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to brigade HQ through Kev. His eyes are bright in the dim light, and dirt and dust cover his cheeks.
    ‘We’re good, sir. No casualties,’ I say.
    He returns a rare smile, saying simply, ‘Thanks, Sgt T.’
    I nod, not at all surprised by his brief response. Maj. Harry Clark is in his thirties, a tall man with sculptured features. He is well-educated and resolute, an officer with a stiff upper lip that never falters. He is passionate about his regiment and always thinks before he speaks.
    At that same moment, Monty’s tobacco-thickened voice comes on the radio net from the old school, the first place we stopped to give support to the kandak that are housed there. There is a quick exchange of call signs.
    Monty says, ‘Advice needed from M1.’ Mike one is my call sign as lead medic.
    ‘My medic has four cat-B casualties.’
    Cat-B signifies that the casualties require urgent surgery. Four cat-Bs, even for an experienced medic, could prove overwhelming.
    ‘How’s she doing?’ I ask quickly, referring to the medic.
    ‘Best she can,’ he says. ‘She’s worked on three. No breath sounds on one side of the fourth. You happy if she decompresses his chest?’
    ‘Roger that,’ I reply.
    ‘She wants clearance,’ he adds.
    We have no doctor here. I am the buffer for my medics, and, should she need help, I am a kilometre away.
    ‘Go ahead,’ is my response.
    ‘Roger that. Out.’
    This is a baptism of fire for Pte Abbie Cottle, a slim, attractive brunette. Abbie is very calm around casualties and has a methodical approach to problem solving; she has the ideal temperament and is well suited to life as a combat medic. She hails from Gloucester and embraces the twang of a southern accent.
    She reminds me of what it was like to be a junior medic – when you know the answers but lack the confidence and years of experience to make ‘that’ call. Even now, I check in for a second opinion; you never stop learning when it comes to medicine. The moment that you stop asking is the time to look at a different career.
    I have already come to rely heavily on Abbie this tour. She has chosen Helmand as her first operational deployment, which is not a bad start if you want to get bloodied early.
    ‘Sir, these guys will need to be evacuated,’ I advise the OC.
    Maj. Clark has been following the conversation, and he gives Kev Coyle the nod. In turn, Kev gets on the net to brigade HQ at Lashkar Gah, giving them a casualty report. We soon get the order to transport the injured to a helicopter landing zone (HLZ) outside of Nad-e Ali. It would be less detrimental for the injured men to bring the aircraft nearer to the old school, but it is deemed too risky for the pilots to land in an unknown area of operations (AO).
    ‘Sir, are you happy if I take LCpl Young with me?’ I ask.
    ‘Yes, do,’ he replies.
    The boss always accommodates his medics, allowing us the freedom to crack on with our tasks with little interference. Our working relationship has been built through trust and sound judgement. It wasn’t always this easy.
    The steps down to the compound are thick with dust, and in my haste I slip, making sure to catch my tail bone on the edge of the step. I stand up, swiftly dusting myself off.
    Jenny Young is waiting at the bottom of the stairs; as usual, she is good to go before my even telling her that she is needed.
    ‘Jen, you are coming with me. We’re going back to the old school to evacuate these four casualties,’ I say.
    LCpl Jenny Young is the third member of my team, a tall redhead whose resilience and strength never cease to amaze me. She is quiet in character, an old-school Northerner who only speaks if she has something intelligent to say. She doesn’t waffle and just cracks on with the task in hand. We were here together back in 2006. Jen was a medic on the blue-light matrix, fetching casualties from helicopters and transporting our dead and wounded to the hospital in Camp Bastion.
    We’re taking two WMIK Land