From boil-in-the-bag food to scorpions which can kill a person in 14 minutes - The Sun tells of the hardships the British face in Afghanistan....
The Sun takes on the Taliban
Lawless outpost ... British soldiers fighting the Taliban in the Afghan town of Sangin in Helmand province
Pictures: ANDY BUSH
Report NICK FRANCIS
in Sangin, Helmand province
October 09, 2006
THE Afghan town of Sangin is the most dangerous of all postings for a British soldier. The lawless outpost in Helmand province is the bloodiest and most disputed of the Taliban strongholds.
Our Boys have drawn more fire there than anywhere else – sometimes finding themselves pinned down for weeks without supplies.
Exactly five years after British Forces arrived in Afghanistan, The Sun flew to the front line to witness the conflict first hand.
Frontline ... British soldiers unload equipment from a Chinook as part of the operation in Sangin
MORTARS fizz through the air and thunder into the Taliban stronghold.
The entire valley shudders with the impact as rocket after rocket find their target with deadly accuracy.
They slam into the walls of a house in the 26,000-strong town in front of me.
Soon, all that can be seen of the rebel hideout is a plume of heavy black smoke.
Map ... Sangin, Afghanistan
I watch from atop the crumbling rooftop of our battle-scarred villa among the sandbags and the bleached out bricks and mortar.
I am just a half-hour journey by Chinook helicopter from Britain’s Camp Bastion, home to 2,000 troops. But here, in the centre of one of the hottest battle spots in the world and surrounded by countryside where 90 per cent of the world’s heroin is produced, I am in no-man’s land. The outgoing mortar fire arcs over the platoon house and the rubble-strewn town to strike a rebel stronghold just 800 yards away.
Around me, the Parachute Regiment are a blur of movement. At the same time, on the ground sweeping over the town, are troops from the Paras and Royal Irish Regiment.
Alongside snipers and machine gunners on the platoon house, I watch the operation unfold in undisguised awe.
I’ve been in Sangin just an hour.
The Paras — some of them earning as little as £14,000 a year — have begun the “rip” — the process of moving out of their post and handing it over to the Royal Marines.
After six months of hard fighting they are going home. But not before one last operation.
The objective is to secure the town and eliminate any hostile forces. This will enable the RAF Chinook helicopters to fly in and extract the troops from the platoon house — the rambling residence that is the troops’ foothold in this town. Without this action to create a seal of troops around the town, the large, heavy incoming Chinooks would be easy targets for Taliban rockets.
Action ... a British Scimitar tank leaves Sangin platoon house to give fire support to troops engaged in heavy fighting outside the base
Hovering above it all, only just visible in the fierce sunshine, are two Apache gunship helicopters providing air support, ready to swoop in and unleash their fury on enemy targets on the ground.
They circle the scene like a pair of sharks waiting to strike — wheeling slowly above, graceful but deadly. Platoon houses are Afghan government-owned buildings, found in a number of towns across Helmand.
They were taken over by the Taliban, and British troops intervened at the request of the government. They have since become the focal point for most of the fighting in the war-torn country.
Sangin is the most violent of them all.
Bombed out and ramshackle, the platoon house here hardly looks worth fighting for.
Troops sleep on the floor of what were once the living quarters of the governor’s mansion, being careful to store their boots off the ground at night — Afghanistan is home to all manner of creepy crawlies including a breed of scorpion which can kill in 14 minutes and has a penchant for climbing into soldiers’ boots during the night.
Food is supplied in ration packs and is mostly in boil-in-the bag form, cooked in a tin cup over a disposable stove.
The roof of the platoon house has been made the observation point and transformed into a grid of “sangers” — lookout posts made of sandbags — to protect the big guns and snipers.
It is under constant fire from the Taliban and, as dawn breaks, bullets and rockets are beginning to come in thick and fast.
Making sure I don’t do anything stupid — like get shot — is Sergeant Major Todd Wilcocks.
A deadly serious and war-hardened man, Sergeant Major Wilcocks is the sort of guy you want nearby when the Taliban start getting frisky.
He says: “Those mortar boys are amazing. They can hit their target spot-on every time.
“When you consider the mortars are called in by the troops on the ground to take out an enemy right in front of them, that’s massive trust in each other.”
The town is fast becoming a sea of smoke as both sides on the ground wage war. Taliban mortars are getting closer and closer to the roof and everyone is getting nervous.
A sharp burst of gunfire suddenly peppers the sandbags in front of us, followed by a deafening bang which shakes the building. Three more bangs follow straight away, sending me sprawling to the ground.
Under pressure ... British fire on an enemy position metres from Sangin platoon house during an intense fire fight
These are Taliban rockets.
Rubble rains as gunfire snaps overhead. The problem with close-range machine-gun rounds is that you have no warning.
A bullet travels faster than the speed of sound, so you hear the crack of it flying over your head before you hear the bang of the gun.
