The Boys in Blue

**************

The Harrier was dying.

Shrapnel from a rocket propelled grenade had entered the inlet of the Rolls Royce Pegasus engine and broken a turbine blade, starting a chain reaction breaking further blades, the jet engine was tearing it self to pieces.

Warning lights and audible sirens were filling the cockpit.

A moment off panic had passed through him before cold reasoning kicked in. He managed to bank the aircraft back over the Green Zone and estimated that he had three or four minutes left before either the engine exploded or the aircraft fell out of the sky.

Time seemed to slow down as he evaluated his options. There were two choices: he could eject now, but the men trapped down in the wadi would die. Or.... The aircraft was as good as dead, but it was still a weapon. I've got one last card to play, he thought.

He toggled the transmit button of the radio, "Delta-Papa-3-2 this is Blackbird-2, advise the men to keep their heads down below the wadi wall, but be ready to pull back fast, good luck, Blackbird-2 out."

The decision made; he centred the nose of the Harrier, fighting the unresponsive flight controls, putting the aircraft into a shallow dive to build up air speed.

As he flashed over the wadi, he ejected.

******

Flight Lieutenant Robert Barlow was returning from a mission in company with Blackbird-9, flown by Pilot Officer Tom Bell, when they had picked up the All Call Signs request on the traffic frequency of the radio.

The urgency in the Forward Air Controller's voice was unmistakable.

Robert glanced down at his knee map to locate the position the FAC had given and realised they were less than fifty miles from it.

The mission had been straightforward: assist with safe passage for a Danish supply column. En-route to re-supply their redoubt; it had reached a rough stretch of road. The tar macadam surface, a leftover from the Russian occupation, had been worn away to mere gravel track where it led down to a shallow valley, then resumed near the top of the opposite side.

At the bottom was a cluster of half a dozen mud and breezeblock hovels, long deserted. The Danish requests were simple: destroy the hovels and then strafe the road with cannon fire. Intelligence had reported Taliban in the area, and the FAC was wary of IEDs, anxious to reach the redoubt before nightfall. To sweep the road with mine detectors would take too much time.

As this was Bell's first combat mission, Robert ordered him to take out the buildings; it would be a good experience for the young pilot. Robert took up poison three hundred feet above him and loitered, flying figure-eights whilst keeping an eye on his young charge. After Bell had fired his last rockets, three buildings were still standing.

Ordering him to fly clear, Robert began his attack run. After the third pass the buildings were reduced to rubble, his rockets expended. He then gave Bell the order to strafe the road. Bell made his approach run; he opened fire with his two Aden 30mm cannons, hosing down the left hand side of the road. On reaching the agreed point where the tar macadam resumed, he broke off the attack, banked round, and resumed his attack on the right hand side. Halfway along it his cannons fell silent; he'd run out of ammunition.

Ordering him once again to stand clear, Robert dropped down to continue. He had only just started strafing when a mighty explosion, followed by a second and then a third, greeted him. The Danish FAC had been right to be cautious. The Taliban had wired IEDs to go off in succession.

After receiving their thanks, and knowing Bell had been more heavily involved in the mission and must be getting low on fuel, the two climbed to altitude to return to base.

******

Robert switched the radio over to the FAC's new frequency. "This is Blackbird-2 I have 30 mike, mike and am six minutes from your location, would this be of any help?"

"Blackbird-2 this is Delta-Papa-3-2 any help you can give would be deeply appreciated, we have a situation here."

Ordering Blackbird-9 to return to base independently, Robert banked the Harrier to the North, opening the throttles as he picked up the Helmand River below.

The FAC outlined the problem as he flew to his location: the Taliban had 43 British servicemen trapped in a wadi by a village. They couldn't retire; to have done so meant crossing a ford at which point the wadi walls were broken down. The village was dominated by a large two-story building directly opposite the ford. The Taliban had the ford zeroed-in, with arms stationed on the roof of the building. More were above the soldiers in the wadi, where a fierce fire-fight was taking place: to lift their heads above the wall was to invite death.

This late in September, water, was at a premium. As Robert flew along the bleached-brown terrain, interspersed with occasional patches of green vegetation that had managed to draw water from the shrinking river, he wondered - not for the first time - why the Taliban fought so hard for this desolate country. If intelligence were correct, not only Afghans were involved with the war, but also Iranians and Pakistanis; the former at the urging of their Mullahs, and the later because of the £250 monthly pay-check the Taliban paid from their opium profits, more money than they would see in six months back in Pakistan.

Flying at an altitude of six hundred feet, Robert arrived at the FAC's position.

The wadi was a runoff from the Helmand River, carving a course along which lay a dozen or so buildings that made up the village. At the southern end, it made a sharp bend before returning to the river. Trees grew along the edge; brown now due to lack of moisture. When the winter rains came, the wadi would become a torrent, effectively creating an island between it and the river. At some point, the villagers had broken down its walls, building a ford to gain access to the island for planting their crops, effectively creating a green zone.

