there. I agree, it’s not fucking nice. But if we don’t get this now, if something does fucking happen out there, then the lad who may just have survived with a bad injury will fucking die. I mean it. I’ve seen it in other regiments on Herrick 6. If some dumb cunt sends the wrong information up the net or doesn’t do it rapid-like, then they send the wrong heli which can’t land at the HLS , or they don’t bring the correct kind of stretcher or whatever. So that’s why we’re rubbing your fucking noses in it now, yeah?’
At first the boys were awful on the radio, completely unaccustomed because of their junior role in the troop to talking on one accurately and concisely, but by the end of the week they were delivering multiple casualty reports with ease. Tom led the boys through the lessons, watching in wonder at the sick reality they were entering as Davenport, aneighteen-year-old who still only had to shave once a week, calmly rattled off a double casualty report as though it was the most normal thing in the world.
‘Hello, Zero , this is Three Zero. Stand by for MIST for two casualties. Casualty 1. Mike – explosion. India – double amputation. Right leg amputated above the knee, left leg at the ankle. Fragmentation to genitals and abdomen. Sierra – breathing 12. Pulse 40. Catastrophic bleed. Tango – morphine, two tourniquets and hemcon applied. Roger so far over? Casualty 2. Mike – gunshot wound. India – shot in the knee, femur broken. Sierra – breathing 12. Pulse 80. Some blood loss. Casualty going into shock. Tango – morphine, tourniquet and FFD applied. Over.’
Tom patted him on the back. ‘Good job, Mr Davenport. Let’s just hope that you don’t have to do that in theatre, eh? Who’s next? Ellis, your turn. Three casualties from an RPG : one guy’s blinded, one guy’s hit in the gut and the other’s lost his arm. 9-liner and the MIST. Three minutes to prepare and then go.’
After the final attack of the exercise, an apocalyptic array of destruction rained down upon targets for two hours by Scimitars, Javelins, mortars, artillery and air strikes, the squadron parked up their wagons in neat rows. Tom jumped out of his wagon, climbed onto Trueman’s and grinned at him. ‘Well, Sergeant, what do you reckon? With a performance like that there won’t be any Taliban left, will there?’
Trueman scrunched up his nose and looked out down the range, where smoke still rose from destroyed targets and fresh craters. ‘I dunno, sir. This is good for the lads’ morale this, but it’s a turkey shoot. No twats shooting back. No IEDs. This exercise has been good, don’t get me wrong, but it ain’t reality out there. Promise you.’ He saw Tom looking crestfallen, his cheerfulness dented, and tried to make himfeel better. ‘I see what you mean, sir – it’s good crack – but I’m just saying so you know, yeah?’
Tom pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Got it, Sergeant. Sometimes I run away with myself.’
‘That’s OK, sir; that’s what you’re meant to do. And I’m meant to rein it in. And then one day it’ll be vice versa.’
On the bus back from Castlemartin the officers sat at the front reading and trying to snatch some sleep in anticipation of the night out in London they had planned. In the back were the likely lads, led by Trueman in his customary place, the middle seat of the rear row, who did impressions of every member of the squadron in turn, officers included. They were very funny, and Tom couldn’t help laughing as Trueman gently poked fun at his own staid manner. All the bus was roaring, but it wasn’t mean laughter, and Tom was almost sad when Trueman switched to Clive, whose matey manner with his soldiers was completely the opposite to his. Clive and his sergeant, Leighton, even went to the pub together – something Tom would never dream of doing – and he never seemed to use rank when talking with his lads, immediately giving them all new nicknames when he
At first the boys were awful on the radio, completely unaccustomed because of their junior role in the troop to talking on one accurately and concisely, but by the end of the week they were delivering multiple casualty reports with ease. Tom led the boys through the lessons, watching in wonder at the sick reality they were entering as Davenport, aneighteen-year-old who still only had to shave once a week, calmly rattled off a double casualty report as though it was the most normal thing in the world.
‘Hello, Zero , this is Three Zero. Stand by for MIST for two casualties. Casualty 1. Mike – explosion. India – double amputation. Right leg amputated above the knee, left leg at the ankle. Fragmentation to genitals and abdomen. Sierra – breathing 12. Pulse 40. Catastrophic bleed. Tango – morphine, two tourniquets and hemcon applied. Roger so far over? Casualty 2. Mike – gunshot wound. India – shot in the knee, femur broken. Sierra – breathing 12. Pulse 80. Some blood loss. Casualty going into shock. Tango – morphine, tourniquet and FFD applied. Over.’
Tom patted him on the back. ‘Good job, Mr Davenport. Let’s just hope that you don’t have to do that in theatre, eh? Who’s next? Ellis, your turn. Three casualties from an RPG : one guy’s blinded, one guy’s hit in the gut and the other’s lost his arm. 9-liner and the MIST. Three minutes to prepare and then go.’
After the final attack of the exercise, an apocalyptic array of destruction rained down upon targets for two hours by Scimitars, Javelins, mortars, artillery and air strikes, the squadron parked up their wagons in neat rows. Tom jumped out of his wagon, climbed onto Trueman’s and grinned at him. ‘Well, Sergeant, what do you reckon? With a performance like that there won’t be any Taliban left, will there?’
Trueman scrunched up his nose and looked out down the range, where smoke still rose from destroyed targets and fresh craters. ‘I dunno, sir. This is good for the lads’ morale this, but it’s a turkey shoot. No twats shooting back. No IEDs. This exercise has been good, don’t get me wrong, but it ain’t reality out there. Promise you.’ He saw Tom looking crestfallen, his cheerfulness dented, and tried to make himfeel better. ‘I see what you mean, sir – it’s good crack – but I’m just saying so you know, yeah?’
Tom pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Got it, Sergeant. Sometimes I run away with myself.’
‘That’s OK, sir; that’s what you’re meant to do. And I’m meant to rein it in. And then one day it’ll be vice versa.’
On the bus back from Castlemartin the officers sat at the front reading and trying to snatch some sleep in anticipation of the night out in London they had planned. In the back were the likely lads, led by Trueman in his customary place, the middle seat of the rear row, who did impressions of every member of the squadron in turn, officers included. They were very funny, and Tom couldn’t help laughing as Trueman gently poked fun at his own staid manner. All the bus was roaring, but it wasn’t mean laughter, and Tom was almost sad when Trueman switched to Clive, whose matey manner with his soldiers was completely the opposite to his. Clive and his sergeant, Leighton, even went to the pub together – something Tom would never dream of doing – and he never seemed to use rank when talking with his lads, immediately giving them all new nicknames when he
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