That’s if it misses, of course.
“That was enemy small arms fire and probably at least three RPGs,” explains Sgt Major Wilcocks. “Keep your head well down if you don’t want it blown off. I told you it would be choppy today.”
The rocket-propelled grenades had slammed into the wall just below a sanger, five feet away to my left, and had coated me in rubble dust. In response to the attack, the radio team urgently calls in the Apaches. “Now you’ll see something,” says a young Royal Marine manning a rocket launcher. The ground beneath my feet vibrates as the Apache’s chain guns tear into their target.
The entire building comes apart before my eyes, as if it was made of paper. Moments later the spent shells from the Apache’s guns start to fall out of the sky on to the compound, raining hot metal. The gunners were by now in full flow and had opened up furiously in the direction of the rebels. The ground shuddered as the cannons spewed out empty cartridges.
The whole area stinks of gunpowder and underfoot is a carpet of brass shells. Artillery from another British base down the road has started to pound known Taliban locations, which means the time for the Chinooks to fly in and retrieve the Paras is getting close.
Sergeant Major Mick Bolton joins me as I crouch behind a sandbag. “Just this morning Terry did that with an RPG.” He points to a hole in the wall big enough to climb through. Suddenly the sandbag doesn’t feel very safe.
“Terry is what we call the enemy, by the way,” he says, grinning. “Terry Taliban.” By now the rebel guns have fallen silent. You can distinguish between both sides’ guns as the Taliban’s AK47s have a higher pitched sound than the British rifle. The troops on the ground are arriving back at the compound and have grouped, ready to be evacuated.
The Marines were in and the Paras were ready to come out. They had done their job.
In the dash to the chopper, Sergeant Major Wilcocks grabs me and points to a wall in the compound courtyard. In black paint was the Parachute Regiment’s cap badge, a pair of wings. Beneath it were the names of lads who had lost their lives at Sangin. “We mourn our dead when it happens, but we carry on and get the job done,” the Sgt Major tells me.
“Then when we get home we’ll mourn our dead again. That’s the way of the Parachute Regiment. Let’s go.” We make it into the Chinooks just in time.
“Some last op, hey?” says one soldier, his face drenched in sweat. Off the chopper at Bastion, I’m on my way to my tent for a cup of sweet tea and an aspirin when someone grabs my shoulder. It is Sgt Major Wilcocks.
“One last thing. Will I get an MIS after all this?” he says.
“A what?” I ask. Yet more military jargon to get my head around.
“A Mention In The Sun.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Mega,” he says, walking off.
That was the first time I saw him smile.
thesun.co.uk
The Sun takes on the Taliban
Lawless outpost ... British soldiers fighting the Taliban in the Afghan town of Sangin in Helmand province
Pictures: ANDY BUSH
in Sangin, Helmand province
October 09, 2006
THE Afghan town of Sangin is the most dangerous of all postings for a British soldier. The lawless outpost in Helmand province is the bloodiest and most disputed of the Taliban strongholds.
Our Boys have drawn more fire there than anywhere else – sometimes finding themselves pinned down for weeks without supplies.
Exactly five years after British Forces arrived in Afghanistan, The Sun flew to the front line to witness the conflict first hand.
Frontline ... British soldiers unload equipment from a Chinook as part of the operation in Sangin
MORTARS fizz through the air and thunder into the Taliban stronghold.
The entire valley shudders with the impact as rocket after rocket find their target with deadly accuracy.
They slam into the walls of a house in the 26,000-strong town in front of me.
Soon, all that can be seen of the rebel hideout is a plume of heavy black smoke.
Map ... Sangin, Afghanistan
I watch from atop the crumbling rooftop of our battle-scarred villa among the sandbags and the bleached out bricks and mortar.
I am just a half-hour journey by Chinook helicopter from Britain’s Camp Bastion, home to 2,000 troops. But here, in the centre of one of the hottest battle spots in the world and surrounded by countryside where 90 per cent of the world’s heroin is produced, I am in no-man’s land. The outgoing mortar fire arcs over the platoon house and the rubble-strewn town to strike a rebel stronghold just 800 yards away.
Around me, the Parachute Regiment are a blur of movement. At the same time, on the ground sweeping over the town, are troops from the Paras and Royal Irish Regiment.
Alongside snipers and machine gunners on the platoon house, I watch the operation unfold in undisguised awe.
I’ve been in Sangin just an hour.
The Paras — some of them earning as little as £14,000 a year — have begun the “rip” — the process of moving out of their post and handing it over to the Royal Marines.
After six months of hard fighting they are going home. But not before one last operation.
The objective is to secure the town and eliminate any hostile forces. This will enable the RAF Chinook helicopters to fly in and extract the troops from the platoon house — the rambling residence that is the troops’ foothold in this town. Without this action to create a seal of troops around the town, the large, heavy incoming Chinooks would be easy targets for Taliban rockets.
