KEY POINTS:
He was pinned down by Taleban fire for five minutes, his body smothered in masonry as rocket-propelled grenades thumped into the wall behind.
Private Meighan Kenny escaped. He always does. Sixteen times he has been shot at by Taleban fighters since he arrived in Helmand last April.
He has led men through scores of Taleban compounds. In their murky maze of antechambers he has often literally bumped into the enemy.
Kenny turns 21 in three weeks. "I'll get there, don't you worry," he grins, blue eyes squinting against the searing heat of another afternoon in Afghanistan.
Kenny's experiences are not unique in a campaign marked by ferocious firefights in brutal conditions. This is the story of a week spent on the front line with young soldiers who daily share death, scorching heat and the laughter and banter of mates.
In the British Army's forward operating base at Sangin, every soldier from the 1st Battalion of the Royal Anglian Regiment has a tale.
Teenagers describe the high-pitched whistle bullets make as they fizz past the face. Rocket-propelled grenades make a "strange hiss".
Privates tell of lying face down in the shallow furrows of a poppy field as Taleban machine gun fire sends spurts of soil into the air beside them.
Young men talk matter-of-factly about how they cradled the brains of an Afghan soldier in the middle of enemy territory as they waited for a helicopter to save his life.
It is a campaign where platoons with an average age of 19 have tracked beyond Taleban lines for 12 days, and where soldiers have sweated so much their shirts have rotted off their backs.
At times, the fighting has been so relentless that front-line platoons have fallen to less than a third of full strength because of battle injuries, heat exhaustion and sickness.
The struggle to stabilise southern Afghanistan's Helmand province is entering its critical stage. Military commanders know Helmand could go either way - it is winnable, but there is a risk that the campaign could descend into an Iraq-style counter-insurgency operation.
The Taleban are a shapeless, shifting enemy always ready to switch tactics. They know the terrain and are heavily armed. The British have air power, and what many regard as the best-trained infantry in the world.
Major Charlie Calder, the commanding officer of D company, squints into the sun in the dusty courtyard of the Sangin base as the faint crump of mortars tell of another Taleban attack on a nearby Afghan Army post.
"We are at a crucial point and we can still achieve success," he said.
Entering the "green zone" is a disarming experience. The narrow strip of fertile meadows, irrigation ditches and mud-bricked compounds lining the Helmand River suggest a tranquillity unmolested by time. It can feel like Tuscany. But to British troops, it promises terror.
The Taleban often appear from nowhere. A crack of gunfire, then a blanket of bullets followed by the whoosh of rockets. Three, four, five of them. There is a scramble for cover and troops return fire.
Then, as quickly as they appeared, the attackers melt away. Such a "contact" can last for two minutes; it is the classic "shoot and scoot" tactic of guerrilla fighters They are an elusive enemy; British troops rarely catch a clear glimpse of them even during firefights.
One corporal with the Royal Anglians in Sangin, Christian Kisby, 22, from Leeds, remembers: "Hundreds of bullets were coming at me. I could feel their breeze as they passed. The trees in front of me were getting shredded by Taleban gunners behind. I couldn't even see them."
They are also an idiosyncratic enemy. British forces intercepting signals have heard Taleban commanders bragging that they have killed President George W. Bush. Other snippets have caught them glorifying victories after attacks when no British soldier was injured. Sometimes, in the strange, still moments before combat, troops hear Taleban fighters giggling hysterically.
"They seem to enjoy their opium; they can seem out of it during a contact," says Private Nici Whaites, 23, from King's Lynn, his gaze wandering to the green ribbon of the Sangin valley where the opium crop is sown.
Occasionally, a lone man will appear, fire a single shot and run away. These are the "10-dollar Taleban", paid to take pot-shots at the infidels.
But their commanders show a strategist's know-how.
"They can dictate ambushes, conduct flank attacks. They know what they are doing," says Sergeant Michael Butcher, a veteran at the age of 29.
Now the threat is evolving. On dusty, potholed Route 611 - the major road through the Helmand valley - travel is fast becoming impossible. Last month between 40 and 50 roadside bombs or "improvised explosive devices" were laid beneath its scarred surface.
A more frightening threat comes from the cells of suicide bombers believed to enter Helmand during the night from the vast, untended border of Pakistan.
Recently, an 8-year-old boy was paid to push a wheelbarrow towards coalition forces in Sangin. Hidden beneath its cargo of mobile phone cards was a bomb. As the wheelbarrow neared its intended target, the soldiers moved. The Taleban detonated the device anyway.
Elsewhere, more orthodox battles continue to rage. Every night, intelligence streams into the operations room at Sangin. Senior officers from the Royal Anglians scan photographs of Helmand; red blobs mark the latest skirmishes.
As night falls, the day's action is discussed. Unconfirmed reports of hundreds of Taleban killed and injured by United States air strikes; fresh fighting at a base in the north as the Taleban move their front line; reports of 200 Taleban crossing the Helmand in their reed boats above Sangin - in short, a typical day.
