Authors: Chantelle Taylor
As a medical commander, I am more relaxed than ever. I have learnt a great deal and am eager to pass it on before I close the book on my military life. I know that the months ahead will be busy. On all levels, 16 Close Support Medical Regiment is far more advanced when it comes to training its medics. The unit was formed in 1999 from the amalgamation of 19 Airmobile Field Ambulance and 23 Parachute Field Ambulance. Between the two units, they had been involved in every major operation since World War II.
After the union, the regiment saw action in Sierra Leone, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and, most recently, Afghanistan. The unit provides dedicated medical support to 16 Air Assault Brigade and will be called upon to support the complete spectrum of air assault operations. This includes airmobile, helicopter, and parachute deployments. A percentage of the regiment must be parachute trained to support the on-call readiness force, known as the Airborne Task Force (ABTF).
Two regular air assault medical surgical groups each provide role 2 medical support and resuscitative surgery. In addition to the regular squadrons, the regiment is bolstered by a territorial army (TA) squadron. The 144 Parachute Medical Squadron is a permanent part of the brigade, and it is based in London, Cardiff, Glasgow, and Nottingham. The TA squadron is fully integrated, and members deploy regularly on operations and exercises in support of the brigade.
The majority of the professionals and skills of the army medical services can be found within the organisation, and 16 Brigade is fortunate enough to be staffed with the best physicians that the military has to offer, most going on to support UK Special Forces. Combat medics posted in the brigade are highly motivated. The will to succeed and be the very best is echoed throughout the ranks, and my success now has much to do with my time serving in this unit. The thought of someday leaving the brigade solidified my decision to leave the service. Unlike the infantry, medics are posted every three years, and I didn’t embrace the option of being sent anywhere else.
Arriving home on leave, I initially spend quality time with my fiancé, Ryan. We book a last-minute holiday, ending up somewhere in the Greek Islands. Shocked at the distance from top to bottom, our villa is halfway up the side of a mountain.
‘The brochure said foothills of Nisaki!’ Ryan laughs.
‘Look at the car,’ I add. ‘A burnt-orange Fiat Uno.’
It’s the wrong time of year for this place: our swimming pool is ice-cold, and we have a view of Albania halfway up the side of something resembling Everest Basecamp. Not the relaxing bolthole I envisioned. I nickname our villa ‘PB Nisaki’. After renaming our crap car a Fiat Oh-No, we set about having a good time.
Our personal relationship is failing: the best of friends, two tours of Helmand later, and our private lives have turned into a military exercise. I desperately want to move on and give some years to a life outside. Ryan had joined 3 PARA at seventeen years old, so I couldn’t expect him to give that up.
Catching up with family is very important to me. I haven’t told a soul about my time in Nad-e Ali; I’ve buried it like most other soldiers do.
Stupidly, I concentrate on drinking and getting back into what I think is some kind of normality. The operations that I was a part of have changed my outlook on life: I learnt to consider it normal to think that every day might be my last. Thinking this way is necessary for survival in a war zone, but in day-to-day life, it’s far from normal, and usually a classic symptom of PTSD.
Thinking about what the future might hold starts to fill me with apprehension. Facing so many changes at once, my mind starts working overtime. The things that I experienced in Afghanistan began to hit me all at once.
As I prepare to leave the military, I feel unsure that I am making the right decision, doubtful that I will be able to cope with the lack of routine. I am taking a gamble by leaving the army that saved me when I was a twenty-two-year-old lacking direction.
Selected for promotion and recommended to commission as an officer from the ranks, I come top of my promotion board in an airborne unit. For any medic, this is a huge achievement, and aside from my regimental sergeant major, I have attained status as the most-qualified medic tactically within my regiment. In a strange way, this makes me feel safe; I’m in a world where I will be looked after.
I spend my final months in the unit training personnel for upcoming operations. Sent to Germany along with a small group, I deliver intensive battlefield training to a medical unit there, but they weren’t overly keen taking instruction. Units are competitive, and taking advice based on our experience seems to be unwelcome in some quarters. Just as I frowned upon infantry courses run in Germany and not ITC Brecon, they frown upon the likes of me taking charge of their range practices. As I noted earlier, basic soldiering is key, and if you don’t know the fundamentals at this stage of the game, I sure as shit don’t have the time to teach back week one, day one.
