Hellfire (18 page)

He went on to give us the big picture. From Camp Bastion our boys would support the PRTs as they went out into the surrounding countryside, establishing contact with the local village elders. The Afghan government wanted us to help them rebuild the infra-structure and become self-sufficient. The job of 16 Brigade was to provide the muscle to stop the Taliban killing the PRTs as they waltzed around the place promising all the good things Tony Blair had to offer.

Most villages had a police station that could act as a focal point for resistance. Part of the British mission was to train Afghan National Army (ANA) recruits and to work with those in the Afghan National Police (ANP) who hadn’t been totally corrupted by the Taliban until they could take over responsibility for the protection of the surrounding landscape.

‘The upshot,’ he said, ‘will be that the neighbouring villages will see how these guys are living the good life and they’ll want to join the party. The Taliban won’t be welcome. Our goodwill will spread
like an ink spot on blotting paper; eventually it’ll turn the whole map blue.’

He didn’t mention narcotics once. I was gobsmacked.

I knew that we were part of a UN mandated programme, the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), to reinstate a democratic government that could sort out the entire country, not just Kabul, properly train the ANA and ANP, rid the place of terrorists-and halt opium production.

While the US was tasked with destroying the Taliban, HIG and Al Qaeda, the other NATO participants had been given different roles in the reconstruction process. The UK was tasked with ridding Afghanistan of the poppies that made the heroin that accounted for between 90 and 95 per cent of the UK’s smack market, the majority of which were grown along the banks of the Helmand River.

Weaning the farmers off this most lucrative of crops was not going to be easy; the lion’s share of the profits ended up lining Taliban pockets, but their very survival was at stake. It didn’t matter how many bridges, hospitals and schools the PRTs built; the Taliban, HIG and Al-Qaeda didn’t want anything to get in the way of the drugs trade. In Helmand, the farmers were under increasing pressure to scale up heroin production and any village elder dim-witted enough to turn down Mullah Omar and his cronies would be beheaded in front of the very people he sought to protect.

As things stood, there was no one around to stop them. The ANA and ANP seemed to be completely incompetent (and smacked out of their heads) or in the pay of the Taliban. Not unsurprisingly, this was just how the Taliban liked it. In recent weeks it had sent a message to Tony Blair: if he sent British troops to Helmand, we’d come back in body bags.

I stuck up my hand. ‘I’m sorry, sir; I must be missing something here. What is our objective exactly?’

I wanted to know if I was on a UN reconstruction mission, a NATO anti-terrorism mission or the unstated anti-narcotics mission.

‘Our objective?’ The IntO looked surprised.

‘Our role, sir.’

‘We are not in a warfighting role. We’re going to support the Afghan national government-to help the place function as a normal country again.’

‘But would I be right in thinking that the Americans
are
there in a warfighting role and the UK
has
signed up for the anti-narcotics role?’

‘I can assure you we…er…16 Brigade…are
not
there to rid the country of narcotics, and the Americans…’ He paused. ‘Well…the Americans are the Americans I suppose, but that won’t affect our mission.’

Won’t affect us?
The Americans are part of the NATO force and the Taliban had said they’ll send us home in body bags; I could hardly see them making a fine distinction between us.

I sat back in my chair. The whole thing sounded totally fucked-up, but that wasn’t my problem. All we had to do was support our troops on the ground-pretty much what I used to do in my Gazelle in Northern Ireland-and the odd Chinook escort flight.

The IntO-and we’d heard a lot like him before-made it all sound breathtakingly simple. But, of course, everyone knew that it wasn’t.

The thing we needed to cling to-the thing to tell Emily-was that we were there to help. This wasn’t Iraq, where our military presence was based on a dodgy premise and false intelligence. In Afghanistan, we’d be bringing peace and security to a people who badly needed it, we’d be ridding the world of some seriously bad hombres, and we’d be stopping the drugs trade in its tracks.

When I got home, we both managed to put on our brave faces. I’d been on deployment enough times to know the signs: the small talk, the thin smiles, the succession of reassuring glances…

We’d decided to go to Emily’s favourite restaurant, a quiet French one with subdued lighting. I’d called the manager, a friend of ours, to secretly lay on a birthday cake.

