SANDIE

By Bob French

I don’t know why, but I suddenly started to think about Sandie, a girl I had met in the Pink Toothbrush night club last time I was on leave in Rayleigh. I grinned at the memory of some of the antics we had gotten up to, and when we started to dance to some of the Garage and Street music, we fell about in stitches.  Exhausted, we retreated from the blaring music and jostling bodies of the dance floor to the tranquillity of the bar, where she told me to “keep up the dance classes.”

I told her that I was involved in travel.  She replied that she was a nurse and we exchanged telephone numbers.  Suddenly the night was over and I agreed to walk her home.  We talked about where we had grown up; she went to Fitz whilst I told her that I went to Swain. She lived just opposite Sainsbury’s supermarket down by the Weir and when we kissed good night on her doorstep I asked if I could see her again.  She smiled with her eyes and spoke softly.

          “I have your number.  I’ll let you know.”  That was the last time I saw her and that was nearly four weeks ago. I still think of her.

          I suddenly came to my senses as the distant horizon slowly started to change into a hundred shades of dawn and shadows started to appear.  A cold breeze cut across the wadi where our platoon lay hidden, spraying us all with a fine sand that stung our faces.  We had been making good progress until one of the forward recce blokes gave the hand signal to warn us that there were Taliban in the vicinity.  That was at 02:45 hours this morning.  Since then we had lain still; not moving.  When you are laying in the cold desert in total silence with your nerves ready to snap, you start to search your mind and ask yourself a lot of dumb questions, but I remembered what the Sergeant Major told us before we left our forward base. 

“Listen Up, when you’re out there waiting, do not start to think about things like ‘what am I doing here’.  It’ll screw you up.  Just keep your mind on your patrol tactics. Got it.”  So I did my best and started to think about Sandie.

Like Jake, my best mate, this was my first patrol in Afghanistan and the first time we had come into contact with the Taliban. The patrol routine was that every ten seconds or so we would look at our patrol leader, Sergeant Mike Hawthorn, for instructions.  But so far he, like the rest of us, had quietly sunk into the desert floor and watched and waited.  As dawn slowly brought light to a new day, he raised his hand.  He didn’t look back at us or say anything.  His three fingers pointed to his left meant that me, Jake and Muffin were to be ready to move in that direction.  He then raised four fingers and pointed to the right.  The suspense, waiting for the thumbs up to move was nerve-racking.  “I’ve never been this scared.” I whispered, knowing that Jake couldn’t hear me; ‘I never shot or killed anyone either,’ I thought. My heart was going like the clappers.  I felt the sweat running down my face and back and my leather gloves felt decidedly damp inside.

All of a sudden, he raised his fist; the sign to get ready, then up went his thumb and all hell broke loose.  The noise was deafening. Jake and I screamed at the top of our voices as we scrambled to our feet and rushed forward to our allotted covering positions.  I had started to fire my rifle before I even saw the enemy.  Then, as I skidded down the side of the wadi, I saw them for the first time.  Eight of them; were all armed with AK47 rifles.  Jake was screaming beside me as we went rushing in toward them.  I felt the zing and crack of rounds whizzing past my head, then a sickening thud, but I rushed on, thinking that if I was hit, I was damn well going to take one of them with me.  As I rushed in, someone to my left caught my eye. My training and instinct taught me to react and I turned; pointed my rifle and fired.  It hit the man in the chest, spinning him backwards like a rag doll.  It was over in seconds.  

Then there was total silence again. Sergeant Hawthorn quickly gave hand signals to effect a wide perimeter cordon and men started to silently scatter. When I looked around for Jake, the patrol medic was kneeling beside him trying to stop the bleeding whilst Muffin was beside him on the radio calling for medivac support.  My heart sank.  I wanted to go to him but Corporal Tavish grabbed my shoulder and nodded to my position.  He leant forward and whispered.

“Don’t worry kid, he’s in good hands.”

In no time at all the sound of the chopper could be heard thudding over the horizon.  After a mini sand storm, it had landed and bodies were rushing towards Jake and our patrol medic.  Then the radio crackled into life.

“Victor Lema 55.  You have bandits approaching your position. ETA approx 15 minutes, repeat 15 minutes. Out.”  Sergeant Hawthorn yelled above the noise of the helicopter to pull back to protect it.  He then pointed to me and three other men to act as stretcher bearers.  As I knelt down beside Jake, I heard the paramedic giving instructions to our patrol medic and instantly recognised her voice.

“Sandie?”  She looked up, recognised me and smiled.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you.  Been a little busy.  How you been keeping anyway?”  And smiled again.  She then seemed to ignore me as she started to inject a drip into Jake's arm and give rapid instructions to one of her team. We anxiously waited whilst his wound was being dressed and Jake was stabilised.  I kept thinking ‘time was running out.’ Then we heard it.  That blunt crack of the AK47.  The Taliban were here.  It was time to move. The sand around us started to spurt up as bullets peppered the ground.  Sergeant Hawthorn rushed forward to the paramedic and leant into her face.

“No time to wait, let’s move.”  As he stood up a bullet tugged at his shoulder webbing.  He just spun around and emptied his magazine into four men who were foolish enough to break cover and rush at him. 

We carefully lifted Jake up and started for the helicopter just as it revved up its engines to create a sand screen for us.  We must have been about ten yards from the backdrop when I felt a sledgehammer hit me in the back of my leg.  It spun me around and I screamed.  The last thing I saw was Sandie quickly filling my place on the stretcher and vanishing into the back of the helicopter.

I gradually came around to the smell of antiseptic, bright lights and murmuring voices.  I tried to swallow and realised that I had a mouth that tasted like a Turkish wrestler’s jock-strap.  I made a feeble attempt at sitting up, when someone spoke to me.

“Ah, I see we are awake.  How do you feel?”  I was about to tell her exactly how I felt, then realised that she was a Lieutenant in the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. My mind was starting to fill with hundreds of questions and I tried to speak but found that I couldn’t. The nurse seemed to sense what I needed and gently helped me sit up and made me sip a little water.

“Where am I?  What happened? I croaked. The Lieutenant stood and started to pull back the privacy curtains.  She spoke as she moved.

“Your patrol was ambushed by the Taliban during a helo’ medivac.  As you carried your friend out, you were hit.”  She turned and gave me a gentle smile.  “One of my girls, Lieutenant Sandie Bickford, went back for you and carried you back into the helo.”  I didn’t speak.  I felt choked up.

“Is she alright?  Can I see her?”  My eagerness made me feel excited and I could see the Lieutenant looking at me, then she gently sat on the bed and held my hand.

“I am sorry.  Sandie was hit three times during your rescue and died on the way in.  She told your Sergeant Hawthorn that you were to ”keep up the dance classes.”

 

Copyright Bob French