SAYING GOODBYE
AN INFORMAL GATHERING OF UNIT PERSONNEL IN THE SQUADRON hangar is the scene for all goodbyes, presentations, and speeches. Without much thought, I roll in, almost forgetting that this time it’s my farewell. Not overly keen on any fuss being made, I smile through the speeches given by friends and my sergeant major. (Even now, looking back, I can’t recall any of the words spoken.) I receive a brown box, a framed picture, and a black issued day sack (small backpack) covered in flowers. I am an avid black day sack hater, and have been ever since the day I first spotted one sitting awkwardly on the back of one of our junior soldiers.
The black day sack is a hideous, non-value-adding piece of kit, as is the individual carrying it. There’s a pocket made from some form of netted material on the front of the bag, so recruits in training can place a piece of white paper inside with their name on it. Basic training is the only time that the inoperable piece of kit should ever be seen. Experienced soldiers have no business carrying it.
During the countless exercises that I have put my medical squadron through. We have become soldiers who carry med packs, not medics who carry weapons. I feel proud of the tactical discipline instilled in the squadron, but, more importantly, happy that all of our forward-operating medics came home safe to their families after our last tour of Helmand Province. Looking around at the smiling faces of the young medics in front of me, I reckon that the black day sack may have just become my legacy.
The framed picture is a smaller version of a huge print that sits proudly in the training wing of 16 Air Assault Brigade: it’s a photo of me and another soldier assisting an Afghan casualty in Lashkar Gah in 2008. Not bothering to open the box, I am sure it’s the usual gift of a carved figure of a field medic. Heading back to the sergeants’ mess, I continue to pack up the remainder of my things. Shipping my life back to Devon is proving to be a sizeable undertaking. Laughing at the flowery black day sack I place it, along with the framed picture, into one of my huge cardboard boxes.
Sitting on the side of my bed, I open the small brown box to see if the statue has changed in any way since my last one. Unfolding the bubble wrap, I can feel that the gift is not the figure of a soldier at all. Pulling away the wrap to fully reveal the object, I see that it’s a beautiful silver statue of Pegasus, the winged horse of Greek mythology. Goose bumps cover my arms as I hold the figure in my hands. Choked, I place my hand over my mouth to stop myself from breaking down. Relieved to be alone, I look through teary eyes at the mythical steed, feeling overwhelmed. This ancient equine was on the insignia of 5 Airborne Brigade. Steeped in history, the paratroopers of that era stitched the old maroon-backed insignia into the inside of the collar on their smocks.
It’s unheard of for a non-parachute-trained combat medic to receive the Pegasus; the significance of the gesture goes beyond any student of merit, distinction, or promotional board. No one ever tells you about the impact that you have on a situation – unless it’s bad of course, like the black day sack. I never expected the airborne brethren to go so far outside of their historical traditions to ensure that I knew my place within their brigade. In short, it blows me away. Beaming, I continue packing. Leaving the statue to one side, I glance its way every couple of minutes.
Carving out a successful career in what is traditionally a man’s world is never going to be easy, and like many before me, I am a proactive woman proving my worth through action and not words. Ever moving forward, I stopped asking for permission a long time ago.
Dusting off my suit, I prepare for my final day of military service. All is in order, right down to my pressed white shirt. Nevertheless, I am apprehensive about saying goodbye.
My last day of military service arrives: 30 June 2009. It is also the day that my good friend Sgt Phil Train is to be buried.
A small group of us gather at Yates Wine Bar on North Hill in Colchester’s historic city centre. ‘To Phil!’ Glasses chink together, and shouts of ‘cheers’ sound across the bar.
