The street was unpaved and sunlight reflected blindingly from near white walls and a dusty roadway. The platoon advanced through the village in a series of short rushes by the foremost pair, followed closely by the others and watched by several small boys in dirty dish dashas who stalked them, giggling nervously, from a distance of twenty metres or so.
The patrolling soldiers were vigilant. The previous three weeks had been quiet, an unprecedented period. No IEDs, no explosive devices had been detected in their area during that time so that an attempt to take the lives of some of the garrison was imminently expected to demonstrate that the show of western power was cosmetic, their troops living precarious lives within fortifications and behind armoured skins of camouflaged vehicles. Every venture outside the fort was perilous. Every patrol was a foray into enemy territory, for the enemy would withdraw briefly to avoid contact and immediately resume their positions when the patrol returned to its heavily defended base. If the western soldiery attempted mastery during the day, the Taliban certainly ruled the night.
Soldiers moved swiftly from one vantage point to another. Men in desert battledress crouched in position to give covering fire. Hard daylight was filtered out by photo-chromic lenses. These reduced the contrast of glare and shadow to monochromes. The faces of the riflemen were dominated by the dark goggles, giving them an alien appearance.
Noel spoke to one of the two Afghan soldiers keeping close attendance as interpreters, “Mohammad, tell the bloody kids to bugger off. It’s not safe around here.”
The Afghan’s white teeth glinted and he called out to the boys in Pashto, “Take your bony little backsides back to your mothers. Here is not a safe place.”
The boys in grubby dish dashas retreated a few metres then resumed their dogging of the patrol, but crouching like the soldiers as if they were now certain of attack in the afternoon heat. There was over an hour to be spent in play before Maghrib prayer. The boys aped the soldiers, pretending to carry weapons and signalling to each other by waving their arms.
The platoon sergeant jabbed his finger upwards and Noel saw the drone flying a thousand feet above them. His eyes, hidden behind dark goggles, returned to the men fanned out in front of him. He had led only a handful of patrols before today and remembered his Sandhurst instructor dunning into him ‘listen to your sergeant, listen to your sergeant’. He knew of the men’s lack of confidence in the professionalism of American allies. There had been far too many ‘blue on blue’ deaths from American fire. Friendly troops and journalists had suffered badly. Attempts to downplay the cost of these incidents had not gone down well.
The soldiers continued to move steadily through dazzling light. Several were glancing uneasily at the drone circling high above. Two squaddies were immobilised, fixated upon the crucifix in the whitewashed blue of the sky.
“Keep your mind on the bloody job!” the sergeant shouted. “Never mind the UAV upstairs.” That’s queer, he thought, we were told there would be no aerial cover. He felt deep unease. “Keep moving forward!” he roared.
Noel looked around. All was quiet in restful monochrome. The squaddies now ignored the drone and renewed an interest in the village. Formations re-established, the platoon advanced in brief sprints once again.
Just then a door opened and a woman stepped into view. She was clad in a black burqa typical to adult females of the region, and carried an infant swaddled against the four o’clock sun. She shuffled towards a saloon car, the only vehicle in sight. The Afghan soldiers muttered in annoyance, the Pashto lost on Noel, and hurriedly approached the woman. The sergeant shouted again.
There was a stunning concussion and an ear splitting crash of explosion. Noel was blown backwards and landed heavily. For a few seconds he lay on his back, breath driven from his lungs, then struggled to his feet. His limbs functioned awkwardly. He took unsteady steps forward through a thick dust cloud, then stopped.
Voices penetrated an opaque yellow atmosphere and he realised that his light-filtering goggles had gone. His ears sang and he could barely make out each shout. He thought he heard someone call, “Are you okay, sir?”
“I’m okay,” Noel shouted into the yellow haze. He stood and felt himself shiver in the heat. He smelled burning petrol. The dust cloud glowed and began slowly to settle and reveal the scene. He shielded both eyes. They shrank from brilliant light as he peered ahead.
The doorway through which the woman had stepped had disappeared and there was a gaping hole in the perimeter wall and in the adobe wall of the house just a metre behind. The car was burning fiercely. Beside it, on the white road both Afghan soldiers lay dying, their protective armour unable to save them from the debris and anti-personnel fragmentation hurled by the blast. Mohammad levered himself up on one elbow, his bloodied face twisted in agony, and elevated his free arm to point accusingly at the sky. He held that posture for several seconds then slumped on his side. When Noel reached him he could detect no sign of life. The other Pashtun also appeared to have died.
