The art of war artists: Capturing the 'organised chaos' of conflict in Afghanistan

On the night of 19 February, 2010, Corporal “Dranny” Dransfield prepared his kit under the light of a head torch. Known affectionately as the “Combat Wombat” to his mates, he had a particular, perhaps unorthodox, method to – in his own words – “prep for battle”. Nonetheless, it was a method that had been well rehearsed. Organising an array of rounds and weapons, he gestured to the pipe and said in his thick Middlesbrough accent, “This baby is going to go tomorrow”.

It had been decided to launch an operation at dawn and trouble was expected. All around, troops made similar preparations amid a pervasive air of anticipation and excitement. Weapons were cleaned, rounds counted, blood groups noted, helmets, boots and body armour arranged and final briefs given.

We were in PB Talibjan, a few kilometres south along the wadi from Musa Qalah, in Afghanistan. Major Justin Butah, C Squadron Leader of the Household Cavalry Regiment, was officer commanding (OC) of the base; working under his responsibility was the small 2 Yorks OMLT complement commanded by Captain John, together with obligatory Afghan partners.

Accommodation was minimal to say the least, and an extra bunk had been squeezed into the room for me, between all the hanging fatigues, boots, body armour, rifles and copious piles of “good for morale” erotic magazines and posters.

My last vision of that day, while pondering the possibilities of daybreak and soldiers all around rested in anticipation of battle, was of grenades and ammunition rounds lying idly around on the floor.

At 0530 hours, copious cigarettes were smoked before the silhouetted figures of the foot patrol pushed off into the dark. Having received permission to go on the operation, I joined the C Squadron HCR FSG (Fire Support Group) commanded by Major Butah in a Mastiff armoured vehicle with his Squadron Corporal Major Shaun Fry MC, as 'top cover' gunner, the driver, the FOO (Forward Observation Officer), an RA Captain and FAC (Forward Air Controller), Flt Lieutenant Rich May. We pushed out of the base in convoy at 0642 hours.

Just before leaving I had a brief chat with Gunner Darlington, who'd had a pretty unsettled and interrupted sleep in the bunk immediately adjacent to me. He relayed that he was driving a Coyote, an open-topped armoured vehicle, but that he would definitely prefer to be in a better-protected, covered vehicle like a Mastiff.

We bumped and jolted across the open terrain to a pre-designated position, coming to a halt at 0720 hours on the high ground opposite a rise known affectionately by the troops as “Three Nipple Hill”.

To keep myself occupied during the journey out, I made a drawing of the FAC strapped into the seat opposite in full battledress, quite literally off to war. I achieved mixed results, but learned an important technical lesson as we were thrown about in the claustrophobic interior of the vehicle: in those circumstances – drawing on the move and being bounced around – the marks you don't make are as important as the marks you do.

Climbing through a hatch, I sat on the rooftop of the Mastiff and made some studies of the surrounding landscape as the sun rose behind the distant mountains and the early morning haze began to lift.

With a broad sweep over the terrain, my companions ably monitored and fixed the grid reference positions of suspected Taliban insurgents and their spotters, known as “Dickers”, who had been sighted moving around. Plumes of dust pinpointed the exact positions of their bikes and activity.

A Javelin Missile was set up on the next-door Mastiff and began to home in on potential targets. It was said – and usually delivered with a smile – that the cost of firing one of these was equivalent to buying a Porsche 911.

The dickers spotted our three vehicles on the higher ground but were oblivious thus far to the tiny column of troops advancing gradually through the serene and rolling landscape, tasked with eventually clearing the various compounds below. Women and children began to leave their buildings, apparently a good warning sign of a possible and imminent attack.

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In between the banter, the running “intel” on “comms” and the profusion of cigarettes, the tension was building and building. Finally it was released when the foot patrol, proceeding over a rise, came into view of the insurgents who, taken by surprise, opened fire.

Using a tactic of “shoot and scoot”, the firefight was initially sporadic, though quickly developed into what could be best described as “organised chaos”.

As machine guns clattered away all around me, the scene enshrouded by clouds of smoke and dust, I had to seize the moment, however fleeting, to scrawl down some marks recording the events as they unravelled. It was as much as I could do. I didn't have time to worry about the quality of the work, I could think about that later. It was about getting something down, the bare minimum, in real time – right there and right then.

A red smoke canister was thrown to cover troops advancing across the open ground to assault and clear a nearby compound. Covering fire from the FSG rained down on insurgent positions in a copse of trees opposite. Grenades hitting their target covered the area in dense smoke. Within the confusion, the ceaseless noise drowned out urgent, shouted orders: “Do we have men in there? Do we have men in there? Where are they firing from?”