Occasionally, more unusual operations are conducted. Under cover of darkness recently, 70 troops from A Company trekked 12km inside enemy lines. They intended to be away for three days, but spent almost two weeks living a semi-feral existence - fighting by day, sleeping in ditches by night. "There were fleas and giant crabs that kept nipping us when we tried to kip. It was tough," says Private Whaite of 2 Platoon.
As they marched onwards, soldiers deloused each other under the burning sun. Worse would follow: "We were pinned down in the open once. I was lying face down and the soil was flying up all around me. At one point a rocket-propelled grenade passed two feet [60cm] over our heads."
Six days in, T-shirts had fallen apart. Troops compared weeping sores where their sweat-soaked fabric had sliced through their flesh. Helicopter drops supplied the rations and water required to plough further north into the Taleban heartland.
It was a triumph; the Royal Anglians succeeding in pushing the enemy back. They have not attacked Sangin since.
There was a burst of static, then a terrified voice from a British base crackled on the intercom. "That was crazy, what a f**king bender." Earlier, gunfire had boomed across town from the base just over 3km away.
Nick Denning, commander of 1 Platoon, A Company, offered instant support from his position high up in a hilltop cemetery above the Helmand.
To his right ran Route 611, quiet in the night. To the left, illuminated by moonlight, lay Sangin - the former Taleban stronghold often described as the most dangerous place on the planet, now under the control of the Royal Anglians.
Denning's headset crackled again. Thirty heavily armed Taleban fighters were reported to be heading their way. Another burst of static and some welcome news; they were not due to arrive until after dawn.
Beyond the British compound is the wadi that meanders north east to Musa Qala, the power base of the Taleban, where hundreds of fighters are believed to have retrenched. Below, the crumbling ruins of deserted homes are discernible in its shadows - a reminder of last summer, when wave after wave of fighters attacked the platoon house.
Reminders, too, are found inside. Twelve months on, its walls remain scorched with the pockmarks of bullets, and covered with written tributes to those who have passed through and those who have fallen.
The walls, like everything else, are coated in a fine film of dust.
Soldiers' hair becomes matted in moments. Nothing escapes the talcum-powder mist of sand that hangs in the air, not even items packed in airtight containers.
And, of course, it is hot. Before breakfast, the climate is Mediterranean. By midday, the ground ripples with a furnace-like intensity. Even the Taleban set down their AK-47s between 1pm and 4pm.
And then there is the dreaded "D'n'V". A debilitating bout of diarrhoea and vomiting can flatten the fittest. Outbreaks can sweep right through tiny operating bases like Sangin; last month 47 cases were reported among the 160 in the camp.
Despite such spartan, demanding conditions, morale is buoyant. Laughter sweeps through the base. Banter is constant. Battle-scarred buildings are adorned with pictures of wives, children and girlfriends. Bonds are formed quickly: Privates Matt Duffy and Terry Crofty, both 19, chuckle like brothers when re-telling times spent in the Sangin valley. "Remember when we were pinned down in that tiny ditch and there was shit-loads of bullets and RPGs flying above? I just couldn't help laughing," says Duffy. His friend nods: "We've seen a lot of stuff that the public do not understand".
Kisby wonders why the public do not seem to care about their efforts to bring stability to Helmand. One afternoon he walked into the firing line of a Taleban unit to drag away Private Chris Gray, who had been hit. A bomb dropped by a US aircraft exploded 500m away. "I couldn't see a thing, but the bullets kept on coming." Despite Kisby's courage, Gray died.
Brigadier John Lorimer, the British commander in Helmand, is understandably proud of the young soldiers risking their lives.
"We are getting guys who are 18 years old who are making critical decisions within a split second; life and death decisions as part of a cohesive, professional organisation."
Yet the public's ambivalence to their efforts pains him. The soldiers say that none of their friends understand what Afghanistan is about or grasp how hard their battle group has fought. On average, since April 8, the Royal Anglians in Afghanistan have fired more than 4000 rounds a day. At the peak of operations, platoons of A Company that are now 28 strong were down to 12 men.
The clock is ticking. Next month the vast poppy fields will be seeded for a harvest that will supply most of the world's heroin and generate more money for the Taleban and those who support al Qaeda's ideology.
Calder believes they must win over the locals with major reconstruction projects in Helmand by the start of next year's planting season.
The first shoots of democracy are springing up, but the military understands that the region risks becoming a quagmire.
Sangin remains the hope, a glimpse of a future in which the Taleban have been routed and people are safe to live normal lives. Three months ago, its Taleban-controlled streets were deserted. Now the bazaar is booming. Patrols from the Royal Anglian stride through what were once no-go areas.
An offer of free medical aid for residents attracted 900 people in two days recently. Sangin has street lights for the first time in its history.
Scratch below the surface, however, and problems remain. The Governor in Sangin is a one-man band. He has a building, but no staff; he has a title, but no power. Work has yet to start on a promised new school.
British forces are preparing for the long haul. By the time he is 22, Private Meighan Kenny and the men like him will have newer stories to tell.
- Observer
