Spoken from the Front (16 page)

We had already flown six hours and you're only allowed to
fly for eight without having an extension. But we couldn't
have been better read into the scenario. By this time it was
about 11 a.m. We heard the plan [that two other Apaches
would fly in with four men clinging to the sides], divided up,
worked out a time line: absolute maximum ten minutes on
the ground [for the two Apaches], but try and be off in five
minutes.

We knew one aircraft would fire to the north of the fort and
around, while the other would put suppressive fire down on
the south. We were just up high [in the skies] co-ordinating it.
It took a 2,000-pounder from a B1 to initiate the surprise.
There was a massive smoke cloud, dust – the place was
absolutely obliterated, really. The other two aircraft were
coming in low at fifty feet and we were on either side. We
were close enough to feel the blast from the 2,000-pounder as
it went in. I don't think it's anything I'll ever see again.

The wing aircraft put a load of suppressive fire down on
the northern compound and around, whilst we fired 30mm,
initially to the south of the fort. We didn't fire any of our
missiles that time, but the other aircraft did. We then did
counter-rotating orbits at various heights. We stepped lower
than we should – about 1,400 feet – and the other aircraft was
even lower at 800 feet. We tried to vary it a bit.

But it worked. If you'd planned the whole thing for days,
you probably couldn't have co-ordinated it any better: to get
all the surprise and fire-power there. However, because of all
the dust, it meant that Tom had to land slightly further
forward. After he landed, Tom was like: 'Ugly Five Two. I am
being shot at. My three o'clock, fifty metres.' We were: 'Stand
by. Confirm three o'clock. Fifty metres from your aircraft.' By
this time, because we were so close, it was hard to target with
the sight. It was much easier to look out of the window with
your eyes and link the gun to your helmet. So the rear seat
took over firing with a manual range on the gun. We called:
'UG Five Zero, This is UG Five Two. Stand by, firing now.'
UG50 came back with: 'Good rounds. Just in the corner, thirty
metres, just where the wall is, one man.' We repositioned
slightly and fired again, this time only thirty metres from our
wing aircraft on the ground. Fortunately, they were good
rounds. That was probably the most sporty firing we've ever
done. The margin for error was not very much.

They were about seven minutes on the ground. Then
they got back up and lifted off. The other aircraft went
Winchester: got rid of everything. I didn't fire any missiles,
but we fired our rockets. We came back with [just] two
missiles on board.

We remained on station for a bit before returning to
Bastion. It was a good two or three hours before we heard
that Lance Corporal Ford had died.

You can always pick things out you could have done better.
But I was pretty pleased with how the flight had done.
Morale had been high up until the point we had heard that
news [the death of a soldier]. When they [the two Apaches]
went in, I thought: This is ballsy, this is very ballsy. We had a lot
of assets [fire-power] in there, but this was not stuff we had ever
done before. This was high risk: there were a lot of enemy in the
area with RPG and an aircraft on the ground makes an easy
target. It is satisfying to take part in an op like that. I have done
two tours since, but I have never seen anything like it.
Unfortunately, we did not save Lance Corporal Ford but we
had tried everything and beyond to get him back.

Captain Dave Rigg, MC, The Royal Engineers

At 7 a.m. – some twenty-four hours after Lance Corporal
Ford had died – we all had a service in the desert to
commemorate him. It was very moving.

By now I had taken in the enormity of what we had done.
Some people might wonder why we went to such lengths to
recover the body even when I suspected he was dead. But
once we had set off on our mission, we never once considered
pulling out. Leaving our own in enemy hands was inconceivable;
we were utterly determined to bring him back.
And quite rightly so. It would have sent a very bad message
to our soldiers, had we left one of our own behind to the
mercy of the Taliban. They are known to be brutal and
despicable in their treatment of enemy bodies. It was also
important to deny the Taliban the opportunity to capitalize
upon the fact they had a dead soldier for propaganda
purposes. And it was important for Lance Corporal Ford's
family that we got his body back. It was only right that they
were given an opportunity to mourn, to grieve over a body.

