Battleworn (26 page)

Camp Bastion is as busy as ever, with helicopters coming in from every location. We drive past the airhead which houses all of the Ugly call signs (or Apaches). There’s never an opportunity to thank the pilots of these incredible machines; to us on the ground, they are just another faceless call sign, albeit a very important one.

When we arrive at our medical HQ, we are met by squadron Sgt Maj. Justin Harris. ‘Glad to see you lot are okay. The PB was hit hard last night. Three of the lads have been shot on PB Argyll.’

Taken aback, my cheerfulness is short-lived. I need confirmation, so I manage a choked, ‘No KIA?’

‘No fatalities,’ Sgt Maj. Harris confirms. ‘The lads are over in the hospital. They were all shot inside the perimeter wall. A company of marines are deploying a couple of days early; the Taliban are all over that area.’

Dropping off our kit, Jen and I head straight for the hospital to check in on our guys. The three of them were wearing body armour, so with no head shots, they escaped the attack with only wounded limbs.

Just to jump ahead briefly, here is how events in Nad-e Ali played out. When 42 Commando eventually replaced B Company of 5 Scots, airdrops of rations and water were being made, much landing too far into enemy-held areas to safely retrieve. The district would need a force of more than 1,500 soldiers to stabilise it. Operation Sond Chara (‘Red Dagger’ in Pashto) was an eighteen-day campaign with objectives centred on four Taliban strongholds near the town of Nad-e Ali. The op was named after the commando insignia worn by members of 3 Commando Brigade; 1,500 British troops were involved, supported by Danish, Estonian, and Afghan forces in the pre-Christmas offensive.

The offensive was to make safe the area around the Helmand capital of Lashkar Gah. After an ever-increasing amount of insurgent attacks, the Taliban had planned to overrun the provincial capital with a three-hundred-strong force. The initial defence of Nad-e Ali cost five British soldiers, including an Australian on secondment to the Brits; the Afghan body count is unknown.

The bloody battles fought by the commandos put into perspective what B Company had achieved: holding Nad-e Ali against all odds, and somehow managing to subdue a very determined enemy. I felt proud, then and now, to have been a part of it. Nad-e Ali contained both the worst and best times of my military career.

Back to the present, Camp Bastion is a hive of activity: the relief in place (RIP) is in full motion. The commando brigade anxiously waits to get stuck into their tour, while our battle-worn brigade simultaneously starts the draw-down. We will grieve for our fallen when we get home.

Walking through the tented camp on my way to the coffee shop, I see my old friend Phil Train (2 PARA). He has been based in the notorious district of Sangin, and it’s a relief to see that he is okay. Like me, he has lost a fair amount of weight. We chat about our experiences housed in different locations, and he laughs when I tell him about my escapades in Nad-e Ali.

Time presses on, so I leave Phil and head over to our internal squadron quartermaster department to hand in my ammunition. Dreading another epic failure to move as quickly as I would like, I empty my magazines and have each clip of ammo ready for inspection. That way, the storeman can’t mess up the count; ten rounds per clip, how hard can it be? It takes longer to get out of country than it does to get in. Flights are always delayed and kit is usually missing on the way out; never on the way in, though.

Our next move is to board the Hercules transport plane to Kandahar Air Force Base (KAF). The US Marines and elements of the 10th Mountain Division came here in late November 2001, when coalition forces first entered Afghanistan.

The base has expanded into a small city, housing more than 30,000 multinational troops. The population consumes nearly 37,000 gallons (140,000 litres) of water and 50,000 meals a day at six different military restaurants. Seen as far away from the front line of Helmand, Kandahar is the home of the Taliban and suffers from regular rocket attacks resulting in numerous KIA and casualties. Step outside the wire, and it’s game on.

Prince William, our future head of the armed forces, has made several trips to Kandahar. I recall teaching him all about haemorrhage control during his pre-deployment training package back in the UK. Teaching several groups, I didn’t recognise him until he approached me as the lesson came to an end.

‘Thanks, Sgt Taylor, that was very informative,’ he said.

Taking hold of his outstretched hand, I replied, ‘Thanks, sir, have a safe trip.’ I was rather embarrassed for not recognising him.

