There’s a battle under way in the Helmand desert and we are flying straight
into it. I would normally worry about hitting turbulence; now I’m worried
about being hit by ground fire. An injured American special forces soldier
needs rescuing urgently, but he is stuck in the middle of the firefight.
“We’d fly in under fire to save one of the guys,” says RAF pilot Dan Padbury.
But as we approach he is told to hold his Chinook helicopter close by while
US special forces fight the Taliban on the ground and clear the airspace for
an assault by “fast air” – military slang for the jet fighters that are
about to attack.
The battle rages on. Meanwhile, we are kept in an extreme holding pattern. In
fact, the Chinook is circling so low that you could almost stick your hand
out of the open windows and touch the ground. There are 16 people in here
with me – members of the forces’ medical emergency response team (MERT) –
risking their lives in the hope of saving one.
Among them are a paramedic, a trauma nurse and two doctors – one of whom is
also an anaesthetist. Their skills and equipment make the MERT the most
advanced first-response airborne combat medical team in the world.
Today’s team leader, trauma nurse Squadron Leader Charlie Atherton, tells me
that she was called out on Christmas Eve to rescue a Royal Marine commando
who had stepped on a mine. She found him lying in the crater caused by the
explosion. He had lost three limbs, so Charlie’s first instinctive response
was to hold his one remaining hand.
For Surgeon Commander Dan Connor, it’s his first day on this tour. He’s a
military doctor, but normally works in a National Health Service hospital in
Portsmouth. I wonder what his civilian counterparts would say if they could
see him now, preparing drips in the cabin of a twisting helicopter on the
edge of a firefight with the Taliban.
As we continue to circle, an Apache attack helicopter rides shotgun. A quick
response force of British soldiers ready their weapons and steel their
nerves. They know that when the Chinook lands they will be first out of the
door, protecting the helicopter and crew from whatever is out there. Most
wear white surgical gloves which contrast oddly with the black barrels of
their guns. These soldiers often help with the stretchers – and it can be a
bloody business.
Finally, after 45 minutes of circling, the fighting eases and the Chinook is
ordered in. The rescue is over in seconds but there’s no time to waste: some
civilians in a car have hit a roadside bomb. Two are considered “critical”;
up to seven are dead.
As the helicopter lands, a pile of bodies comes into view. Once the survivors
are loaded aboard, the team immediately swing into action. But with the
quick response force, the bomb disposal team and the Chinook’s RAF gunners
in the cabin, there’s barely space to move.
It’s also extremely cold. The daytime temperature in the helicopter during the
winter is around -5C and at night it often drops another five. It’s so cold
that equipment often becomes brittle and breaks and the drips need to be
preheated before coming aboard. On top of this, there’s all the deafening
noise.
By the time we land at the British military hospital at Camp Bastion, all
three patients have been stabilised. Later the crew find out that the two
civilians they have rescued are in fact Taliban, blown up while planting
their own roadside bomb.
The crew have already missed lunch and as we prepare to go for dinner, the
“red phone” in the MERT’s “ready room” rings again. Night has fallen as the
hungry crew race to the helipad.
A man has been shot four times and is bleeding to death. He will die within
the hour if we don’t take off – and even though he is a Taliban fighter, the
team decide to launch. Though these are military rescue flights, the MERT
team are just as likely to be out saving a member of the Taliban as one of
their own troops.
We are now flying in an area strewn with hills, cliffs and mountains – in
total blackout conditions. The risk of ground fire means that no cabin
lights are allowed as we skim through the darkness. I can only just make out
the soldiers sitting in front of me in the cabin and can see nothing through
the windows. As we get closer I feel the sensation of the helicopter
dropping for the final run in.
Two US special forces soldiers come along to guard their captive, but he’s not
going anywhere; in fact, he has almost bled to death. He has been shot three
times in the leg and once in the arm, the high velocity rounds shattering
his thigh bone and severing the artery.
Unable to find a vein for the drip, the medical team use a new method,
perfected in combat medicine, which involves drilling directly into the hip
bone to administer fluids straight into the marrow. By the time they get the
Taliban fighter to Camp Bastion, they have stabilised him, effectively
saving his life. The damage to his leg is so severe, however, that it will
later have to be amputated.
The next morning, Lieutenant-Colonel Mark Sheridan, one of the other MERT
doctors, visits the Taliban fighter – who could be a commander and therefore
useful for intelligence. “It’s amazing what Afghans can survive,” he says.
“They’re really tough. I’m constantly seeing them survive injuries that
would kill people back home.”
I can see what he means. Despite being a whisker away from death last night,
the Taliban fighter is now awake and alert. “The first thing he asked for
when he woke up was his mobile phone,” says Sheridan. We both know he will
never get it back. The intelligence people will already be scanning it for
Taliban contacts.
Surgeon Commander Ben Siggers now joins the helicopter team. I had already
bumped into him last night as he came out of surgery, just after operating
on an Afghan National Army soldier who had accidentally shot himself three
times in the foot.
The Afghan’s gun had been set to automatic. Siggers had tried to hide a smile
as he told me about it. “I don’t suppose he’ll do it again,” he said.
As the new day passes, the team manage to have breakfast and lunch without
being interrupted by a call. But the red phone rings again in the afternoon
and I soon find myself in the back of a Land Rover with Siggers, hurtling
towards the helipad.
His smile has been replaced by a look of intense concentration: “We’re being
told it’s a mine strike,” he says, “and there are two casualties, both
serious.”
This time an American convoy has hit a roadside bomb. As soon as the
casualties are stretchered aboard, it’s clear that one of the soldiers is in
a very bad way.
Ground medics have incorrectly inserted an airway tube into his stomach
instead of his lungs. The team immediately replace the airway and
frantically battle to save his life. But he’s quiet and motionless. Seeing
him splayed out at my feet, I am hit by a wave of sadness. His life seems to
be slipping away, but the team fight for him all the way back to base.
As the helicopter lands in a cloud of dust, Siggers jumps out and then
accompanies the stretcher the short distance to the hospital, where he
quickly briefs the waiting surgeons. They lift the American onto the
treatment table and try to resuscitate him. Despite everyone’s best efforts,
it soon becomes evident that he is dead.
The medics are deflated as they slowly make their way out of the hospital.
They know that, thousands of miles away, an American family will soon be
told that they have lost their son. A life cut short; a family shattered.
Next to me, Siggers stands with the blood of the dead soldier on his uniform.
Outside in the peace and quiet, away from the noise of the helicopter, I
start to feel a little shell-shocked. I’m not the only one. The trauma nurse
who fought so hard to save the soldier starts to cry. This is her first day
in the job.
Atherton sums up the feelings of the team: “Not a good day for us, but we did
everything we could.”
We make our way back to the MERT ready room and have just gone through the
door when the red phone rings again. For a moment, everyone is open-mouthed
in disbelief. Then they all run for the helipad.
— Stuart Webb is a journalist for Channel 4 News
