Authors: Pen Farthing
As we headed south I marvelled at the intricate alleys that peeled off from the main thoroughfare. Every now and again a huddle of small children, mostly poorly clothed and with bare feet, would be gathered at a compound entrance. Word travelled fast that we were in town. Dan was waving at the assembled kids like a victorious footballer, returning to his home town with the FA Cup. Many of the kids waved back shyly before darting inside their homes, giggling.
We reached our next position and pulled into a defensive formation while I informed the lead elements of the patrol of our new location.
As we sat waiting for the lads on foot to clear their patrol route, I looked over to the open ground that lay behind us. In among a few pieces of broken junk, I spotted a pack of dogs just lying there.
There must have been 40 or so of them. Most looked like the thick-haired St Bernard that had patrolled the outer walls of the compound. I had no idea if it was the same pack or not. Whatever they were, we seemed to be of no interest to them. Instead they lay there occasionally flicking a heavily dust-covered tail at a buzzing fly. Mostly though, they were just unmoving hairy lumps lying on the desert floor.
I wondered why they had chosen to gather here and then it suddenly dawned on me – the bazaar. In another time, long gone now, the bazaar would have been the place to forage for food when the traders packed up and went home. Old habits die hard, and the dogs obviously had nowhere else to go. They didn’t understand that it would be a long time before the tempting sights and smells of the bazaar returned to Now Zad.
I turned away. I couldn’t bear to look at the pitiful sight of so many strays with no hope. The relief at finally escaping
from
the suffocating confines of the compound had disappeared. I tried to focus on the map. Stupid thoughts of trying to feed the strays flashed through my mind. Luckily common sense took over.
‘Switch on, Farthing, there is nothing you can do,’ I reminded myself. ‘Get on with what you’re meant to be doing.’
I turned back to my map and followed the remainder of the patrol’s advance. The next uneventful two hours passed at a snail’s pace, the lads eventually trudging wearily into the relative safety of the DC, the Taliban clearly deciding to have the day off.
But no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t shake off the heartbreaking image of those dogs.
It was approaching scran time but I suddenly didn’t feel that hungry.
As I held the bag open again and looked in from arm’s length I could see a white blob the size of my little fingernail attached to the dog crap that I had scooped up in the run. It looked and smelled disgusting. Not only that, it was moving.
I double checked that it definitely was what I thought it was. It was; the blob was clearly an intestinal worm that had just exited Nowzad.
‘That’s gross, Nowzad,’ I said, shooting a look across at him as he lay curled up on his red satin cushion. I shuddered to think how many of those things were crawling around inside him. ‘Don’t worry bud; I’ll get you something for these,’ I said as I patted him on the head.
I looked over at RPG. Chances were that he had them too. ‘I’ll get Lisa to put some wormers in the post for you too,’ I said.
Most pet owners take it for granted that when their pet needs medication all that’s required is a simple trip to the vet and, hey presto, it’s sorted. No such luck out here in
Afghanistan.
We had to rely on friends and relatives sending us stuff but even then the situation was pretty hopeless. Anything that needed to be handled with care or had to be kept refrigerated wouldn’t make it to us in a decent condition. Many of the lads had been sent chocolate by their loved ones and opened their mail to reveal letters and other little goodies stuck together with the melted brown goo that the chocolate had become while waiting on a baking hot landing strip. So I knew that to treat the dogs I would either have to rely on simple remedies like worming tablets or improvise treatments myself.
It was the latter approach that I was going to take today as I tackled the other problem the dogs had been displaying: sand flies.
The sand flies crawling over Nowzad in particular had been a nightmare. They were so quick and would burrow into his coat, no matter how much I rubbed and tried to squash the horrible little bugs. Nowzad would try to scratch them off too only for them to reappear as if gloating at him a few seconds later.
In desperation I had rooted through the old pile of stores that had been left for us by the army. I had found light-sticks, cans of paint, old clothing, rations and batteries, everything but what I was looking for. I was about to give up when I came across an aerosol can of fly spray, and not just any fly spray: military-grade fly spray.
