We had just walked into the middle of a Fedayeen bank robbery.
I headed for the side of a building and walked quickly towards where the explosion had gone off.
‘Northern Ireland all over again,’ I thought. As I lifted my radio mic to my mouth to report the incident, one of the most horrific sights I have ever witnessed unfolded in front of me.
The street had been full of civilians and passing cars, and as the bank doors were sent flying across the street, the local population had rushed towards what they thought would be all their birthdays come at once.
As they drew near to the now wide-open bank, the guards inside, eager to protect any possible bounty for themselves, opened fire with a number of weapons on the crowd.
Men, women and children leapt from the back of passing vehicles. Some were shot before they hit the ground. Others were still sitting where they had been when the explosion went off, slumped dead, as bullets hit their faces and chests.
I could see women dressed in black burkas, head to toe, being hit by bullets which made their clothes dance up and spit out dust like a rug hung on a washing line being beaten with a stick.
At least 15 people were hit and surely more. My contact report went something like: ‘S**t. Hello Zero, this is Whiskey 2-3 Bravo. Contact, 100 metres rear of Sheraton Hotel. People being shot and…’
I never got to finish.
The whole world stopped as if a pause button had been pressed so it could get its breath back. All I knew was something had smashed into my chest.
I was just about to put my left heel to the floor as I walked forward but was rocked back on it. The world had gone mute.
There were no sounds, just a sense of a mild electric shock running through my body accompanied by a buzzing after-shock that lasted the smallest fraction of a second.
What followed probably lasted for no more than 60 seconds but takes half an hour to tell due to the billion sensations that went through my mind and body.
Still standing, I looked at my left breast, which seemed to be the epicentre of whatever the f*** had just hit me. There was no blood and the first thought that went through my head was that I had been hit by a riot-type plastic bullet.
Noises from the outside world began to fill my ears again. I thought: ‘Well I’m not standing here to be hit by something else.’
Quite nonchalantly, I turned and walked 10 metres to my rear and sat down in an alcove which formed the corner of the junction where I had been standing.
I still had no idea that I had just had most of the contents of my left lung blown out of the back of me at approximately 1,000kph by a 7.62mm AK-47 round, leaving a hole the size of the rim on a pint glass, just below my shoulder blade.
The round had missed my front body armour plate and had lodged in the rear one.
Apparently, my heart had been missed by half an inch, but right then I just figured something had hit me in the chest and at worst I had broken a rib.
You’ve been shot, you silly b*****d. But, I argued with myself, there’s no blood! I don’t feel like I’ve been shot! In fact, I feel quite good, a little tired maybe. What if I haven’t been shot and I tell everyone on the net I have? I’ll look a right tw*t!
I got on the radio and said: ‘Hello Zero, this is Whiskey 2-3 Bravo, I think I’ve been shot. Over.’ No Reply. ‘Hello Zero, it’s Bob, I’ve been shot.’
I found I hadn’t got the breath to say it again and I was getting interrupted on the net by others reporting in and clogging up the airwaves. Zero hadn’t heard me but L/Cpl Simon Campbell had and he constructively butted in.
‘Shut the f*** up and get off the net, Bob’s been shot. Bob’s been shot.’
I was all alone. The whole of my section was across the street about 20 metres away. I remember thinking that I was about to start panicking. If I panicked, I’d go into shock and if I went into shock, then I was dead.
— Lance Sergeant Bob Giles in What it feels like to be shot in the chest by a 7.62mm bullet from an AK-47, travelling at 1,000kph