The sergeant knelt beside the woman, her black burqa torn and saturated in blood. Her face was exposed and beautiful, her eyes wide. She seemed surprised. Noel walked over to the kneeling sergeant and stared down on the unmarked features of the dead woman. A blanket lay beside her. In it he saw a headless infant, its neck weakly spouting. He leaned away from the blanket and vomited.
Behind a singing in his ears, Noel was aware of soldiers continuing to shout to each other. He ignored them and retched painfully.
Four of the platoon entered the ruined house and emerged with bodies of two men, one elderly. The second was in prime manhood; husband of the dead woman? Her brother? In the strict Sunni code he would certainly be a close family member if not her husband.
Elsewhere, field dressings were being applied to several soldiers struck by debris. The sergeant was now standing watchfully, weapon covering the street. Others were kneeling, equally vigilant, with weapons raised. The dust had settled. Six bodies, one tiny, lay in a row.
Noel tightened his stomach muscles and the retching stopped. He looked behind. The young boys had disappeared. He squinted upwards. The sky above was white with heat and empty, except for a slowly twisting spiral of black smoke.
The village remained eerily quiet and the roadway deserted. No villager appeared as soldiers re-entered the shattered house, stumbling through a litter of debris, eyes blurred by fumes despite their covering goggles. As they searched, their comrades continued to kneel watchfully in dazzling light, weapons held across chests. The saloon car blazed.
Cold sweat broke on Noel’s forehead and a sense of detachment flowed through him as he stood in the late afternoon heat. His sergeant came to report. He spoke naturally, as though his officer had been in control of the situation throughout, “nobody else in the house, as far as I can tell, sir. But in this fucking shambles I can’t be sure. The two dead men are locals. The old one is covered in what looks like coffee.”
Noel wiped his eyes, silently cursing the loss of his goggles. His sergeant wondered if his officer was crying tears of emotion or simply clearing his vision, then realised his vision protection was missing. “Did you see that drone fire its missile?” Noel asked.
“I did. Hellfire missile I would say,” the sergeant said shortly. “Our two Afghanis have bought it, Mohammad and his mate. Whitaker and Kelly are walking wounded. Wilkins was unconscious for a time. He doesn’t seem to know what’s going on around him. Effects of blast.”
“Ok, let’s get them back, sergeant,” Noel said. “Better call a chopper.”
“It’s on its way. I called up the chopper, also requested support. Under your orders of course, sir. I made that clear.”
Noel looked at the sergeant, reminded that for many minutes after seeing the baby, while he had been violently sick, the sergeant had methodically been giving orders, maintaining discipline, keeping control.
“Thank you, sergeant. Damn it, I lost it for a bit. Seeing that baby…”
“That was a bad one. Poor old Mohammad. His father fought with the Mujahideen against the Russians, you know. Shapoor, the other poor bugger, was new.”
“I see you formed a defensive perimeter, sergeant,” Noel said, glancing around. “Christ Almighty, I really did lose it…”
The platoon repositioned around the house and the steadily burning car. They waited. Several local men, all elderly, appeared. They saw the dead in the street and began to rage loudly in Pashto. Noel stared, grim faced, uncomprehending.
Arrival of the helicopter was followed by a six-wheeled Mastiff with hull V-shaped to deflect blast, and the torn bodies were routinely checked for cause of death. A number of photographs of the dead men were taken, but none of the woman. Noel noticed and thought it strange. The baby’s head was not found.
The platoon returned to their fortress camp, Noel to immediately visit the Afghan colonel and personally relate the loss of his soldiers. He then met with more junior Afghan officers and relived the incident once again. The familiar discipline of barracks helped him maintain his composure. With adrenalin levels still high he returned to his air-conditioned quarters and wrote an official report of the patrol with a special addendum describing the drone strike. His sergeant’s eyewitness statement was then appended.
He reread and edited his report the following morning. At noon he called on the adjutant and formally submitted the document, with the sergeant’s account attached. His nightmares began that night.