‘Stand by now you little sand-fly buggers,’ I muttered to myself as I gave the half-full can a shake. Nothing survived a can of military fly spray. At first I thought the large ‘DO NOT SPRAY ON SKIN’ warning on the side of the can was pretty pointless. As if some idiot would attempt to use it as a mosquito repellant. But then I thought of some of the lads I knew and realised that the warning was indeed necessary. Any marine that got hold of a can of this stuff would almost certainly act like a small child, spraying anything that moved to see how effective it was.
I sprayed the aerosol to test it. Breathing in the spray was also not recommended according to the warning on the side of the can. But I couldn’t help noticing the smell it left, like sweet candyfloss.
I had decided to treat Nowzad as soon as possible; I knew I would have to act fast. So I tempted him out into the middle of the run with a handful of biscuits and sprayed his coat as fast as I could before he reacted. To my surprise he just stood there, not bothered in the slightest.
As he was acting so placidly, I decided to go for broke and gave his coat another good covering of the spray. By the time I finished the second coat, the candyfloss smell was heavy in the dry, dusty air, like catching the fragrance of a good-looking young lady as she passes you by on the street.
The fly spray had an immediate effect. I watched with delight as one by one, five of the ghastly sand flies fell off Nowzad and on to the ground, writhing around in agony.
‘Die, creatures of the Devil,’ I shouted perhaps a little too manically as I jumped up and down. Nowzad just looked at me questioningly, his head cocked to one side as I danced the stomping dance of the dead sand fly.
I just smiled at his confused face: ‘That’ll teach them, eh Nowzad?’
I rubbed his ears and placed the can of fly spray in the shade, hidden away towards the back of the run, just in case it was needed again.
I closed the gate quickly and finished tying up the holding rope that acted as a latch just in time to witness the junior ANP commander approaching us. It was the guy who had pushed me in the chest when I had broken up the dogfight in the alley.
The Afghan army and police who lived in the compound didn’t really interact too much with any of us, mainly, I assumed, because of the language barrier. The Afghan army had a Royal Marine as a liaison officer but kept to themselves in a larger building on the other side of the compound.
The
ANP, though, were partly my responsibility as they didn’t have a liaison officer of their own.
After the dogfight incident, I had offered an olive branch to the police. We had thought a period of some unarmed combat and stop-and-search training would be well received but they hadn’t accepted it. We weren’t surprised. It would have meant some physical exertion on their part and I didn’t really see that happening.
Instead the ANP occupied themselves with eating, sleeping and, when we would let them, operating a so-called police patrol. They would leave the compound, heading southwards before forming a road block along a small section of desert track that served as the main road along the western perimeter of the town. They chose that spot because it lay in the shadow of the hill, which of course meant they were within the hill’s defensive fire perimeter.
The police commander would sit on a rug away from the track while his staff ‘worked’ the road. The drivers of the few and far between vehicles brave enough to drive along the track would normally be sent to sit with the commander for a while before being allowed to continue their journey.
As he walked up to me today, I noticed that this time the young ANP man was clean shaven, though his hair still fell in straight greasy strands to the collar of his faded brown shirt and his blue long-tailed dress uniform was stained badly and in need of a wash. I guessed he was probably in his mid-twenties but guessing an Afghan’s age was not straightforward. Most rural Afghans probably wouldn’t know their birthdays and why should they? It didn’t mean that much out here. Just surviving every day was celebration enough.
The deputy commander looked directly at me. There was no morning greeting from either of us. He spoke in Pashtu while pointing at Nowzad, who was hiding towards the back of the run.
‘I have no idea what you are saying,’ I told him, although really it was pretty clear that he was saying Nowzad was his
fighting
dog. ‘I’ll get the translator,’ I said, knowing he didn’t understand me either. I pointed to the ground and then to him. ‘Wait here.’ As I moved away he ignored my order and took a step towards the gate, reaching his arm out to the rope that secured it.