A very senior royal, it would be inappropriate for him to take part in offensive operations; however, his presence in theatre is always most welcome. British troops have the utmost respect for him and his younger brother, Prince Harry. Travelling to Kandahar always reminds me of Prince William.

Jen and I will spend the night here at the airbase. The site amazes me. Our American comrades certainly know how to go to war; they often bear the brunt of bad publicity about their overzealous use of force, but the truth is, they give more to these causes than anyone else in the world. We would not have functioned in Helmand if it weren’t for the use of American assets. Our politicians are writing cheques that we as a small, well-trained military cannot possibly cash. US helicopters are possibly our biggest saviours in our fight to secure Helmand, not forgetting the uplift in troops that the marine expeditionary units provided for us.

Our morning departure is here in a flash, and after a quick shower, I indulge in an all-American breakfast. The dining facility (DEFAC) is the US version of our cookhouse; its purpose is to feed soldiers, but that’s where the similarity ends. This place is unbelievable: seven hot plates serving a variety of food to cater to the many different nations based here. There are fridges full of every type of drink that you can think of, the latest coffee machines, and a quick-order bar if you fancy something fresh. They have absolutely everything! After gorging myself on pancakes and syrup, I roll out of the DEFAC. Bouncing from the sugar rush, off we go to the departures area of the airfield.

As my kit is loaded onto the back of one of many four-ton trucks, I am promptly reminded of an incident that very nearly sent me home early on. During the initial weeks of this tour, B Company was tasked with a forty-eight-hour deliberate op to the area of Babaji, north of Lashkar Gah. It’s a district renowned for poppy cultivation, and the American-funded poppy eradication force (PEF) had been operating in the area for some time. Sustaining multiple casualties, they were in imminent danger of being overrun. The PEF were all over the place, getting hit at every opportunity. We were sent to provide a screen for them to move safely out of the area. I was excited at the thought of getting amongst it so soon into the tour.

We were moving by helicopter to Camp Bastion, where we would be met by the Viking crews, manned by Royal Marines. Using their tracked vehicles, we would manoeuvre to Babaji. After flying in from Lash, we transferred straight onto the back of four-ton trucks, just like the one that is now taking my kit home. As we rode along, I sat chatting to the grunt next to me. Suddenly and without warning, the side of the vehicle came away and the lad next to me and I both were thrown to the ground, hard bodies crashing onto the road. Landing on my back and winded from the fall, I could barely breathe. Thinking that I had some serious injury and unable to move, I lay still for what seemed like an eternity.

I kept thinking about the months spent doing hideous infantry training courses, getting beasted on all the shit training areas that the British military had to offer, and only managing to escape Otterburn. That entire effort coming to end so early on in my deployment because I fell out of the side of a moving four-ton truck was unthinkable. ‘No fucking way!’ I said, lying there like a grounded turtle and looking up at Jen and Sean standing over me.

An ambulance arrived at the scene, and I managed to get to my feet, not realising that I was going into shock. Medics always make the worst patients, as I’ve said. I was still struggling to breathe, and my body felt like I had been hit by a train. Miraculously, I had sustained no serious injuries. This was the story of my life: I was always hurting myself enough to make tasks extremely uncomfortable but never enough to stop me from doing them. I spent the entire mission in agony, the right side of my body purple and black from bruising. To add to my woes, this was my first encounter with my company commander.

It was not the initial impression that I had hoped to give our OC, Maj. Harry Clark, so early on in the tour. One positive did come from my early setback, though: Babaji became the birthplace of my multipurpose yellow sharps container.

I chuckle to myself at the memory, focusing again on the present moment. Our lives are now in the hands of the RAF. A movement sergeant stands on a box in the middle of the tent, shouting, ‘Sirs, ma’ams, ladies, and gents… there has been a change of plan, and your flight is delayed!’ the well-versed sergeant reveals. It’s the same old shit that you hear every time you deploy anywhere. ‘Tea and coffee are available in the dining facility. No weapons allowed, I’m afraid,’ he adds.

A soldier standing next to me says that bags need to be checked in at 1600 hours. This is interesting, considering that our flight is at 0200 hours tomorrow morning.

