder rubbing against mine. I nudged him with my elbow; he turned his dust peppered face to me and raised his sunglasses to see me more clearly, his eyebrows settled under his hair.
"I owe you a beer when we get back, bro." I yelled over the noise of the black hawks engines.
"Sweet as, bro." he smiled quietly, dropped the sunglasses back onto his nose and like all of us, disappeared back into his thoughts.