‘No.’ I tried to sound firm as I pushed his long-sleeved arm away and pointed to the ground again. I pointed at my chest to indicate me and then motioned in the direction of the building that housed our Afghan interpreters.
I noticed that Nowzad was still huddled under the cam net but, now fully alert to the two figures arguing just outside the fence of his run, RPG was eagerly sitting by the gate, fully expecting to be able to run out and play at any moment, I imagined.
I couldn’t be certain that the ANP wouldn’t untie the gate while I was gone but I didn’t have much choice. I had known this moment was coming, I hadn’t for one moment thought that the policeman would give up his dog that easily. Life isn’t that simple. I needed our terp so I could settle this once and for all, but this time, amicably if I could.
I sprinted the 100 yards to the terps’ room as fast as I could, thankfully almost bumping into ‘Harry the terp’ on his way out. Harry was part of the three-man team of interpreters that lived with us. Without them we would not have been able to interact with the local people. Harry wasn’t his real name of course, but we couldn’t pronounce his Pashtu name properly. It sounded like Harry and hence, as with most in the military, Harry had been given a nickname. He didn’t seem to mind.
Harry had been born and raised as part of a small family in Kabul. He had relished the opportunity to study, where he had excelled at English when the schools had finally been allowed to operate when the Taliban had been driven from power. We all admired Harry as all he wanted to do was assist the coalition forces to rid Afghanistan of the curse of the Taliban. Harry lived with us in the compound in Now
Zad,
as prone to being hit on patrol as the rest of us; bullets didn’t care whose side you were on. There was no doubt that he was putting his life on the line to bring change to his country.
His only possessions were a small silver engraved teapot and a thick piece of old wood that he had hand-fashioned into a sort of a cricket bat. Whenever we had downtime Harry would pester anybody who couldn’t get out of the way quick enough to take part in a miniature game of cricket outside the ops room.
Even though the ‘ball’ was made from rolled-up masking tape, the marines would reluctantly hit the ball lightly. No one wanted to be the one who snapped the thinly carved handle of the lovingly crafted cricket bat.
Harry and I jogged back over to the run. The Afghan policeman was still standing outside, studying Nowzad and RPG intently.
The two Afghans spoke briefly, totally ignoring me.
Harry turned to me and translated the conversation in his almost fluent English.
‘The junior commander says that this is his dog, Penny Dai, and that you must give him back.’
I think Harry knew that wasn’t going to happen.
‘Harry – please tell him he does not own the dog any more,’ I said, looking at Harry to prevent provoking the policeman any more than I already had.
A brief dialogue ensued and Harry turned back to me.
‘He wants paying.’
I sighed and looked up at the sky. I could argue all day I supposed, but it was best to settle this once and for all, but with what? I didn’t have any money.
‘Please tell him, Harry, that the dog is not for sale, but I am willing to give him something as a gesture of goodwill.’ I didn’t add that I didn’t feel any goodwill.
I pretended to listen intently as the two of them bartered between themselves. The ANP never looked at me once but
waved
his arms and pointed at Nowzad. I couldn’t tell if it was a friendly discussion or a heated debate. There was no emotion on either of their faces that I could recognise. Suddenly the bartering stopped.
Harry informed me that he had just sold Nowzad to me for batteries for the police torch. I probably grinned too much with the absurdity of the situation as I shook hands with the ANP junior commander. I promised to deliver the batteries later in the day, leaving them by the faded metal green door of the police living quarters, a small building that looked as if it housed maybe one or two rooms at the most. Outside stood three metal bed frames, where the ANP would bring out their worn mattresses and sit in the afternoon sunshine when it was warm enough to do so.
‘Cheers, Harry, I owe you for that,’ I said, holding out my hand as the junior commander walked away. I didn’t have to tell him how much it meant to have Nowzad and RPG somewhere safe.
Harry slapped my hand in a friendly gesture.
‘It’s okay,’ Harry smiled. ‘But you owe me a game of cricket, Penny Dai!’
