Read Battleworn for Free Online

greater than the parts. Afghan men are proud of their individuality, and they mark it with the way they arrange their lungee (headwear) and shoulder their weapons. They have different methods, and we try to work around some of their less-practical drills by guiding them away from killing themselves through negligence or lack of education. We set off in a four-wagon convoy, past the hungry dogs, and out on to the pitch-black road that runs along the side of the canal next to the old school.
    I smoke a cigarette, trying to keep myself focused. An occasional smoker, I promise myself that I will quit tomorrow, remembering that I made the same promise on my last tour of Helmand when I was supporting 3rd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment (3 PARA), working long gruelling hours at the hospital in Camp Bastion. The medical facility was then one of the few permanent structures in a sprawling camp of blast blocks, T-walls, and razor wire carved out of the wilderness in what the locals call the ‘Desert of Death’. Our surgeons, nurses, and the National Health Service (NHS) volunteers were pioneering new techniques and saving more lives than ever, as the insurgency gathered pace back in the summer of 2006. Two years later, it is hard to see any progress in Afghanistan, and in some cases we are moving backwards.
    The moon is high tonight, offering a fair degree of light to outline the tall vegetation running alongside the canal. Ten minutes pass, and we’re at the HLZ. The drivers kill the engines.
    I step out of the vehicle, wondering which way the helicopter is going to land. Is the doctor going to come off? Do they want the casualties on head or feet first? Medics are always worrying and listing problems, hoping for the best and expecting the worst. My eyes are strained from looking through the NVG for so long. I should know to blink more often.
    ‘Helo inbound!’ Monty relays communications as he joins me.
    Through the shadows I can see Abbie kneeling by her casualty. I get eyes on the Chinook’s glimmering rotor blades. I hear the sound, the familiar whomph, whomph , the chug of the big engines.
    The Chinook is an essential piece of kit for any war fighting army, and I never stop being surprised that we have so few of them. Cylums (or chemical lights) illuminate the ground. The blokes grab for the stretcher handles. The helicopter hovers above as it slows before settling down, the blades whipping up a storm. Wincing as the grainy sand and grit scratches my exposed lower back, I realise an instant too late that I have forgotten to tuck my shirt in.
    The Chinook doesn’t hang around. We load up our injured, opting for head first. The team receiving nod their heads before giving a thumbs up as I hand over the paperwork. It’s all done in less than thirty seconds, and the four injured Afghan soldiers are whisked away, back to the trauma unit in Camp Bastion.
    Standing next to Monty, I put my thoughts into words. ‘I should have asked if they were carrying any spare stretchers.’
    His brow crinkles. ‘Yeah, we are going to need them.’
    I turn to face him. ‘Yeah, right. We’ll be back in Lash tomorrow.’
    He looks like he knows something that I don’t. ‘We’re going to be stuck here for a wee while yet, mate,’ he says.
    The move back to the district centre of Nad-e Ali has everyone on edge. Using the same routes in and out of any hostile area makes our call sign vulnerable to an enemy ambush.
    Rubbing my hand across my lower back now, I feel the raw open grazes that were a gift of my inability to tuck my shirt in during the casualty extraction. It’s a minor injury, but as my Osprey body armour gets to work on it, the pain is ever present. I return to the task.
    The move back goes by without incident. We roll into the old school, which by now is bathed in light only from the high moon. I catch a quick word with Monty before the remainder of us push on to the police station in the district centre.
    ‘Stay safe,