Firestarter — Negdje, Bosnia-Herzegovina | August 1996
“Whiskey-One-Alpha ”
“Six-Charlie, this is Whiskey-One-Alpha, adjust fire. Over,” the voice of a forward observer of the Alpha team crackles over the Fire Direction Centre’s on-board speaker.
I put down my coffee, the corporal next to me grabs the field-telephone and alerts the platoon. I lower my headset microphone, find a pencil and respond, “Whiskey-One-Alpha, this is Six-Charlie, adjust fire, out.”
“Whiskey-One-Alpha, grid Foxtrot Echo 4-6-9-7 3-2-5-8, altitude 1-5-0, infantry platoon in the open, request splash, over.”
Like a madman, I scribble down the call for fire spewed out at machine gun speed, meanwhile scanning the map in front of me to locate the FE46-32 grid box and approximate the observer’s request. It’s an abandoned village, ethnically cleansed by the Serbian army some time ago. I repeat the message back to the observer — pronouncing the 4, 9, 3 and 5 as fower, niner, tree and faïf to avoid radio static confusion — and start my work.
As Fire Director of the 1st Heavy Mortar Platoon of the 17th Armoured Infantry Battalion, ‘Princess Irene’ Fusilier Guards Regiment, my job is to recalculate the observer’s call for fire to a workable deflection, elevation and gunpowder charge for the platoon’s four 120mm heavy mortars. It’s funny, I was never any good at mathematics in high school, but somehow the maths involved with fire direction is like second nature to me, I’m very good at it.
During the three-months training, we had to do all the calculations on paper, plotting the angles on a map, using table books and an almost antique powder charge ruler, to get the right results. Now, under operational circumstances, I use a calculator-sized computer to do the hard work, but in my head I still need to do a rough calculation; just one digit entered wrong into the computer could mean missing the target by as much as a kilometre, I need to notice illogical results. Once I’ve entered all the details, the computer rolls out the order.
“Mortar one, adjust fire,” I command. “Deflection 2-8-4-7 one round, charge four, elevation 2-7-0, at my command.”
The corporal in charge of the first mortar repeats the order and, in less than a minute, reports, “Mortar one ready.”
If we had been on regular training grounds, I could’ve now leaned back, had another coffee and waited for the safety team to do their work. In peace time there are extensive safety procedures in place to avoid any shells being fired outside of the assigned target area. The work of the safety team would mean a 10-15-minute delay between a mortar reporting ready and me giving the command to fire. But this isn’t a regular training ground, this is war-torn Bosnia-Herzegovina, there’s no safety team here.
The call for fire by Whiskey-One-Alpha is not for real though, we are on a peace mission here, it’s just practice, but without the peacetime safety team. The area we’re at has been declared a live-fire training range for NATO fire support units by the British sector commander. The ethnically cleansed village a couple of kilometres from here is the designated target danger zone.
“Fire,” I say, almost instantly followed by the BWOOM of the mortar. “Whiskey-One-Alpha, shot, over,” I notify the forward observer, who echoes back the message, and start my stopwatch. “Whiskey-One-Alpha, splash, out,” I say a couple of seconds before the shell hits its target.
“Six-Charlie, left 100, down 5-0, fire for effect, over,” the voice of Whiskey-One-Alpha sounds over my radio. A small correction, I quickly calculate the new trajectory.
“Platoon, fire for effect, deflection 2-8-3-1, HE fuse delayed, six rounds, charge four, elevation 2-6-5, at my command.”
One after the other, the mortars report ready. I feel a tingle in my stomach. It’s strange. So far all training has been quite abstract, but now, looking at a landscape ravaged by civil war, it feels more real. At my command soon an ethnically cleansed ghost town will be partially demolished. What if its former inhabitants wish to return now that the war is over?
“Sergeant…,” the corporal interrupts my stream of thought. Of course, four loaders are waiting for my command with a 13-kilo grenade on their shoulders, this is not a time for contemplation, “Fire!”
BWOOM, BWOOM, BWOOM, BWOOM, four rounds reverberate. “Whiskey-One-Alpha, fire for effect, over.”
“This is Whiskey-One-Alpha, fire for effect, out.”
Round after round is fired, and the first reports of “rounds complete” come in over the field-telephone. When all four mortars have reported their rounds, we’re done.
“Whiskey-One-Alpha this is Six-Charlie, rounds complete, over.”
“Whiskey-One-Alpha, rounds complete, fire effective, out.”
The Prodigy. Firestarter on The Fat of the Land [CD]. Essex, United Kingdom: XL Recordings. (1996)
This autobiographical sketch comes from my bundle In the Moment: A Disjointed Audiobiography which is available at Amazon.com. (USD 9.50 for a paperback or USD 4.50 for the Kindle version)