CHAPTER SIX
Harriott and Oliver
THE CHINOOK POWERED
up with a deafening scream, the down draught from the twin rotor blades churning tons of dust into the air as it lifted gracefully into the sky.
‘Something that big shouldn’t be able to fly,’ I said to myself as I turned away. I had managed to sneak a shower first thing and wasn’t about to get covered in dust for no reason.
As I waited for the dust to settle I looked longingly to the mountains that formed a barricade to the west.
The southern Helmand mountains weren’t in the same league as the Hindu Kush range further north, but at over 2,000 metres they were far grander than the hills back home in the UK. I would bet that nobody had climbed those silent peaks. With a jihad against the Russians and then the oppressive rule of the Taliban to deal with, I very much doubted that recreational climbing had been on the average Afghan’s agenda.
Lisa and I had often talked of setting up a climbing business, and the unexplored mountain regions of Afghanistan would be a gold mine. I stood for a few seconds more, looking up towards the mountains, as I imagined leading clients across the unexplored wilderness, entertaining them with traditional Afghan evenings around desert camps, taking them on camel treks with visits to local villages to witness a way of life hardly touched by modern technology.
I was trying to work out which airport to use when I realised the dust was finally settling. Turning round I could see the Chinook had become just a small dot in the southern sky. I stood up and walked back towards the group of new arrivals. Standing next to the pile of assorted equipment that had been dumped haphazardly on the ground from the rear of the Chinook, they were still huddled in a tight knot of bodies and were covered in a thick layer of dust.
It was the shouted warnings over my headset that brought me back to reality quick time. ‘Incoming,’ was all I needed to hear.
Our LS wasn’t the best place to stand during a mortar stomp, it was more or less football-pitch flat. I looked across to the newly arrived young marines who were still standing there, brushing themselves off and reluctantly lifting rucksacks that were far too heavy on to their backs. They weren’t yet wired into our radio network.
‘Drop your kit everybody, get into cover
now
,’ I screamed across at them.
I was met with uncomprehending looks.
‘The Taliban are sending you a welcome, now fucking spread out,’ I yelled. The lads immediately dropped everything as they started to run to the four winds trying to find any form of cover.
John was just pulling up with the 4x4 to help shift the kit back to the DC along with the eagerly anticipated mail sacks that had arrived. He immediately slammed the truck into reverse and drove a good 200 metres away from the startled group of marines as they dived for cover. I winced as I saw the truck’s rear tailgate smash into a small but solid-looking mound of dried mud. John just pressed the accelerator further into the foot well and drove like a bat out of hell away from us.
The radio was going bananas with different people shouting reports and detailing various groups to engage the Taliban.
I threw myself into a small depression that turned out to be nothing of the sort. It didn’t provide any level of cover whatsoever. I stuck out on top of the ground like a sore thumb. I turned back to check that the newbies had got into the limited cover available. Some were completely out of sight, probably burrowing away like little rabbits.
Scanning our surrounding area I was relieved to notice that my force protection had also dismounted and were spread out from their vehicles. They had the advantage of their radios and had heard the warning as I did.
I yelled at the figures lying behind me. ‘The Taliban are engaging the hill,’ I said. ‘Three mortar rounds are in the air and on their way over here.’
There was nothing else we could do but wait.
The hill was a strange place. It was just a bare mound of Afghan mud that rose some 200 feet from the desert floor. It was open to the elements and was devoid of any buildings or compounds. It provided a perfect 360-degree panorama. The ‘heads’ (naval speak for a toilet) was an open-air seated affair which probably had the best view of any toilet in the world, an uninterrupted view across miles of the southern Helmand desert. To the south and west all you could see was open desert. To the north there was a ramshackle cemetery, which the terps told us was the final resting place of both Afghan and Russian dead.
The lads enjoyed being stationed on the hill. It wasn’t as claustrophobic as the DC and they didn’t have to man as many sangars as we did. I didn’t envy the ones who were up there now though. With its raised elevation, the hill was a prime target for the Taliban.