He could see eight vehicles drawn up by the bend, unable to precede any further due to the wadi and the buildings that had collapsed along it. Smoke was billowing up from in front of one of the collapsed buildings, obscuring his view of the ground. He waited anxiously for the next communication; they had already established the positions of the servicemen in relation to the enemy forces, to avoid a Blue-on-Blue incident. Still, the last thing he needed was to fire on friendly troops.

The FAC's voice came in over the intercom, "Blackbird-2 can you make your attack run over the island and concentrate your fire on the roof of the building directly in front of the ford?" Before he could reply the FAC continued, "We have seven wounded, three are critical stretcher cases, if you can keep their heads down, we will attempt to get them to the other side of the ford. You are weapons-free; I say again you are weapons-free."

"Delta-Papa-3-2 I am weapons free, beginning attack run now, Blackbird-2 out."

Robert banked the Harrier over the river and put it into a shallow dive, reducing thrust. He was about a mile away from the target, the Harrier's nose firmly fixed on the structure. He wanted the Taliban to see him coming: the next move would be theirs.

Already some of the enemy were scrambling across the roof and dropping down off the rear side. At six hundred meters Robert opened fire with a long burst; the rest of the enemy ran to join the others. The structure absorbed the 30mm cannon shells with very little damage. Not until these hit the flat roof was any significant damage seen: the shells punched through the thin covering.

As he tightly banked, he spotted a single story built onto the back, on which were ladders up to the second story roof. There, forty or so men had hidden from his initial attack.

Crossing over the wadi, he could see a dozen soldiers carrying stretchers along the safe side of the ford. The FAC's voice came over the intercom, "Blackbird-2 all wounded safely on the other side of ford, can you repeat attack?"

"Delta-Papa-3-2 attacking now Blackbird-2 out." Once more Robert began his attack, slowing the aircraft down to enable the Taliban to see his approach over the island's green zone. It had the desired effect.

The enemy scrambled to the edge, dropping down to the rooftop below. He opened fire. But two hundred meters from the target the cannons fell silent. He was out of ammunition.

As he crossed over the wadi, he could see half a dozen soldiers had crossed the ford and were taking up positions behind it, with what seemed a few other soldiers, probably some of the stretcher-bearers, to add covering fire to those on the other side.

He toggled the radio switch, "Delta-Papa-3-2 be advised, I am Winchester, I repeat Winchester," giving the old WWII code word for 'out of ammunition'. "When do you expect help to arrive?"

"Blackbird-2", the FAC broke in, "ETA help, twenty-five minutes, and we are nearly Winchester too. We may have no choice but to risk crossing the ford soon."

Robert could recognise the desperation in the FAC's voice. They would be shot to pieces as they crossed.

"Delta-Papa-3-2 beginning attack now." It might allow some others to cross, he thought, but if they all broke off the engagement the Taliban in the wadi would swarm all over them before they could take up new positions.

As he began the run he could see that not all the enemy was retreating across the roof; some were staying and firing back at him.

They had called his bluff. Smoke trails from RPGs hurtled toward him, along with tracer bullets from machine guns. Robert gritted his teeth, concentrating on the building: the RPGs was exploding in front of him as they reached the limit of their flight, leaving ugly puffs of smoke.

His only weapon now available was the jet wash from the Pegasus engine, but he would have to go lower and skim over the roof for it to have any effect. He pushed the thrust control lever. The Harrier leapt forward, instantly building up speed. As he flashed over the roof there would be no way of knowing the effect it would have had on the enemy, but he knew it would not be pleasant.

From the lower roof the Taliban opened fire; tracer rounds and RPG smoke trails followed him, and then a single RPG exploded in front of the Harrier's nose. The shock wave sent a tremor through the aircraft. Warning lights lit up on the instrument panel. Robert didn't need them to tell him something was wrong. He could feel the vibration building through the flight control column.

The Harrier was hit, and hit hard.

******

He never saw the impact as the Harrier struck: the fireball of burning jet fuel that engulfed the building, wiping out in an instant the Taliban, who crowded the roof.

But, he did feel the shockwave from the explosion; it almost collapsed his partly deployed parachute. And as he struggled to gain control, he had noticed that there were no more flashes of gunfire coming from the wadi; the Taliban were frozen with the horror that had overtaken their comrades.

Robert glanced over his shoulder, but all around was shrouded in a huge cloud of smoke, flames, and dust. Ahead of him, the British servicemen had used the diversion to cross the ford, and were now legging it up the wadi to the bend and the safety of their vehicles.

He was fifty feet above the ground, drifting toward the top end of the wadi near the bend, when the first bullets began to fly past him. The Taliban had snapped out of their paralysis, all of their rage and frustration at being denied victory, now centred on the only target available: his figure, suspended below the parachute.

The first bullet from an AK47 burst went through the calf of his right leg, the next smashed into his knee, followed by a third that struck his thigh, breaking his femur. Waves of white-hot pain were flooding his nervous system, and he realised he was screaming. RPG shrapnel smashed into the small of his back, and his Kevlar flight helmet, and he collapsed into oblivion.