Strangely, my interpretation of this scene was like hundreds of drawings I'd done as a kid. As if time had stood still, I resorted again to the simplicity of stickmen. Set within the muted tones of the dusty and rugged landscape, the bright “cadmium red” smoke was like a large abstract brushstroke that acted as some strange veil or metaphor for protection. There were obvious connotations with blood, but also references to the bright red tunics worn by British soldiers during the 19th century, who had perhaps passed over this very same ground, engaging a compound in a not dissimilar manner many years before.

From atop the Mastiff, with its clear perspective on proceedings, I had an old-fashioned general's-eye view of the battleground. Reacting to the changing shape of the battle, Taliban fighters frequently moved positions, firing from “murder holes” as troops continued to storm the array of compounds. A sniper, his sights incorrectly set, did not bother to fire at an obvious target and a trooper from the next vehicle raced over seeking a knife, desperate to open a new ammo box to continue the fight. On this occasion my penknife had to suffice.

I worked away ceaselessly, trying to capture something of the frenetic activity, only too aware that so much was going on and with it the possibility for powerful material; and yet it wasn't really possible to follow a calculated thought process about what to concentrate on.

Sitting adjacent to SCM Fry MC in his gun turret, I made some quick notations as he fired copious grenade rounds from his GMG into the treeline and then directed his fire into one of the compounds. On impact, bursts of smoke erupted, blitzing the perfect view of the landscape, hanging in the air and drifting in the slight breeze.

We were then fired at and I was abruptly ordered below to take cover from the incoming rounds. Later we were told that “Icom” – intelligence from interpreters listening in on insurgent communications – had picked up orders from Taliban commanders to fire at the figures on top of the vehicle.

Shortly after, as rounds bounced off the vehicle, SCM Fry ducked down too and I remember vividly the expression on his face as he joined me below. His eyes were so calm, yet so alive and awake and offset by a vast grin. I hadn't seen a look quite like this before, but it echoed the sentiments of many of the soldiers I'd spoken with, including old friends; surrounded by real and imminent danger and with the adrenaline pumping, it was as if he was high on some intoxicating drug.

Looking out of the vehicle's open back door, I could see Afghanistan's rugged landscape, and in the middle ground a nomadic encampment complete with camels. Again, a breathtaking scene of stunning beauty and charm, strangely juxtaposed with the deafening sounds of battle that raged all around.

A US A10 “Warthog” plane was eventually called in and, seemingly swooping out of nowhere, twice dropped phosphorescent flares over the Taliban positions, calming the fighting to sporadic outbursts. At this point, the Major decided we were moving out. “Are we retreating?” I asked. “Withdrawing, we don't retreat!” came the gruff response from the FOO.

So ended the battle of “Three Nipple Hill”, after three and a quarter hours. Word came from Icom that one enemy had possibly been killed in action.

As the convey withdrew, what was thought to be an IED went off beside us, pitching our vehicle violently to the right. Fortunately, we were all strapped in but I remember the feeling, as if all the bones in one's body had been shaken. “What was that?” I heard.

Nearly back at PB Talibjan, we stopped at CP (checkpoint) Mohib for a time, watching the tiny specks of the foot patrol grow larger as they returned to base, when absolute commotion came through on comms. A Coyote from the other vehicle flank had struck an IED. It was being driven by Gunner Darlington, who I'd chatted to that morning. Everyone feared the worst and amid the confusion we raced off to aid the stricken vehicle. I was thrown out of the Mastiff outside PB Talibjan. Running into the base, I passed panicked troops, clutching at body armour, rifles and unfastened kit, as they raced out to the vehicles.

I felt sick. The world had seemingly gone mad. Having visions of the base now being ransacked (it had apparently been attacked a few days previously), I felt vulnerable, and unsure of what to do. My solution was to do the only thing I could do: I climbed the nearest sangar (a small, fortified position) and started to draw.

There was still no news on Darlington, so I drew Mastiff 33A (the vehicle I'd been in) racing to the aid of the stricken vehicle in the distance, throwing up a long trail of Afghan dust. A few locals wandered slowly past the base, and I was struck by their apparent ambivalence towards the situation. Where did their sympathies lie? Were they Taliban? I had no idea. On reflection, it dawned on me that perhaps theirs was the only reaction one could have after experiencing, in one form or another, 30 years of war.

I sat in the sangar surveying the terrain with a Household Cavalry Trooper and an ANA soldier, part of a now threadbare contingent holding the base. At this point the presence of a .50 Cal Machine gun was somehow reassuring. The ANA soldier pointed out three figures – Taliban “dickers” – sitting on motorbikes on a hill opposite. They would be keeping their fighters up to date on intel and surveying the results of their work; they must have been party to any IEDs planted that morning.

