There were three of them-no, four. Out in the open, just to the right of the building I had seen several Taliban fighters using as cover; repeatedly darting out of it to fire short bursts towards the Afghan policemen who were fifty meters in front of us.
The enemy were also using RPGs. As I put my binoculars to my eyes again, a blast shook the ground in front of our position.
“Geordie”, I yelled. “Bring up the 51mm mortar”
He ran forward, hunched over, carrying the short tube in one hand, a bag full of bombs in the other; they were a mixture of smoke and high-explosive rounds.
From where he was, crouched down beside my vehicle [Land Rover WMIK], he wasn’t able to see the human targets who were becoming ever more brazen, standing out in full view, squirting bullets in our direction, and now only occasionally disappearing back into and behind the house probably to reload. I estimated that they were some 400 metres away. It would be up to me to relay back the firing information to Geordie. I could see where his weapon was pointing and it didn’t look good. I shouted out instructions.
I glanced down again to see him adjusting the weapon’s range to 400 metres and then turn forty-five degrees clockwise. He bedded it into the soft sand so the recoil would not throw the bomb off its intended trajectory. He was ready.
‘I want you to fire a smoke round so I can see what you are like for line. I will bring you in from there’.
Geordie knelt up and dropped a shell down the barrel, grabbed hold of the firing lanyard and pulled it sharply. There was a whoomph as the mortar kicked into life and the smoke bomb shot out. I kept peering through my binos, waiting for the impact; waiting, waiting. There it was; a plume of white smoke billowing up from a point some twenty metres in front of the enemy position, drifting lazily towards them.
All four men were in view once more, three standing, firing with their rifles, the other down on one knee about to unleash another RPG.
‘Good line, Geordie. Try adding another 100 in range and this time go with the HE’
Chipper stood ready with another round as Geordie made the necessary changes. He took the bomb, safety pin out, and dropped it down the tube. Bang. The second mortar was spat out.
What I expected to see was the round dropping somewhere close enough to the enemy for them to be brought to their senses, forcing them to dash for cover. What I actually saw was an impact as precise as any I had ever witnessed. The bomb landed no more than five meters [my emphasis] from its intended target, just to the right of the group as I looked at them.
All four were flung to the ground as if rag dolls; either thrown off their feet by the force of the blast or cut down by shards of flying shrapnel and lumps of rock. Probably both.
‘Great shot, Geordie. Keep it there’. I shouted, professional pride overcoming any sense of revulsion, shock or horror at what I was seeing. For good measure Steve continued pumping away with the .50-cal.
My attention remained glued on the site of the explosion. Two of the men were motionless. The others were moving; one only just, the second writhing about. Geordie had fired three more HE rounds. The first of these landed almost exactly were the first had exploded, almost within spitting distance of the man who had been frantically twisting and turning on the ground. Now he lay completely still. The next two rounds landed well short, but it didn’t matter; the damage had been done’. (pp.183-185)
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