The parachute canopy finally gave way, shot to pieces, and he fell the last ten feet to land six feet from the wadi. Two soldiers leapt to drag him over its rim and cut him free of the parachute, and then carried him back to their vehicles. A young medic applied battle pads to staunch the bleeding and administer the injection that would soften the agony he was undergoing.

He never heard the distinctive sound of the Chinook helicopter, flanked by two Apache attack helicopters, which came to pick the wounded and dead, and fly them back to Camp Bastion.

******

The medical officer on board the Chinook had radioed ahead to the trauma unit at base hospital, outlining the injuries, blood groups, and triage, prioritising who needed attention first. Robert had been immediately hooked up to IVs for blood and fluids and his flight suit cut away.

Major John Newman's trauma team was prepared by the time the Chinook landed, and swiftly fell into the all-too familiar-routine. The nursing staff gently removed his shattered flight helmet. Peering at the x-ray of Robert's head he announced, "Stabilise the leg wounds for now. His skull is fractured and it's pressing against the brain; if we don't relieve the pressure the leg won't matter. Prep him for surgery, stat."

Four hours later Robert was wheeled out of the theatre, his head swathed in gauze bandages. Back on the ward, he was connected to various tubes and electronic sensors, to continuously monitor his brain wave patterns and vital signs.

Newman arrived on the ward shortly thereafter, having divested his theatre clothes and changed back into his military uniform. "He's going to require constant monitoring," addressing the senior nurse. "The next forty-eight hours will decide if we have a live hero or not, on our hands."

For three days Robert hung on, at the brink of death, then slowly the sensors began to stabilise.

On the fifth day, Sir Royston Smith arrived at Camp Bastion, and was shown to the modular cabin that doubled as Major Newman's office and bedroom. The cabin had air conditioning but was losing the fight against the hot, late-September Afghan sun. After introductions, seated opposite Newman at his desk he produced a letter, which he handed over to the Major.

Newman's eyebrows lifted when he saw the signature at the bottom of the letter. "Well Sir Royston, it seems I am to assist you in any way I can whilst you are here at Camp Bastion; is there a particular case you are interested in?"

"The RAF pilot that was brought in recently," Sir Royston replied.

"Would you like to see his case file?"

"If that's possible."

"Of course." With that, Newman tapped a few numbers on his telephone. Once the connection was made, he asked that Flight Lieutenant Barlow's case file and x-rays be sent to his office immediately.

While they waited, Newman studied Sir Royston. His reputation preceded him, as one of the top three orthopaedic surgeons in Europe, if not the world. Yet there was nothing about him physically that really stood out. He was of average height, slim with perhaps a slight paunch, mid fifties, with greying hair swept back and receding at the temples. But then he noticed his hands: long slim fingers, Newman's mother would have called them pianist's hands. Those hands had carried out operations that Newman knew he would have baulk at. If, physically, there was nothing unremarkable about him, there was no denying that the man had a sort of aura, letting you know you were in the presence of a master. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

A duty nurse entered carrying a brown case file and a large x-ray envelope. "The files you asked for sir."

"Thank you that will be all," Newman replied.

When the door closed Newman slid the file and envelope over to Sir Royston.

Forty-five minutes later, Sir Royston looked up. "Is it possible to see the patient, Major?"

"Certainly, if you would follow me," replied Newman.

Three hours later they were back in Major Newman's office.

"Well, I concur with your diagnosis of the head wound and making it your first priority; in doing so you undoubtedly saved the young man's life," Sir Royston began his review as they sat down. "But of more concern to me right now, is his back. The lower vertebra has moved due to the impact of whatever struck him, and I suspect it is now in contact with his sciatic nerve. If I am correct, then he will need treatment sooner than later or run the risk of permanent paralysis to his right leg."

Major Newman anticipated what came next; he knew of Sir Royston's clinic by reputation, so his next words were, therefore, of no surprise. "Whilst giving due regards," Sir Royston went on, "to your location, your facilities and equipment are excellent, but mine are better back in the UK. We really need to get him back there as soon as possible."

The Grange, built at the beginning of the twentieth century in the Georgian style, was the name given it by the northern industrialist who had originally owned it. Sir Royston had bought it in the early seventies and then spent a fortune renovating and equipping it with the latest, cutting-edge developments in orthopaedic medicine. Reportedly it housed state-of-the-art x-ray technology, including an MRI full-body scanner. The funding had come from private patients: football stars, Formula-1 drivers, film stars, wealthy industrialists, Arab Princes; in short, the mega-rich.

Newman also knew that Sir Royston treated NHS referrals and servicemen, free of charge. He accepted that Sir Royston was right. Flight Lieutenant Barlow would be in the best possible hands being treated at The Grange. "There's a med-evac C17 Globemaster scheduled to leave at 0800 hours tomorrow for Brize Norton. I'll arrange for Barlow to be on it along with you, if that's acceptable to you."

"Excellent," replied Sir Royston. "If you could make the necessary arrangements, I could have my helicopter standing by to transfer him to the clinic when it lands."

"Well if there is no other business, I should get you fed," replied Newman cheerfully. "You must be starving. Have you ever tasted Army food?" he said with a wry smile.

To be continued...