Finally, news came in of the explosion; there were two casualties from the incident but they were not too badly injured. However, before we had time to digest the good news, boom! A vast explosion interrupted our thoughts. It was another IED. I watched as the dark cloud of smoke bellowed into the sky, initially obscuring all details of the scene before beginning to drift away in the breeze. Intense and abstract chatter followed on comms but by then I was not listening. I was full of horror; and the extreme quiet that followed the blast only served to emphasise that emotion.

It was a powerful scene and would have made a great image, but feeling too traumatised I couldn't draw. It didn't seem right somehow, not until I knew the fate of those concerned.

Mastiff 52, proceeding with the medical evacuation for the first vehicle, had itself struck an IED. Thankfully, over the comms we heard the Major say “No casualties… I repeat no casualties.” They were fortunate to have been travelling in a Mastiff, with all its armour; good fortune that was confirmed on inspecting the damage once the vehicle had been recovered by REME and towed into the base.

A US Pedro MedeVac was called in to recover the injured. While two Blackhawk helicopters circled overhead, covering the base, another descended into the luminescent cloud of green smoke that marked the landing spot. “Unlucky but lucky” were the words used by the troops to describe the two casualties from the first explosion. Darlington was taken away towards Camp Bastion; the other, a gunner who was celebrating his 20th birthday, had been blown up twice in one day!

Slowly, the column of troops that had held the ground for hours began to return, and man-by-man they crossed into the relative safety of the base. Some had been standing next to the IEDs when they went off; on a day of luck, they had been particularly fortunate. Having been on the ground for 10 and a half hours, everyone was wired.

As the sun dropped, the troops gathered outside the cookhouse to drink brews, scoff, smoke cigarettes and discuss and relive the events of the day. By now, everyone was pretty tired and drained, the adrenaline from the day beginning to wane. I climbed a sangar and made a watercolour of the base with the mountains in the distance, the sky a mix of purples and reds. Now and again, the evening silence was broken by a Chinook or Apache helicopter clattering overhead.

It was a fabulous scene but I couldn't quite reconcile the opposing elements of the day. Every so often, someone would climb up to the sangar to see how I was getting on. For many it had been their first proper firefight. A young South African, still buzzing from the day's events, relayed his thoughts in between cigarettes. “The Combat Wombat was a legend,” he said. “Dranny fired 1,400 rounds. I managed to get 1,200 rounds down… it was awesome George.”

Inside, in the ops room, I made a portrait. Like a cabaret, every little mark was accompanied by some dry banter and a lot of laughter. The ease with which the troops were now beginning to speak to me made me feel more accepted; they weren't wary of me anymore. The fact I'd only been there a couple of days and had arrived with a paintbrush instead of a rifle didn't seem to matter. We'd been through the same, shared experience and I had therefore, in some small way, been accepted and become one of them.

That night, on clambering onto my bunk, it was very sobering to find that Darlington's kit had already been organised, collected and removed; it was as if he had never been there.

'War Artists in Afghanistan: Beyond the Wire' by Jules George (£35, ACC Editions) will be published in April; the book is available to pre-order on Amazon

Sketches from life: Tracing a path to war

I have been drawing and painting in one form or another since I was a child. Ironically, despite his recommendation that I join the Guards and fight, it was my grandfather, a First World War veteran, who stimulated the interest; I would sit, watching him paint in his retirement. I duly attended a number of art schools and colleges, and although I had to take on various jobs to subsidise my art for many years, I succeeded in becoming a professional artist, and have now worked as such for more than 20 years.

A friend of mine in the services put me in touch with the Lieutenant Colonel who was head of Army Media Operations at the Ministry of Defence. I presented my case to the Lieutenant Colonel, subsequently sending in a detailed proposal. It took more than a year to organise, but eventually I secured a place as a war artist on an MOD-sanctioned and sponsored trip to Helmand in Afghanistan.

Before I could leave, however, there was a weekend's pre-deployment training in Nottingham. I learned about the elementary things, such as getting in and out of a helicopter, hostage situations, IEDs, how to get out of a minefield and, naturally, the essential medical details and battlefield casualty drills. All quite sobering stuff for an artist.

Today, in the era of rolling 24-hour news, the Internet and social media, we're bombarded with film and photographic footage from Afghanistan and other conflict zones. Often, the images are highly detailed. Yet, such is the deluge that the graphic footage “straight from the frontline” can be gone and forgotten almost instantly. By contrast, drawing and painting have an innate human quality and a tangible physicality and expression. They speak to us in a timeless and direct way, provoking a deeper thought process. Making a drawing 'in situ' forces you to look and look again and to consider what you're studying – it demands interpretation and understanding.