By now, I had also had a chance to think about my own
role. To be presented with a situation like that, and come
through it, is a very satisfying experience. You learn a lot
about yourself – it answers a lot of questions you would
never otherwise have asked.

There's no doubt that an experience like that engenders a
lot of satisfaction: knowing that, when push comes to shove,
you can keep your head and produce the goods. But that's
different from saying, if faced with the same scenario, I'd be
able to do it again. I'm just glad that things didn't turn out
worse. But, having said that, I also know that I could have
done a lot better. There were times when it didn't go that well
because I hesitated. There was a lack of coherent thought and
decisiveness, perhaps, which caused more delay than was
necessary. But, then, how do you plan for something like
that?

I also had time to ponder what would become the biggest
regret of my military career. During the process of recovering
Lance Corporal Ford's body, my weapon – an SA80 – kept
slipping off my shoulder and whacking him in the head. It
was bothering me for some bizarre reason and it was slowing
us down. So I took it off and put it to one side, intending to
go and get it. Well, obviously I never did go and get it – I left
it lying in the sand. For a soldier, that's a mortal sin.

So, from that moment onwards, I got a lot of stick.
Whenever I met someone it was never 'Oh, you're Dave Rigg,
the guy who helped to recover Lance Corporal Ford.' Instead,
it was 'Oh, you're Dave Rigg, the guy who donated his
weapon to the Taliban armoury.' Weeks later, when one of the
Taliban commanders was spotted roaming about with my
SA80 slung on his back, I became known as 'Mullah Rigg'. I
even had to complete a police report: the RMP wanted to
know why I hadn't recovered it. In response, I asked them
why they hadn't visited the scene of the 'crime'.

Corporal Fraser 'Frankie' Gasgarth, The Royal Engineers

Who dares wins – or gets hypothermia trying.

At 3,100 feet high and some 60 miles north-east of Camp
Bastion, Kajaki promised to be quite different from the
barren, windswept, arid dustbowl that had offered Plant
Section a place to call home for so long. So I eagerly joined the
long queue to board the Chinook, which was to deliver
myself and the rest of my section to the promised land of such
mystical things as birds, trees and grass. Indeed, if it was
good enough for the now long-extinct Afghan royal family,
then who was I to decline?

The RAF's obligatory one-and-a-half-hour delay seemed to
still catch us off guard, as we stood aimlessly, resembling a
school of six-feet tortoises carrying everything but the kitchen
sink into the Tardis, which is my bergen. Now let me tell you
a little about the tortoise: the tortoise has scant regard for
evolution, has no interest in the latest high-tech air-flow
bergen strap-device thingies, but still manages to carry its
entire sleeping system on its back and shows no sign of stress
or strain for one good reason: it stays put, has no airs of
grandeur to travel any further than it takes to hunt down and
kill anything more energetic than a lettuce. I think we could
learn a lot from the tortoise!

When you think of the official residence of a royal family,
the plush and privileged abode of Buckingham Palace or the
impeccably managed estates of Balmoral might spring to mind.
They did with me too. It quickly became evident that the
Afghan royal family had been somewhat further down
the status ladder than our own beloved Queen. But as Mr
Einstein so correctly put it: it's all a matter of relativity. By
comparison to the locals, with our erratically powered 60-watt
bulb, running water and outdoor swimming-pool, we were
living the high life.

