Battleworn (24 page)

ADVANCE PERSONNEL FROM 3 COMMANDO BRIGADE ARE INBOUND THIS morning, and my first thought is how disappointed they will be when they realise that the shower is out of bounds. Having served in support of members of 42 Commando in Sierra Leone, I am well acquainted with their unique practices. (They provided force protection for our small team when deploying to the more rugged areas upcountry.)

Marines are definitely a different breed. My grandfather was a Royal Marine, and he fought in Korea. Buck Taylor was part of ‘the Raiders’ 41 Independent Commando, and his unit suffered great losses. When he chatted of his time in Korea, he spoke quietly of the day that involved a daylight raid into the area of Sonjin. Many of his close friends never made it home. Nothing can make up for that loss, but 41 Independent Commando were awarded an American Presidential unit citation in 1957. Extremely proud of his days as a Commando, Buck was buried in his much-loved Green Beret, and his regimental blazer was rarely off his back.

My grandfather passed away in 1999 at the age of seventy-four, not old in today’s terms. Serving on operations in Kosovo at the time, I received a letter from him soon after he passed; he must have written it before he died. I read it time and time again, enjoying the way that he wrote. It was old fashioned, and our handwriting was exactly the same. He wrote in the letter that I should trust no one and never turn my back on the enemy. If I react I am to react with speed. He went on to quote from ‘The Man in the Arena’, an excerpt from a speech given by Theodore Roosevelt in 1910, shortly after his term as President of the United States [
see
this book’s epigraph]. The junior medic in me had no real understanding of what any of my grandfather’s letter meant – neither his own words nor the quoted speech. I laughed at the ‘trust no one and react with speed’ piece, just thinking he was an old-school war hero.

Afghanistan was where the penny finally dropped. Neither a grunt nor a man, a combat medic serving in support of a brigade, made up of the type of soldiers that he was talking about. The speech is about men like him, men who put themselves out there, men who push themselves and aren’t afraid of the prospect of failure. With all the action in Nad-e Ali came plenty of quiet time, often tending thoughts of family and close friends and how much they meant to me. I feel extremely proud of my grandfather, but I never got the chance to tell him. They don’t make them like him anymore; he didn’t blame an ex-wife or poor upbringing for the few issues that he had. Nowadays people don’t want to take any responsibility – it always has to be someone else’s fault. He signed his letter ‘
Semper Fi’
. I would hear this again, many years later from my comrades of the US Marine Corps. I look at my own faults, and, like most people, I have plenty. For the most part, though, they make me who I am. It took me a while to take responsibility for being impatient, sometimes unwavering. It’s fair to say I am fiery in nature, and before I can stop myself, words have usually already fallen from my lips. My dad taught me that a strong offence is the best defence. Maybe I take that too literally at times. However, if we were all the same, life would be a flat line. Not immune to diving straight off a fence, I don’t always land on the safe side. That’s just who I am.

When my grandfather spoke about trusting no one and not turning my back on the enemy, I smiled, thinking,
When will I ever be face-to-face with the enemy?
Maybe Marjah was what he was talking about. I hadn’t planned to engage or kill anyone that day, but sometimes you are forced into the ‘arena’, whether you like it or not. It’s the action you take that will often decide your fate; an element of luck can be useful at times too. I don’t pretend to know all the answers, but my grandfather’s wisdom makes me ask tough questions, and sometimes that’s the best and the most we can do.

I wonder why betrayal happens to us. The coalition forces have been so trusting of our allies. Sometimes there’s no choice but to be trusting. Both we Brits and the Americans have been hit hard by trusted Afghans who in some cases have worked alongside us for many years. I believe that this was the very type of enemy that my grandfather referred to. I think he meant that I should trust when I had to, but never fully – especially when dealing with a society that is very different from our own.

Thinking about my grandfather makes me think fondly of the Commandos. They have their own quirks, some of which are almost ritualistic, like their shower fetish. Wake up, shower, go for a run, shower, have a lunchtime nap, possible shower to refresh, afternoon gym session, shower, and bedtime. Showering is clearly the primary activity. That certainly won’t be the case here. With water at a premium, the grunts and attached arms usually opt for the much-loved ‘3 PARA shower’, which means clean nothing, or do the bare minimum.