God, I thought, let’s get this torture over with.

We were standing by the door, poised to step out into the spring evening, when the house phone rang. I checked the display.

‘KEOGH’.

Captain Andy Keogh was the squadron’s Ops Officer, the guy who was tasked with getting us out to Afghanistan. He was a universally popular workaholic.

‘Hi buddy,’ I said. It was typical of Andy to wish me well on the tour, and to let Emily know he was there if she needed anything.

‘I’ve got some bad news, Ed. You’re not going, I’m afraid.’

I looked up. Emily must have seen the expression on my face. She was watching me expectantly. ‘We’re not going?’

‘No,’ Andy said. ‘The squadron’s going. But you and Jon are staying behind.’ Jon was part of my flight, and a SupFAC-a Supervisory Forward Air Controller. My stomach felt like lead.

‘Why?’ I still hadn’t taken it in.

‘Not enough places, apparently. Two people are going to have to stay behind.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. A few days, perhaps. Probably something to do with Jake, but I don’t have all the details. We’ll sort it, Ed. I’m sorry. I know it’s the last thing you need right now. I’ll call you in the morning when I know more.’

I put down the phone. Jake was my flight commander; his wife Chloe was about to have a baby and he was going to join us after the birth.

I tried not to look disappointed. It was Emily’s birthday. This was her day. I’d be able to spend more time with her. I did my best to make it look like good news.

She started to clap her hands. ‘You’re not going?’

‘Jon and me are staying back for a few days.’

‘Why?’ She was beaming from ear to ear.

‘I don’t know. I’ll find out in the morning. Andy said it was something to do with Jake.’

Emily’s expression reminded me that there are some birthday presents money can’t buy. But there was something else there too; something just behind her eyes.

I smiled and took her hand. She put her arms around me and gave me a squeeze.

‘Still want to go out?’ she asked me.

I nodded and smiled back. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ I meant it too. I had never known a woman like her and not a day went by when I didn’t thank God she’d walked into my life. But we knew what that look meant. We were just delaying the evil moment. In a few days we’d have to go through the same process all over again.

At the squadron, I found out that Jon and I had fallen foul of the rules governing the number of fighting personnel each nation was allowed to have in-country at any given time. The UK had exceeded its quota; even though Jon was the SupFAC and I was the Squadron Weapons Officer we had to wait until some Brits shipped home.

To keep ourselves busy, we flew the simulator and practised our weapons drills; then, when there was still no call to head for Brize Norton, we nipped over to 664 Squadron and asked if we could borrow one of their Apaches so we could stay current. Very obligingly, they said yes.

On 5 May there was still no sign our departure was imminent. I decided to head for Catterick Camp; 664 Squadron were doing their Annual Personal Weapons Test-something everyone in the armed forces had to go through to ensure that we knew the pointy
end of a gun from the butt. I decided to take the opportunity to test out an idea I’d been toying with for a while.

We carried a personal weapon in addition to our sidearm in case we were shot down on operations. The short-barrelled SA-80 carbine was the only rifle allowed in an Apache, but because its handle jutted into the cockpit, restricting our escape route in an emergency, we had to remove it and screw it back on if things went pear-shaped. This had always struck me as certifiable. If I were lucky enough to survive a crash, the last thing I’d want to do was fumble around with my carbine handle while the Taliban were launching an action replay of Rorke’s Drift.

My idea was simple-fire the weapon without it. And today was the first chance I’d had to put it to the test.

I arrived at the range and was immediately confronted by a huge staff sergeant with a shaved head, straight out of Central Casting.
Listen in, you facking lot! Watch and shoot, watch and shoot! Bring me my facking brew
…

I unscrewed the handle of my SA-80 and dropped to the ground, facing the pop-up targets in Lane 6. A long shadow fell across me. I squinted against the sun to see Staff Sergeant Tank, hands on hips, looming over me.

‘You can’t fire your weapon without a handle,’ he boomed for all to hear, adding ‘Sir’ as an afterthought.

Patience, Macy.
‘Staff, this is how I’m going to have to fire in-theatre,’ I replied as courteously as I could manage.