I strained my neck to look upwards and saw the first mortar round explode on the north side of the hill, close enough to scare the crap out of the guys on the guns, but too far away to make any difference for those of us lying in the dirt on the LS. The hill was definitely the target, not us.
Two more hastily fired mortars landed way off to the east of the hill. The lads were clearly not impressed and the thump thump of the .5s returning fire to the Taliban was deafening, even from where I lay.
The radio chatter was indicating that a full-on battle was getting under way. I had had enough of sitting in the open desert; any small-arms fire hurled at the hill had a good chance of coming over the top and hitting us. It was time to move.
‘Up and at ’em, we’re moving now,’ I yelled to make sure all could hear me.
The look of shock on the lads’ faces was clear. With a newfound sense of urgency they gathered their kit together and threw it on top of the pile in the back of the 4x4 that had reappeared and screeched to a halt as soon as I had stood up.
John was grinning like a Cheshire cat at the obvious disbelief on the faces of our new arrivals. I knew what he was thinking. For us it had become routine to be shot at or mortared. We knew there was no point getting too worried about it otherwise you wouldn’t achieve anything. It would be like not leaving your house back home in case you got run over. Most of the lads thought that when your number is up then it’s up, nought you can do about that. These kids hadn’t reached that point yet, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be too long before our new arrivals began thinking that way, too.
As we drove back to the DC, the horrible thought that we might drive right into an incoming mortar kept flashing up in my mind so I urged my driver to go faster. Not that he needed telling. He was thinking the same as me.
By the time we pulled up in the DC the fast jets were on their way to finish the job. I handed the lads over to the company sergeant major, or CSM, who made them wait in the briefing room until the battle had finished before delivering the welcome brief on the dos and don’ts of living in the DC.
I jogged over to the sangars to make sure my lads were okay before I went to check on Nowzad and RPG.
Both dogs were hiding in the mortar run and were extremely happy to see me when I squeezed through the gate of the run. I was relieved that this time Nowzad had found some reassurance in having RPG with him and hadn’t tried to jump the gate again. Both of them devoured the handful of biscuits I pulled out of my pocket. I left them munching away on the last few crumbs as I left to find out which of the new lads were joining my troop and what equipment they had brought along with them.
‘You’re bloody joking,’ Dutchy said, kicking the floor.
‘Nope, no chef,’ the CSM replied smiling to himself.
‘What is Bastion playing at?’ I said. ‘How difficult is it to put a chef on the helo?’
Marines moan about everything and anything and assume it is their right to do so. Food is a constant source of that moaning. We whinge about a lack of food, uncooked food, cold food or too expensive food. (Funnily enough we never moan about too much food.)
We had secretly celebrated the fact that the young chef who could only cook curry was going on R & R before being sent off to deaden the tastebuds at some other location.
But the fact that he had not been replaced was going to cause a riot.
The CSM was slightly older than me and Dutchy and was part of the Mountain and Arctic Warfare Cadre of the Royal Marines. He loved to take the mickey out of anybody who wasn’t part of the cadre, which Dutchy and I weren’t.
He just looked at us with an impassive grin.
‘Troop sergeants, I’m sure you two are both experienced enough to cope,’ he said.
‘Ahhh no, no way,’ we both protested in unison. We knew what that meant. In my case I had been promoted from shit burner to chef. We both just stood for a few
seconds
in case he was winding us up. But the punchline didn’t come.
‘Come on then, Jamie Oliver, let’s go and see what delights we have to mix up in the next two hours before dinner,’ Dutchy said, signalling that we might as well leave the ops room and head for the galley.
‘All right then, Ainsley Harriott,’ I replied.
‘Don’t know if you noticed but I am not black.’
‘Yeah, and I don’t have curly hair and run around like a hyper child all day,’ I replied quickly.
The kitchen was part of a small row of buildings. It had a small door and one tiny window. Inside there was just enough room for one folding table for preparing food. Under the one window sat the blackened old military gas hob. It was attached to a long rubber hose that snaked its way through a hole in the wall that the Gurkhas had drilled to the gas bottle hidden outside around the corner.