Hovering above it all, only just visible in the fierce sunshine, are two Apache gunship helicopters providing air support, ready to swoop in and unleash their fury on enemy targets on the ground.
They circle the scene like a pair of sharks waiting to strike — wheeling slowly above, graceful but deadly. Platoon houses are Afghan government-owned buildings, found in a number of towns across Helmand.
They were taken over by the Taliban, and British troops intervened at the request of the government. They have since become the focal point for most of the fighting in the war-torn country.
Sangin is the most violent of them all.
Bombed out and ramshackle, the platoon house here hardly looks worth fighting for.
Troops sleep on the floor of what were once the living quarters of the governor’s mansion, being careful to store their boots off the ground at night — Afghanistan is home to all manner of creepy crawlies including a breed of scorpion which can kill in 14 minutes and has a penchant for climbing into soldiers’ boots during the night.
Food is supplied in ration packs and is mostly in boil-in-the bag form, cooked in a tin cup over a disposable stove.
The roof of the platoon house has been made the observation point and transformed into a grid of “sangers” — lookout posts made of sandbags — to protect the big guns and snipers.
It is under constant fire from the Taliban and, as dawn breaks, bullets and rockets are beginning to come in thick and fast.
Making sure I don’t do anything stupid — like get shot — is Sergeant Major Todd Wilcocks.
A deadly serious and war-hardened man, Sergeant Major Wilcocks is the sort of guy you want nearby when the Taliban start getting frisky.
He says: “Those mortar boys are amazing. They can hit their target spot-on every time.
“When you consider the mortars are called in by the troops on the ground to take out an enemy right in front of them, that’s massive trust in each other.”
The town is fast becoming a sea of smoke as both sides on the ground wage war. Taliban mortars are getting closer and closer to the roof and everyone is getting nervous.
A sharp burst of gunfire suddenly peppers the sandbags in front of us, followed by a deafening bang which shakes the building. Three more bangs follow straight away, sending me sprawling to the ground.
Under pressure ... British fire on an enemy position metres from Sangin platoon house during an intense fire fight
These are Taliban rockets.
Rubble rains as gunfire snaps overhead. The problem with close-range machine-gun rounds is that you have no warning.
A bullet travels faster than the speed of sound, so you hear the crack of it flying over your head before you hear the bang of the gun.
That’s if it misses, of course.
“That was enemy small arms fire and probably at least three RPGs,” explains Sgt Major Wilcocks. “Keep your head well down if you don’t want it blown off. I told you it would be choppy today.”
The rocket-propelled grenades had slammed into the wall just below a sanger, five feet away to my left, and had coated me in rubble dust. In response to the attack, the radio team urgently calls in the Apaches. “Now you’ll see something,” says a young Royal Marine manning a rocket launcher. The ground beneath my feet vibrates as the Apache’s chain guns tear into their target.
The entire building comes apart before my eyes, as if it was made of paper. Moments later the spent shells from the Apache’s guns start to fall out of the sky on to the compound, raining hot metal. The gunners were by now in full flow and had opened up furiously in the direction of the rebels. The ground shuddered as the cannons spewed out empty cartridges.
The whole area stinks of gunpowder and underfoot is a carpet of brass shells. Artillery from another British base down the road has started to pound known Taliban locations, which means the time for the Chinooks to fly in and retrieve the Paras is getting close.
Sergeant Major Mick Bolton joins me as I crouch behind a sandbag. “Just this morning Terry did that with an RPG.” He points to a hole in the wall big enough to climb through. Suddenly the sandbag doesn’t feel very safe.
“Terry is what we call the enemy, by the way,” he says, grinning. “Terry Taliban.” By now the rebel guns have fallen silent. You can distinguish between both sides’ guns as the Taliban’s AK47s have a higher pitched sound than the British rifle. The troops on the ground are arriving back at the compound and have grouped, ready to be evacuated.
The Marines were in and the Paras were ready to come out. They had done their job.
In the dash to the chopper, Sergeant Major Wilcocks grabs me and points to a wall in the compound courtyard. In black paint was the Parachute Regiment’s cap badge, a pair of wings. Beneath it were the names of lads who had lost their lives at Sangin. “We mourn our dead when it happens, but we carry on and get the job done,” the Sgt Major tells me.
“Then when we get home we’ll mourn our dead again. That’s the way of the Parachute Regiment. Let’s go.” We make it into the Chinooks just in time.
“Some last op, hey?” says one soldier, his face drenched in sweat. Off the chopper at Bastion, I’m on my way to my tent for a cup of sweet tea and an aspirin when someone grabs my shoulder. It is Sgt Major Wilcocks.
“One last thing. Will I get an MIS after all this?” he says.
“A what?” I ask. Yet more military jargon to get my head around.
“A Mention In The Sun.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Mega,” he says, walking off.
That was the first time I saw him smile.
thesun.co.uk
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