Support elements from the incoming unit will be first to arrive, but it’s unclear how the main body will arrive. According to the boss, a move by air is the most probable. We will hand over our vehicles and equipment just the same as we would have back in the PRT compound.

I notice today that the temperature has dropped. The majority of the soldiers in Argyll are taking a well-earned rest, enjoying the cooler weather. Abbie and I sit chatting outside the CAP having a cup of tea and enjoying some ‘biscuits fruit’. The military sometimes describe things in a weird, backward fashion. Any normal person would surely say ‘fruit biscuits’. They aren’t dissimilar to the old-school Garibaldi biscuits, the ones that your dad normally likes, right up there with Jamaica cake or corned beef.

After twenty or so minutes, Abbie spots something moving about underneath the WMIK sitting directly in front of us. She climbs underneath to investigate, finding a tiny friendly call sign. ‘It’s a kitten!’ she says. The little thing is foraging in a discarded ration box, probably looking for food. Abbie manages to lift the animal out from its shelter, delighted by the tiny ball of fur.

Brought up around dogs, I never really had time for cats. Kosovo was the first time that I had any type of association with one. We adopted a tiny black-and-white kitten, and he would often sleep on my camp cot while I was out. His company became routine, and I liked having him around. In our world of ever-increasing absurdity, we named him Scooby after the huge cartoon dog Scooby Doo. The very British satire of Monty Python is evident in most soldiers; it’s the irony of the shitty situations in which you find yourself that often get you through. Our cat was euthanised by an overzealous environmental health technician. I didn’t show it at the time, but I was angry that the little man had been killed. He was a welcome distraction for the medics coming back from the horror of assisting the Canadians with the exhumation of mass graves. Sometimes soldiers at the forefront see a very different picture than those who serve in the rear echelons.

Animals provide a source of normality in what are very abnormal circumstances. So long as you don’t start cutting about like Dr Doolittle, I see no harm in keeping animals around camp. Common sense says that you can’t have wild packs of dogs running around a base or snakes climbing over camp cots like something out of the
Jungle
Book.

I presume the cat Abbie found is a male. She gives him some water, and after all this time, I finally find a worthwhile purpose for my army ration pâté. The kitten loves it, and I am delighted to have found a legitimate reason not to eat it. It sounds more professional to say that I need to feed the cat than to offer my usual ‘it tastes like shit’ excuse. We name him Ali Cat because he is a survivor of Nad-e Ali.

Ali Cat becomes a permanent fixture in and around the ops room, much to the disapproval of the boss, who even forced Davey to show his compassionate side. We would often find the sergeant major playing with or feeding him. Just the previous week, Davey unintentionally traumatised himself with an incident involving another cat in the PB. Ham found a kitten that was far smaller than Ali Cat, even smaller than my hand; in fact, you could only just make out its tiny features. Initially the main effort was to find its mum. We searched every inch of the base – gun positions, toilet block, and so on – but there was no sight of her. I found it strange that a nursing mum would go so far away from a newborn, but maybe this was the way that cats rolled in Afghanistan. With the situation unfolding, everyone on camp decided to become the resident expert in wild cat behaviour. ‘I can offer advice on how to be “feral” if that is any use, people.’ After much discussion, the overall consensus was that Mum isn’t coming back.

We tried to nurse the kitten ourselves, using small syringes to feed it. The culturally different Afghans looked at us, wondering why we were bothering – it was just a cat, after all. I realised then that with so much destruction around them, the blokes needed an outlet to show kindness to. This is still true, and now we have a new kitten. Ali Cat might help mend the mental scarring that in some will be inevitable, and these small slices of humanity are what make us different from our Afghan counterparts.

The Jocks won’t hesitate when pushing a bayonet into another human being, but they will always show compassion and kindness to casualties of war, including animals. It’s the children of war whom soldiers normally reach out to; their innocence will sometimes uplift the desperate and unforgiving reality of battle. There are no youngsters in Nad-e Ali. In fact, we are using their school as a PB.

