Letters From War – What is a “Normal” Life?

By Don Harward.

You know, sometimes, life can be normal—even when it isn’t; let me explain. While getting ready for a mission one morning, I was in the shower trying to rinse off the sleep just like millions of people do every day all across the world. While trying to figure out which bottle was the shampoo and which one was the soap—a simple task, which 52 years of showering experience has not made any easier—I heard what I thought was Scotty banging into the thin wall that separated his room from mine. I thought he must have rolled over in his sleep and bashed his arm or his head against the wall; he’s a big boy!

Then about five seconds later, the building shook a second time. Hmmm—not Scotty rolling around, after all. That was when I realised it was the shock from a rocket shell exploding somewhere close by. Those had been rockets one and two—and they almost always came in pairs. I glanced out of the smallish window in my shower towards the parking lot. There, I saw Pete—a large-framed ex-South African Special Forces medic—standing in the back of our Ford F250 pick-up truck. He was looking towards the runway and the revetments where the Army parked some of its helicopters. That was an area that the Taliban gunners had “zeroed in” on (as much as it is possible to “zero in” an unguided rocket) during the previous summer.

Because those Taliban gunners had themselves been “zeroed in” upon last summer by some specialists with long-range rifles, and had long since departed this planet for paradise, we had pretty much all but forgotten those frequent attacks on our aircraft. Thankfully, the latest Taliban rocketeers appeared to have inherited the aiming skills of their deceased predecessors. They got lucky with one of their shots causing a little damage to one aircraft but nothing more.

One of our weapons mechanics had been walking back from the mess hall at the time and was pretty close to the impact site when the rocket hit. He had been strolling along when he heard the whizzing sound of the inbound rocket. He commented that it got a lot louder very quickly, so he hit the dirt. It was a good thing, as shrapnel landed all around him when it exploded.

As I was towelling off after my shower, the phone rang; it was my lovely wife. We chatted about the normal stuff, as we do on many mornings (her evenings). “How’s your day going dear?” “Well, we’ve just had a rocket attack. The battles are still going on in the Hellmand—and I forgot to make the Visa payment; could you check on that for me?” “Oh, OK. Well, I’m tired and it’s late. I was just missing you, so have a good day. Love you. Bye.” Do you see what I mean? This was completely “normal” to me. It’s strange how we adapt to all sorts of situations.

Gunfights and Helicopters

A couple of weeks later, I was enjoying a much-needed day off, and it had started off great. I had slept in until being woken by the sound of our aircraft taking off on a support mission at around 0800. I got out of bed, suited up for my morning run and departed. Later, as I was cooling down and thinking of the warm cup of coffee that awaited me, I strolled past the Operations trailer on the way back to my room. I heard a lot of radio traffic coming from the building, so I stuck my head in to see what all the chat was about. Jeff, who was on duty, and Jim were listening to the high frequency radio; I asked them what was up. Jeff, an ex Special Forces aviator who gets calm when he’s serious, said—calmly—“The ground guys have been hit and our guys are currently engaged.”

Man, it always comes just like that. One minute you’re thinking about drinking a cup of coffee; the next microsecond you’re switching gears and getting your game face on. “How bad?” I asked. Jeff replied that two of our aircraft had been hit.

Knowing what was surely coming next, I walked straight out to our remaining helicopter and pre-flighted it in about five minutes. Then I headed back to my room, put on my flight suit and returned to operations where again I listened to the radio traffic; we were getting hammered! The Taliban were firing small arms and RPGs at the aircraft and the ground guys and getting lots of hits on both. This was shaping up to be a very bad day. Jeff and Jim both told me to stand by to launch.

It is not normally allowed—and is not tactically sound—to launch a single aircraft. With no mutual support, you stand little chance if you’re unfortunate enough to get shot down. So to launch that bird would be considered a high-risk mission. The military evaluates each mission according to many different and complicated criteria, and assesses it as low-, medium- or high-risk. Low- and medium-risk missions may be approved locally, but to launch a high-risk mission required the permission of the US Ambassador or his designated representative.

That process was moving forward and we felt certain we were going to launch—it was just a matter of time. Outside, the mechanics were busy preparing our aircraft as a gunship, although not in a typical gunship configuration. Just moments before, it had been what we call a slick—a helicopter with nothing at all on board; it now had had a multi-barrelled mini-gun on the right side and a (single-barrelled) M240 machine gun on the left. Because we only had one gunner instead of the usual two, he would have to strap in with a “pig tail” harness and move from side to side as necessary.

Listening to the radio was surreal. I heard Dennis say, “Taking heavy—and I mean heavy—good fire from the tree line.” Then Fox 29 (“Foxtrot 29”, the ground element commander) called that he had casualties and requested medevac. That meant our CSAR (combat search and rescue) bird would have to land in the middle of all that mess to pick up the wounded. While Fox 29 was transmitting, we could hear the sounds of bullets smashing into his truck all around him.

And then all hell started to break loose. The tide of the battle definitely began shifting to the Taliban. They shot two more of our people and quickly destroyed several of our vehicles. Panic started to set in amongst the friendly Afghan forces on the ground. They tried to drive across a river to get out of the “kill zone”. As they did, the vehicles began sinking in the mud and were getting hit, forcing their occupants to swim for their lives under fire! Meanwhile, the convoy that was trying to get out of the battle area ran into an ambush from three sides. They took a casualty right away and got pinned down.

There was only one gunship on the mission and it was pretty busy. It was getting shot again and again, and I realised we might soon be looking at another “Mogadishu”. I felt it wouldn’t be long before we had birds shot down, and whenever that happens, the battle always goes into overdrive. I’m sure there must be some psychological reason why the bad guys think it is “better” to shoot down an aircraft than to get a ground soldier or a vehicle but I can’t understand why. I had seen it happen time and time again, and I could see it happening again. Jeff was trying to hasten the launch approval process because he could also see what was coming.