‘The rules clearly state that you are not allowed to fire it without a handle.’

‘I know what the rules say, Tanky, I’m a Skill at Arms Instructor too,’ I said, marginally less diplomatically. ‘Do you know
why
you’re not allowed to fire it without a handle?’

He looked as if he’d just been asked to solve differential calculus on
University Challenge
.

He mumbled something incomprehensible.

‘So, you’re telling me not to do something but have no idea why…’

Staff Sergeant Tank stood there grappling for an answer.

‘The reason they insist that you fire this thing with a handle is because it has a short barrel, so, as there’s nothing to grip, you might end up shooting your fingers off. Let me assure you, however, that it’s not going to happen to me. Take a look at this…’

Ten minutes later, I’d done the business. The handle made no difference at all. I’d rested the rifle in the crook of my left arm, taken aim and fired. I tested the method on targets at 50, 100, 200 and 300 metres, in the prone, kneeling and standing positions. I placed the bullets squarely where they were supposed to go and listened for the tannoy.

‘Lane 4. Fail.’

‘Lane 5. Pass.’

‘Lane 6. One Hundred Per Cent Awarded Marksman.’

‘Lane 7. Pass.’

I’d not dropped a single round. Tanky had his back to me now, but I didn’t need to rub it in. The important thing was that I knew I could fly minus the handle and, if the shit did hit the fan, count on taking some of the fuckers down if I found myself in my own private version of
Zulu Dawn
. I’d broken a few rules, but so what, I figured the rules were supposed to be there to protect me.

A few days later, on 9 May, we got our first message back from the boys via MSN-Messenger. They were still at Kandahar Airfield, which I now knew as KAF.

Bastion isn’t ready. No one is doing any tasking.

We don’t expect to do any for a while. Everyone is ground running the aircraft. Then we’ll airtest them.

It was all routine stuff, but it did nothing to ease my frustration. There was still no word on when Jon and I’d be leaving. I felt as if we were participating in our very own Phoney War-lolling around in a deckchair waiting for the Hun to attack.

It wasn’t long before he did.

On 17 May, there was a newsflash on Sky. Fighting had broken out in southern Afghanistan and British and NATO troops had been involved. The details only came through the following day. Ninety insurgents were reported dead in Helmand. There was no news of any British casualties. Jon and I felt like a couple of caged tigers.

It wasn’t until later in the day, when a message came through on MSN from Chris, a member of 3 Flight, that we learned Apaches had been involved.

I’ve used up two of my nine lives!!!

Canadian soldiers went out today and hit the hornets’ nest with a baseball bat. They encountered RPGs and small arms.

My TADS was u/s. We went, but couldn’t fight.

Hornet not afraid of AH. ROE didn’t support firing.

Did a show of force at 125 feet. Heard RPG miss the cockpit. Black smoke trail. Couldn’t return fire.

Pat didn’t see the RPG, so he couldn’t shoot back.

Another RPG passed between our aircraft. I couldn’t ID which man fired it, so I couldn’t return fire. Climbed back up.

Fight died down. RTB.

There was a lot of information to absorb here. The guys had seen action. Serious action. A ‘show of force’ normally meant a fast jet streaking over a bunch of troublemakers at low level as an implicit warning: next time, it would be a bomb. Low level for a jet was low enough to be seen but still above the SA band. A show of force by an Apache at 125 feet-no wonder he’d been fucking shot at, I thought. What happened to high level?

I couldn’t understand why they were in Panjwai either; it was in Kandahar province, thirteen miles west of Kandahar City, well short of the eighty miles to Helmand. Chris was a small bloke with a big sense of humour. This was no joke, though. I could read his excitement between the lines as well as the relief. RTB. Return to base. We’d been lucky-on the squadron’s first outing, I’d nearly lost a couple of mates and we’d damn near lost a helicopter.

As I reread Chris’s message, one line in particular filled me with a combination of excitement and trepidation. ‘Hornet not afraid of AH (Attack Helicopter).’

So, the Taliban wanted to mix it with us. Then bring it on. But please let me be a part of it. It sounded mad, irrational, even to me, but I had been twenty-one and a half years in the armed forces, with half a year left to go, and this was what I’d trained for.