Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan by Chantelle Taylor

By Chantelle Taylor

Each inch a girl and each inch a warrior. In peace and struggle Taylor is as radiant as gold and as tricky as diamond' Sam Kiley - writer of determined Glory and overseas Affairs Editor of Sky information. Chantelle Taylor joined the British military in 1998 as a strive against scientific technician. Ten years later she made background, changing into the 1st lady soldier to kill a Taliban fighter in close-quarter wrestle whereas on patrol in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. In Battleworn, she tells the tale of B corporation, a beleaguered staff of people who fought relentlessly to carry Nad-e Ali, a dusty, sweltering hellhole surrounded by way of the Taliban. A regimen patrol into a space saturated with enemy combatants escalates right into a seven-week siege. dealing with the potential of demise day-by-day, Taylor writes of gun battles and threatening patrols, culminating within the extraction of greater than sixty-six casualties with 4 killed in motion. a strong tale written with a humility that captures the occasionally impalpable humour of squaddies at warfare, Battleworn presents a testomony to strive against medics around the globe. It highlights the the most important position that they play in latest 360-degree battlefield.

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Extra info for Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan

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It brings into focus the reason why we’re here. The moment passes, and I brief Abbie on the move. ‘Stay with him, Abs,’ I say, pointing to the least stable of the four. ’ My inner thought is that the casualty will be lucky to make the journey, but that remains just a thought. The Jocks and Afghan soldiers cautiously place the stretchers on the wide floor space in the wagons. Battlefield wounds are hard to deal with at the best of times, and this is all the more difficult when evacuating across rough ground.

I forget my hunger, feeling relieved that I don’t have to finish my cat food – not yet, anyway. We push on, making our way into what looks like a derelict school. It has been taken over by the headquarters (HQ) of an Afghan National Army (ANA) kandak (kandak means ‘battalion’ in Dari; roughly six hundred soldiers). They’ve taken several hits and are heavily undermanned. They would be lucky to count forty blokes, let alone six hundred. Half the vehicles with Monty’s platoon turn into the entrance of the walled yard.

Travelling with our platoon is a Ford Ranger pickup packed with Afghan police. They hang on to the sides of the wagon with one hand, as the other holds a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) launcher, with one finger precariously curled round the trigger – a weird combination that filled me with dread. This isn’t how we do it; your finger stays off the trigger until you are engaging something. Still, that’s why we’re here: to stimulate democracy, to teach the fledgling Afghan police and military the joys of battle discipline.

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