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 clinical technician. Ten years later she made historical past, turning into the 1st girl soldier to kill a Taliban fighter in close-quarter strive against 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 via the Taliban. A regimen patrol into a space saturated with enemy opponents escalates right into a seven-week siege. dealing with the potential of loss of life day-by-day, Taylor writes of gun battles and dangerous patrols, culminating within the extraction of greater than sixty-six casualties with 4 killed in motion. a robust tale written with a humility that captures the occasionally impalpable humour of squaddies at struggle, Battleworn offers a testomony to wrestle medics worldwide. It highlights the the most important function that they play in latest 360-degree battlefield.
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Additional resources for Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan
Laughing at Duffy’s response, I explain, ‘Four casualties at the school. We’re moving them out to an HLZ a couple of clicks away. ‘Ne dramas, mucker,’ he replies. Duffy is tall and slim; he has a runner’s build. He is clean-shaven and not growing a beard any time soon, on account of barely being out of short trousers. I remember Duffy from Lash, when he was an eighteen-year-old arsehole who listened to hardcore rave music and drank too much Red Bull. He was a loud, irritating kid. That was twelve hours ago.
The helicopter hovers above as it slows before settling down, the blades whipping up a storm. Wincing as the grainy sand and grit scratches my exposed lower back, I realise an instant too late that I have forgotten to tuck my shirt in. The Chinook doesn’t hang around. We load up our injured, opting for head first. The team receiving nod their heads before giving a thumbs up as I hand over the paperwork. It’s all done in less than thirty seconds, and the four injured Afghan soldiers are whisked away, back to the trauma unit in Camp Bastion.
Our two vehicles press on, and my watch is telling me that I need sleep. Today feels like it is never going to end. The police station is in darkness, and the only sound is the noise coming from the engines of our vehicles. 50 calibre. ‘I’m fucked,’ he grunts. I am too tired to offer any response, and my body aches from being crammed in the back of the vehicle. I feel my soaked shirt under my body armour, and lap up the smell of dried blood. Jumping down from the tailgate, I grab my kit, slinging my weapon on my back.