Piled high on the floor were four big cooking pots. Several large stirring bowls were hung on nails struck into the grey-painted mud wall at the back of the hut. There were no lights.
The food store was in the building next door. We were both slightly surprised when we discovered that the floor was covered in tins of food.
‘And all he could cook was bloody curry?’ I said, picking up a tin of chicken in white wine sauce and a packet of dried pasta.
‘Fruit cocktail over here,’ Dutchy yelled as he suddenly lunged for a white packet on the floor as if it was tied to a piece of string and would be pulled from his reach at any minute, never to be seen again. ‘And custard powder, he had bloody custard powder,’ he added, holding up the packet for me to see.
We had just under two hours to cook something for around 60 hungry lads. The ‘one choice café’ was about to go into business.
It didn’t take long for the rumour mill to starting working flat out. One of the young lads, Simon, coming off sentry stopped by the open door. The surprised expression on his face told us he was slightly confused by what he saw.
Dutchy was stirring the 15 tins of chicken in white wine sauce that he had emptied into two big pots that were now bubbling away on the hob.
I stood at the chopping board with a badly stained apron around my waist covering my desert combats.
‘Is it right, Sergeant, that you are cooking scran for us tonight?’ the young marine asked. I looked at him with a raw onion in one hand and a large knife in the other. Tears were running down my cheeks from the smelly onions.
‘Your observations skills are hoofing,’ I said. ‘And you reckon you’ll notice the Taliban sneaking up on you then, Si?’
He looked at me for a moment longer before realising the absurdity of his question. ‘Sorry, Sergeant.’
I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. ‘Tell the lads that scran may be a little later tonight while we wait for the Yorkshires to cook; we didn’t put them in on time.’
‘Wow, we’ve got Yorkshires? That’s great, Sergeant,’ he said as he walked off looking happy.
It was a well-known fact that our makeshift kitchen was lacking an oven, let alone the eggs, flour and milk needed to actually make Yorkshire puddings. But I was pretty sure that wasn’t going to stop the rumour mill.
‘How long before that goes round the compound?’ Dutchy asked.
‘I bet you it will be back here by the time the next nugget walks by.’
I continued chopping away and threw a handful of onion segments into the bubbling pot of chicken and white wine sauce.
‘Hey, Sergeant, is it true we’ve got Yorkshires tonight?’ a voice enquired through the open doorway.
Dutchy and I burst into laughter.
*
‘Nice work, fellas,’ the OC mumbled, between mouthfuls of peach slices as he stood outside the galley.
‘No problem, sir. There isn’t much an SNCO can’t turn his hand to,’ Dutchy replied, smiling from inside the doorway.
Armies march on their stomachs. That is a fact. Food is a vital part of the day, not just for survival but to beat the boredom as well. Even though we had individual ration packs for the lads to use for daily rations, the idea of having a chef was to allow the lads at least one decent meal per day that they didn’t have to try and cook in between sangar duties and patrols. So Dutchy and myself felt quite chuffed that the ‘one choice café’ had received rave reviews.
In our two available hours we had managed to cook just enough for the horde of starving marines. We had even surprised them with the chef’s special, a dessert, something they rarely saw out here.
It had taken us a few minutes to convince anybody to come and get some of it. No one trusted us. ‘Yeah. I come back for dessert and get pinged for the washing-up, eh Sergeant?’ was the common response. But when the tinned fruit and custard was laid out on the serving table, word soon got around.
It wasn’t long before Dutchy and myself were supervising the queue to make sure everybody got a share.
The OC had been one of the first to tuck in. He was standing in the doorway of the galley, clearing out the last of his peaches as the queue came to an end.
‘Good. Looking forward to something even better tomorrow then, gents. I would hate for the lads to be disappointed,’ he said, as he put his bowl on the serving table and headed off.
We both looked at each other. We hadn’t even discussed the prospect of cooking tomorrow. Tonight had been pressure enough.