With time on our hands, we opt to take a wander around KAF, heading straight for the post exchange (PX) so that we can indulge in some retail therapy. The PX is like a mini supermarket for the US military, selling everything from watches to televisions, to clothing, to perfume. Staring at all of the niceties, I opt for a Suunto Core Ops watch, excited that it has a built-in compass.

When I first came to KAF in 2006, the base was already well established; here again in 2008, the place is unbelievable, a hive of military activity. It has an area of half a square mile, complete with covered walkways and some interesting stores. For example, a German military shop sells souvenir burqas. I’m not sure why I would feel the need to take one home – perhaps it would be useful as part of an escape-and-evasion plan. At five feet, eight inches, I am too tall to be an Afghan woman, so I am better suited to the male kameez, with a loosely wrapped lungee, or Afghan turban, on my head, than a burqa. An untrained eye could be fooled for thirty seconds or more by me in a kameez/lungee costume. I laugh at the thought as we continue exploring the PX.

With coffee shops, a Burger King, and a Thai restaurant, the PX appears to add an air of normality against the backdrop of Black Hawks, C-130s, and Apaches. It’s hard to explain how, but it just didn’t seem right: with all this luxury, we were in danger of relaxing too much. The mindset of soldiers cutting about on mountain bikes appeared weird, and it was very different from the mindset of those in Helmand. We walk around like tourists, drinking our frappes in silence. I know that we are all going through the same process; everyone returning from Helmand probably feels the same way. Maybe that’s what all the delays are designed for – they allow us to take gradual steps before hitting the streets of the UK.

As the sun begins to disappear, it is again time to indulge in the culinary delights of the DEFAC, where I stuff my face. Soon after, we are ushered onto coaches heading to the terminal. The journey is interrupted by loud sirens indicating that the base is under attack. IDF is very accurate in KAF, and I won’t be taking any chances so close to getting home. Helmet and body armour go on, and straight into cover I go. Once the all-clear is given, we continue on with our journey to the terminal.

Lining up to check in, I amuse myself by studying the cabinet of weapons and illegal items that people have tried to take home. A grenade, bits of rifles, 7.62 mm rounds, swords, and pistols. The words ‘full retard’ pop into my head as I think about the type of clown that would try to take this stuff through the security checks. I can imagine the scene as the idiot tries to explain to the RAF police searching our kit:

‘Well, I decided that this RPG would look good in my room back in the sergeants’ mess!’

‘Really? Is that what you thought?’

Next we get our passports and British army IDs checked by RAF flight staff, and we enjoy a further two-hour delay due to a snag in the missile decoy system. Past caring, I am just happy to be sitting on a plane that is homeward bound. Putting my body armour and helmet on with a grumble, I ponder what possible benefit I am going to get by placing this cumbersome outdated kit on. If our plane goes down or crashes with a full tank of fuel, there is a strong possibility that my Mark 6 Alpha helmet is probably not going to make it.

Within seconds, I am asleep, and then, a few hours later, we are landing in Cyprus. A convoy of coaches moves us to the camp that will house us for the evening. Morning breaks and tunnel beach awaits us. We swim, drink beer, and eat decent food. Lying in the sun and looking out to the deep blue sea, all my troubles begin to fade away. Like all fun tasks provided by the military, though, we have to partake in the standard swim test first. A few minutes of treading water before a hundred-metre swim will guarantee that I don’t drown while enjoying the watersport section of organised fun. The British military is very good at draining the fun aspect from most sporting activities.

The two beers I have go straight to my head, leaving me feeling tired and tipsy. This type of decompression is a good time to catch up with friends. Chatting away until the early hours, I fall asleep and look forward to boarding the plane for the final leg home. Morning comes, and it’s another coach ride. I get comfortable, ensuring that my iPod is fully charged. Boarding the flight, I secure a window seat for the longest leg of the journey. I am relieved that I won’t wake up dribbling all over a complete stranger.

Landing at Stansted Airport is painless. Close to Colchester, England’s oldest recorded town, it makes for an easy bus ride home. For once, baggage collection goes smoothly; this might have something – or everything – to do with the fact that the RAF isn’t controlling it. Passengers for 16 Air Assault Brigade are ushered onto waiting coaches. For the first time in over six months, I ponder nothing. I have six months left of military service, and I am excited about the future.