The carpet beneath my feet is sticky. It’s early morning, ordinarily not the time to be drinking Jack Daniels and Coke, but today is different, and the two double shots go down easy. The wine bar is close to St Peter’s, the garrison church where the funeral will take place. Besides, this bar is the only place that’s serving this early. A barmaid looks at our group inquisitively, disappearing through the staff-only door as we become loud. I take a chance to quickly dash upstairs to the toilet, through fear of getting caught short in a half hour or so. On my return, my hand is met by yet another shot of Jack and Coke.
‘Ready?’ Dave Eatock taps my shoulder. As recruit instructors the three of us were firm friends. Origionally 1 (PARA) Dave deployed to Helmand with 2 (PARA).
We make our way out onto the main street. Feeling a little light-headed, I reach for the spearmints in my bag. We walk the short distance down the hill towards St Peter’s, stopping short to say hello to friends who are gathering outside. Walking through the huge wooden doors, I am handed a program listing the sequence of events. The church feels cold despite the bright sunshine outside; the building dates back to 1086.
Taking my seat, I see the familiar faces of friends sitting in the pews to my left. A flash of guilt comes over me for not having kept in touch. Paratroopers start to fill the rows in front, each holding his headdress in his hands. The deep maroon colour of their berets stands out against the backdrop of the dark wood shelving that houses the hymn sheets. A quiet hum of conversation fills the church as the soldiers chat quietly to one another. Several officers arrive, wearing their formal service dress, and ushers show them to their seats at the front of the church, close to Phil’s family. The brigade commander arrives and takes his place alongside the other officers of 16 Air Assault Brigade HQ.
I start to feel the effects of the Jack Daniels and Coke, so it seems that my trip to the toilet is not all that I hoped it would be. For a moment, I drift off, wondering what today means. I feel angry that this is the way it will end for my good friend Phil Train. Phil was a paratrooper who served with 2nd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment (2 PARA). Like me, he was born in Plymouth, where his mother, Phyllis, and his brothers, Jason and David, still live. A quiet man with silver-grey hair and piercing blue eyes, Phil was determined, confident, and at ease with himself.
When we met, I immediately sensed an air of something different about him, something special. Firstly, his kit and equipment always looked better than others’, and he didn’t have an endless stream of pouches on his belt kit. The words ‘if I don’t need it, I don’t carry it’ are never far from my thoughts when I think of him. Phil was attached to the army training depot in Bassingbourn. We had both been selected for a tour of duty as recruit instructors.
The very best in our training company, he gave me what I had so often longed for in the past: someone to learn from. In the early days of my army service, I always lacked female role models, which left me to learn my craft from the blokes. It always appeared to me that most women serving back then didn’t know how to pitch. They either tried too hard and became overbearingly butch, or, through lack of character, they didn’t try hard enough. I soon learnt, though, that a fair few of the guys lacked character as well. Soldiering should come naturally. You can train a skill all day long; what you can’t train is an attitude.
Learning from Phil saved my life. Many of my friends ask what it’s like to be a woman in the military. I believe it’s all about balance, but sometimes it’s easy to get the balance wrong. It took me a long time to realise that. I have been on every level: too much, too little, and, finally, just right. I credit most of my achievements with being brought up properly, albeit in a less-fortunate area. This gave me the drive and determination to succeed. But it was Phil who taught me by example how to finesse my strengths into the balance I needed.
I copied Phil, and soon I was amazed at how much easier life became when I learnt how to soldier from a soldier. My manner became more assertive, and I started to look at things differently. Medicine is my forte and the area that I am expert in, but other aspects of soldiering are equally important. I had to learn how to employ good medicine in a tactically unstable environment. Phil helped immeasurably. His leadership was crucial to the young paratroopers deployed with him in Helmand during our summer tour of 2008. The 2 PARA suffered heavy losses when fighting increased during the fighting season. The two of us spent many hours exchanging war stories when we passed through Camp Bastion on our way home, chatting at length outside the little coffee shop. I’ve already described this briefly; now, sitting at his funeral, the moments we shared replay in my mind.
The worst thing about today is getting my head around Phil’s senseless death. He survived the notorious Sangin Valley, only to be killed in a motorbike crash at home. In my eyes, a man like Phil should die as a grandfather telling war stories, unless he was KIA. If this warrior had to die young, it should have been on the battlefield.