Dennis took fire again as he made another pass to try and identify the enemy who had mixed themselves in with the locals. The Taliban were wearing burqas (Muslim women’s headdress) to disguise themselves, which was making things extremely difficult for Dennis’s gunners to pick their targets.

Things were steadily getting worse. Mike and I were squirming in our seats in our desire to get there and help as we heard that another 15–20 heavily armed men were crossing the river. Finally, we got the approval to launch and we were off the ground within ten minutes.

After taking off, we tuned in to the battle frequency and listened. Two of our birds were down at a nearby base with battle damaged that rendered them unflyable. The only remaining bird was unarmed except for its crew’s personal weapons. That left us as the only remaining gun bird available—and we were twenty minutes away. Mike, who was flying our bird, pushed it to Vne (velocity never to exceed).

As the guys on the ground escaped—abandoning their vehicles and heading for high ground—the Taliban allowed them to go; after all, they had won the day. By the time we were halfway there, the fighting had stopped and what was left of the convoy had finally driven out. The wounded were in the nearby Dutch trauma hospital, thanks to our aircraft and medics, and our guys were licking their wounds.

Earlier in the fight, well before things had got out of control, Fox 29 had called for the QRF (quick reaction force), which is a highly mobile, combat-heavy force that can be quickly deployed for just such an occasion. The QRF in Tarin Kwot, where the fight took place, was Dutch—you know, the people with the wooden shoes, windmills, dykes and Amsterdam. They are the force that the ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) had placed there.

The American philosophy in Afghanistan is to call on the Taliban to disarm and cease activities. When they refuse, we destroy them. This philosophy is simple, to the point and effective—and believe me, they understand it very well. However, at that time, the Dutch philosophy regarding the Taliban was to make them irrelevant. It might read well—like something one might hear in philosophy or political science class in college—but in the real world, it simply doesn’t work.

The Taliban take advantage of their “irrelevant” status to rearm, reequip, retrain and fortify. As a result, they had gained strength in the Tarin Kwot area again to the point where they had boldly placed checkpoints on the roads, and terrorised local farmers and merchants! The Taliban just loved this cosy arrangement with the Dutch and seldom harassed them. Therefore, activity around Tarin Kwot had decreased to the point where it appeared rather peaceful. If it were up to me, I’d send two brigades of the 101st Airborne in there for about two weeks of sport shooting—but that’s just me.

The Dutch are not warriors and they never did manage to launch the “quick” reaction force to come to our aid. However, while we were flying toward the battle area as fast as we could, the Dutch eventually launched two Apache helicopters, which climbed to several thousand feet over the area. From this altitude, the only things they could see were our vehicles still stuck in the shallow river—which they promptly turned into beer can sized parts with a couple of Hellfire missiles. Good job, boys! (Note to Ford Motor Company: your trucks are no match for Hellfire missiles!)

Another memorable participant from that fight was John (last name deleted), whom we had nicknamed “New Guy”, as he had only been in Afghanistan for a month or two by the time of this fight and was one of the “newest” pilots flying with us.

John was the AMC (air mission commander) on that day, which made him the man in charge. He did well, considering his inexperience, and although his aircraft were getting hit and the guys on the ground were taking casualties, he maintained a cool head. He kept it all going and, at the end of the day, we had suffered no fatalities, thanks—in part—to his decision-making abilities. (John later earned himself a second nickname, which is a rare treat indeed. Not long after his first fight, he was again the AMC on another mission. Just like the earlier occasion, he was providing convoy coverage, when—once again—the convoy got hit and people were shot. As a result of his apparent attraction for enemy fire and metal projectiles, “New Guy” became known as “Magnet Ass”.)

We were soon approaching the bowl in which Tarin Kwot sits from the south. We knew exactly where the fight had taken place, but as we came up through the last pass, it looked peaceful and strangely beautiful. As we flew over a wadi, I looked down and saw a man holding an AK-47 assault rifle, staring up at us as we passed overhead. I got the distinct feeling that he must have had enough for one day and there wasn’t any fight left in him. There was no doubt that Taliban would have taken some casualties when our gunners had returned fire, as there is simply nowhere to hide from the fifty bullets a second dispensed by those heinous mini guns!

With the battle over, we swung wide to the east to avoid the area completely. All three of our other aircraft were on the ground in the FOB (forward operating base) a couple of miles away. For us, there would be no fight, but that is just fine with me. I have no love for the fight and I had every intention of fulfilling the promise I had made to my wife to come home safely.

As we reached the FOB, the damaged aircraft sat with their cowlings open while the crews inspected the battle damage. What I saw and photographed was unbelievable. The gunship had been hit numerous times. The main rotor system had one huge bullet hole right through one of its control rods, while another bullet had hit the rotor blade pitch horn and still another had penetrated one of the blades near the main spar. There was even a bullet entry hole in the roof of the helicopter, which says something about the bank angles the pilot must have been flying! The auxiliary fuel tank had been hit and the thick power cable to the right mini-gun had been severed by a bullet. A bullet had passed through the armoured floor and through a roll of duct tape lying right next to the gunner, while another passed through a piece of the aircraft structure only a few inches from his head. The pilot’s seat had been hit, as had the aircraft’s nose. A bullet or piece of shrapnel had pierced the gunner’s body armour, and some electrical wiring had been severed.

The CSAR bird had a single bullet pass through its tail boom. That same bullet then passed right through the tail rotor control tube, almost severing it completely. Thankfully, the machines stayed together long enough for their crews to get them on the ground in a safe area!

So it was for all of us on that busy morning in southern Afghanistan—just another “normal” day. We all lived to tell the story and fight another day.