To a squaddie, an outdoor pool is a source of great
attraction, even at an altitude of 3,100 feet, even in the depths
of an Afghan winter, even when during the hottest of Afghan
days the water doesn't even reach the official temperature of
'Oh, my God!' But the challenge had been met by members of
the Field sections, who had managed a very respectable 16
lengths before being hauled out with their extremities a pale
tint of blue. With the original tasking at Kajaki completed,
Support Troop had time on their hands, which is a very
dangerous prospect indeed. In fact, let me tell you a little
about squaddies. Soldiers are not in the Army to serve and
protect, like the well-publicized propaganda would have you
believe. It is, in fact, a very handy way for the government to
keep like-minded people together and safely away from the
rest of normal society. It is the same government's job to keep
this 'special' group of people busy – hence Iraq and
Afghanistan. The last recorded incident of squaddies being
left to their own devices was in Germany back in 1939, when
several thousand decided to 'pop over the border' to see
what was happening in Poland. And we all know what
happened then!

On entering the swimming-pool, I can honestly say it was
on the chilly side and, with hindsight, I should have come
straight out, there and then. But pride (which has always
been overrated) and determination to show that not only is
Support Troop better than the Fieldies but also way, way
more stupid stopped me.

The following twenty minutes played out as follows:

1. At the ten-length point, I had to stop doing the front
crawl, as my head was beginning to freeze and I could no
longer actually see where I was going.

2. After 16 lengths, even though looking composed on the
surface, underneath I secretly wished I hadn't seen
the bloody pool.

3. After 25 lengths, my fingers had morphed into the most
inefficient shape for swimming and I was only faintly
aware that I had a body to feel the cold with.

4. After 35 lengths, pride was no longer fuelling me. The
only thing keeping me going was the fact that I no longer
knew what I was doing and swimming was warmer than
not [swimming].

5. At the 42-lengths point, I had drunk as much pool water
as I could take and, with no significant drop in
water level, it was time to get out or drown.

The following 45 minutes consisted of extreme pain, uncontrolled
convulsions and lots of gibbering, as three of my
section slowly coaxed me out from hypothermia and back to
the land of the coherent. The fine line between determination
and stupidity had been crossed and redefined in the same
instance.

I have subsequently been informed that I might not be
allowed to do any of the winter-warfare courses in Norway
next year, as I am now more susceptible to cold-weather
injuries. So, the moral of this story is: it doesn't matter how
stupid your actions might be, there is always a silver lining
somewhere. Only summer tours for me – yippee!

Lieutenant Rachel Morgan, Royal Naval Medical Branch

I worked with the Civil Military Ops Cell in Lashkar Gar. One
of its roles is to help to build relationships with Afghan
civilians, and another is to co-ordinate reconstruction and
development. The cell supports the people who are not
involved with war and tries to help them get back to
normality. I was mostly based between Gereshk and Lashkar
Gah, but I travelled all over Helmand province. It's quite normal
to get embedded with a group of Royal Marines or Army
soldiers for the time you are there in this role; it demands a
fair amount of adaptability. I am not a war fighter, but it is
necessary to go out on the ground with the patrols as much
as possible in order to meet locals and build up relationships
with the Afghan community. I took my helmet off, wherever
I could, so that people could clearly see I was female. This
would particularly help when trying to meet women. It was
surprising how open Afghan women could be once they
trusted you.

I never had any problems in dealing directly with men – I
did explain to one elder in a shura [meeting] that I was the
only person available to lead it and I hoped he would support
me openly in front of the other men who might not feel
comfortable speaking to me. He told me he would tell them
to put up with it – and that his mother had been a doctor in
Kabul in the 1960s and that he remembered her wearing a
mini skirt. He openly criticized families who would not let
their girls go to school – everybody needs education, he said
wisely.

We had a situation where a woman turned up at the gate of
the operating base in Lashkar Gah. I was often called to
search women [the military always uses a female to search
women out of respect]. But when this woman turned up I had
been on a three-day operation and was catching up on sleep.
She had come in the middle of the night so she wouldn't be
seen [by Afghan locals]. In the morning I met her with an
interpreter. I was overwhelmed that she had taken the
initiative to find me.

I said I was sorry she had been kept waiting, that she
was welcome to be here and that I was delighted that
she had taken the opportunity to come and speak to me. I
tried to put her at ease and said, 'We don't have much but
what we have is yours, so come and share some tea with us.'