Read an extract from Forged in Fire by Scott Ryder.
From the age of 12, Scott Ryder knew he wanted to join the army, and he signed up as soon as he could. After serving as a paratrooper and in East Timor with 3 RAR, he wanted more. He trained all summer and took the gruelling selection course for the commandos, earning the prized green beret on his second attempt. Forged in Fire takes us inside the secretive world of the commandos, sharing Ryder’s battlefield stories from his tours to Afghanistan to being seriously injured in a shocking Black Hawk helicopter crash in Kandahar in which he was the only survivor to return to active service.
Start reading Forged in Fire.
The role of my reconnaissance team in Afghanistan was to act as pathfinder, and conduct surveillance and reconnaissance in support of the company. The recon and sniper teams were mounted on all-terrain vehicles (ATVs)—what civilians know as quadbikes. Getting my four roller bags of equipment from the main quartermaster’s store, I was like a kid at Christmas, and spent the next few days sorting through it all.
People always ask me if I was ever scared in Afghanistan. In combat, some fear is a normal response. But the most scared I have ever been was riding around on a quadbike at night as the number one scout. One wrong move, and I was guaranteed to get seriously injured—and this was one of those times. Everything I tried, I felt like I would roll the bike over the edge. The rest of the team was ahead of me as my number two scout Tim had found a more suitable path for the convoy, and I was all on my own, feeling completely helpless.
I had to try something. I kicked the bike into reverse, leaned back on its rear-right corner, and inched my way back, keeping my eyes on both sides to ensure I didn’t roll off the edge. Eventually, I was back on flat ground and sat on the bike shaking. I got off and walked to the drop-off, which looked much higher from below. Another night, another close call on an ATV—not my last for this deployment.
We arrived at the vehicle harbour early the following day, and after a few hours’ rest, our team crept up the edge of the desert, looking down into the valley from the western side. We scanned the area, but nothing seemed out of place, so we stayed in position while the assault platoons made their way on foot, some fifteen minutes behind us.
We had a long day ahead, so our team commander Garry advised us to get some food down, as we had all opted for a sleep instead of eating when we’d arrived at the harbour. Eating was also a lot easier to do before it got too hot. I was cooking some noodles on my Jetboil when I heard Garry’s report on the radio: ‘Be aware I see around 200 women and children heading north up the valley.’ I looked in the direction Garry was facing and saw, less than 400 metres below us, a steady stream of women and kids hurrying away in a single file.
‘Where are all the men?’ I asked Garry.
‘Waiting for us,’ he responded, with a look of concern I had not seen on his face before.
My heart skipped a beat—we were on.
Garry wanted us to spread out along the high ground, and directed me to move 60 metres or so further to the south to get a better view of the southern side of a series of compounds in the valley. I jumped on my bike, then looked down at my noodles, which had just finished cooking. I assessed that the ground was flat and so I could ride with one hand and hold my noodles in the other, finishing them once I got to my overwatch position. A stupid decision.
I was distracted by the constant chatter reporting on Taliban when my front left tyre hit a rock. Unable to control the handlebars, I was flipped over to the right, down a 15-metre rolling hill. Stunned, I let go of my noodles and handlebars and covered my face to try to protect it as I rolled dozens of times down the hill. Once I stopped, I saw my airborne bike coming straight for me.
Unable to move due to the pain in my legs, I just covered my head and hoped for the best. Somehow, the bike bounced off the ground right next to me, then entirely over me, missing me by inches, before rolling further down the hill and stopping, spreading my guns and equipment down the bike path. My earpiece crackled into life. ‘All callsigns, one of the Romeo [recon team] bikes are down: bike rollover,’ said one of the assaulters as he rushed over to help me. That instant, gunfire erupted.
Davis and Lance had crested the high ground near where I had rolled my bike and started receiving machine gun fire from at least two positions in the compounds in front of them in the valley. Davis responded with his machine gun and fired a 66mm rocket launcher, forgetting to put his hearing protection on; he still suffers from severe tinnitus due to the damage his ears sustained that morning. Lance and Davis continued firing 66mm rockets, and one of Davis’s went straight through a compound’s front door. ‘Contact,’ I heard Davis scream on the radio as the assaulters ducked for cover and the rest of our recon team began firing into the valley.
This was Davis’s first contact, and he recalls hearing the bullets crack over his head, thinking, ‘This is what it sounds like.’ The intensity of the fire grew, causing Davis and Lance to break contact back towards the crest of a minor hill, where the remainder of the team would meet up with them. Davis recalled his thoughts during the gunfight: ‘You don’t think about it. Like you always read about, the training takes over and you act. I fumbled around with the 66—the adrenaline made my hands shake.’
I couldn’t believe it. Finally, we were getting into a gunfight, and I was lying there with what felt like broken legs. As soon as the contact started, everyone’s focus shifted from the rolled bike to the enemy, leaving me to myself. As I stood up I had trouble putting weight on my legs, and wondered how on earth I would get all my weapons and equipment and roll my bike upright. Just then, Chucky came screaming down the hill on his bike while enemy fire cracked above our heads. ‘Scott, get on the back, fuck your gear, just grab some ammo,’ he yelled over gunfire.
I grabbed some liners of 7.62mm link for the machine guns and jumped on Chucky’s bike. We rode up the hill to where the rest of the team was now laid out in extended lines behind their bikes. The team’s position was about 500 metres from the edge of the nearest set of compounds, and I yelled out to them to get a target indication of where we were being shot at from. The sniper team had also joined us, and Dan, who carried the .50-calibre sniper rifle, was lying prone next to his bike, engaging targets, when a burst of enemy machine gun fire stitched up the ground next to him.
I took cover behind Chucky’s bike and he started engaging the compounds and surrounding green belt with his MAG58, where he perceived the Taliban to be engaging us. Incoming rounds were kicking up dust around us, and our bullets and rocket fire were also kicking up dust around the compounds in front of us. The incoming fire was consistent and accurate as the Taliban machine gunners adjusted their shots.
Despite not having my bike and guns, I was thrilled to finally be in a decent gunfight, nearly eight years after joining the army. I had to control my anxiety, take deep breaths and remain aware of my surroundings. I could not have been happier.
Extracted from Forged in Fire by Scott Ryder.
Forged in Fire
by Scott Ryder
An Australian commando's story of life and death on the frontline.
Comments