The Jocks never show that they are bothered by our circumstances, but during quiet times showing some affection to a small kitten isn’t so uncool, and it gives them something to think about other than killing the Taliban. Recalling our efforts with the first kitten, I hope Ali Cat will fare better. All attempts to feed the newborn proved fruitless, and it would have been cruel to leave it to die in the heat. Making milk from the powder in the sachets from our ration packs, we tried everything. It was not a shock when the kitten rejected every attempt. Deciding on its fate, we agreed that we should put the newborn out of its misery, leaving the sergeant major with the unenviable task. I don’t want to think about it, so I just convince myself that Ali Cat is bigger and stronger, and all will be well.

Life goes on at PB Argyll. As the Jocks continue to probe Shin Kalay, our daily jaunts are becoming increasingly perilous. Firmly into battle routine, the base soaks up the daily attacks. Together with Davey, I continue to support the lads with use of the 51. Scotty Pew’s gun team on the roof provide our lifeline: he directs us on the mortar, monitoring our fall of shot. Any doubts that I had about helping out have all but faded. With every one of us in the PB embracing our tasks, my medics support every operation that happens, whether inside or outside of Argyll.

Just when it seems that our luck is turning, B Company faces a further blow. The boss announces that Monty is required back at our MOB in Lash: he will brief the incoming Commandos on what’s happening down here. It’s a necessary evil, but that doesn’t soften the blow for us losing him. Monty will be replaced at some point by Sgt Damian (‘Damo’) Partridge. Damo has already been bloodied this tour, and it will be good to see his chirpy face. Until his arrival, though, 2Lt Du Boulay will lead the platoon alone.

B Company men are battle worn; it’s been a long summer, and the young section commanders are all ageing well beyond their years. The experience that all of us have accumulated is far more than any course will ever teach us. I wonder where we will go from here. Soldiering doesn’t get any better than it is now; other operations will surely pale into insignificance.

The new faces arriving will hold the line through the winter. There are no new medics as yet, but we’re informed that they will arrive along with the main body. A doctor will head the team up.

‘Better late than never,’ I grumble to Kev.

With the incoming marines, banter has already started. The language barrier between them and the Jocks is making for an interesting handover. The inbound grunts will be enjoying their scran, as opposed to scoff, and a cup of tea is known as a wet and not a brew.

The Jocks’ nurturing almost permissive nature suggests that they are always open to new ideas. As Ferris explains it, ‘I dunni give a fuck who’s takin’ over, just get the cunts here.’ His take on the handover is resonated throughout the company, such a beautiful way with words, almost poetic. The spirit of a young Jock is infectious: they have nothing to prove and everything to gain, and at their worst, they are probably at their best. ‘If you are hangin’ oot yer arse, then at least have the decency to do it with panache, eh!’ Words of wisdom from Ham, still cutting about on his ATV.

A message comes through from my higher echelon at Camp Bastion. Jen and I will fly back to Lash a couple of days before Abbie and Sean. Flights home are already booked, so names are non-negotiable. Our exit should be at least a few days away yet, so packing up won’t start any time soon. We don’t have too much kit here, just enough to make our backpacks uncomfortably heavy for the helicopter ride back to our MOB. Company 2IC Capt. Wood is on the same flight as we are; he, too, is required to work with the marines during the handover phase. The boss isn’t over enthused that we are all leaving. He tries to persuade HQ to leave us until the last helo out. Everyone’s proven themselves, and with that comes trust, which takes a fair amount of time to build.

Another attack comes at sundown. All arcs are covered, and our retaliatory fire smashes the Taliban. With every assault on our base Scotty Pew’s speed and precision of target acquisition is getting all the more impressive; somehow, though, the enemy’s numbers remain. As the dusk attack comes to an end, so does my own mission on the 51, and I make my way back into the CP. I have gotten so used to the sounds of munitions that I am often tempted just to sack off taking cover. Complacency is harder to fight than the enemy at times. Prolonged exposure to combat causes fatigue, and with that, poor judgement may follow. It’s the time that personal discipline must kick in, with rounds freely pinging around our base at all times of day. I don’t want to be the Afghan who chose not to don his body armour.