Battleworn (28 page)

The sound of the church organ interrupts my private thoughts, its sombre notes drawing my eyes to the left. I see six paratroopers marching slowly, bearing Phil’s coffin to the front of the church. My support weapons teacher noted earlier, Paul Scott (‘Scotty’), is among the pallbearers, along with Cpl Matty Desmond. The pain of losing Phil is etched on their faces. All of us are interlinked somewhere along the line. As they make their way forward, all heads turn to look at the coffin. If their thoughts are anything like mine, images of Phil must be flashing through their minds.

Phil’s young wife, Stacy, stands silently, her head held high. Her dignified manner is a credit to the husband that she is saying goodbye to. Phil’s coffin is lowered onto its support. One by one, people stand to speak about Phil, each describing his honour and bravery. Then someone reads a simple statement. I don’t recall now who spoke the words, but I remember smiling at the truth of them: ‘He was a good bloke.’ This meant more than a medal or an overthought speech. That was it. Phil was a good bloke, and that’s how he should be remembered.

The service then moves on to Colchester Cemetery, a short drive away. The traffic is busy, and local people stand and watch the funeral cortege taking Phil’s coffin through the streets. In addition to being the oldest recorded town in England, Colchester is a garrison town. The small population is extremely supportive of ‘their paratroopers’, as they fondly regard the blokes.

As we drive through the gates of the cemetery, the sky is bright and the grounds are peaceful. We make our way into the crematorium, and Phil’s men once again carry his coffin, bringing it into the small room. Suddenly and without warning, a song starts to play. The words to Mariah Carey’s ‘Hero’ are louder than I would have expected, and the lump in my throat comes loose. I struggle to hold it together, and all the pomp and ceremony offer no comfort. Outside, soldiers from 2 PARA fire a salute to Phil, and the volley is deafening. Trying hard to compose myself, I fumble in my bag, realising that I don’t have any tissues. What an idiot! I stand there, wiping my face on my jacket sleeve like a four-year-old. Throughout all of my time serving, I always prided myself on keeping it together.

As the tears stream down my face, I let myself feel the grief that I usually suppress during such moments. I am a combat medic accustomed to dealing with blood and death and the ‘less glamorous’ side of life. That is far different from facing the death of a loved one or a dear friend.

Phil’s not a picture on the news; his death is not an ‘event’, so to speak. Looking at his lovely wife, I wonder how she will cope, how she will even begin to rebuild a life without him. As soldiers, we come to expect that the worst might and could happen, but I don’t believe that we truly understand the void that we leave behind. Stacy is one of many young wives having to rebuild their lives alone. The same is true for many first-time mothers, long-time spouses, and grieving parents – the list of loved ones left behind is endless.

I never really thanked Phil for all that he had done for me. Seeing him a few days prior to the accident, we joked about his hosting the next barbecue. Never in a million years did I think that I would never see him again. If I had, I surely would have at least said ‘thank you’ – and those simple words would have meant so much more. Knowing Phil, he realised that. I will always put much of what I have achieved as a soldier down to the time I spent learning from him when we were posted as instructors. Carrying that forward is the way that I will honour my friend and mentor.

Our group heads back to 2 PARA sergeants’ mess, where Phil’s friends and family have gathered. A huge screen flashes photos of Phil, and soon the drinks start to flow. I see many familiar faces, having been based at Merville Barracks in Colchester, Essex, for the last three years. Colchester is home to many units which form the brigade.

Having made lifelong friends among all units, I know that I will always be welcome here. The combination of the funeral and the end of my military service puts me in a reflective state of mind. I start thinking about my days of service, especially my time in Afghanistan.

In Helmand, I became frustrated by the lack of resources and manpower which left us exposed in 2006. Things did not improve much over time. In 2008, our lack of helicopters forced us to drive around in lightly armoured vehicles, travelling on roads that the Taliban had littered with their crude, destructive roadside bombs. Our government had an almost naive military appreciation that we, task force Helmand, controlled the battle space. In reality, the insurgents had the tactical advantage, and every boot on the ground knew that.

Back in 2006, I recall then Defence Secretary John Reid saying that he hoped not a single round would be fired on that tour. Clearly, he had been reading the wrong reports: it was hugely kinetic, and firefights with insurgents were a daily occurrence.

The first brigade into Helmand, led by Brig. Ed Butler, faced significant challenges. By the end of the tour, it was clear that the brigade’s main fighting force, 3 PARA battle group, had delivered a significant measure of tactical success. 3 PARA achieved this under the command of Lt Col Stuart Tootal, although with very few resources, our brigade suffered heavy casualties. The insurgents identified that they could not fight and win in face-to-face running battles with the West, so by the end of the summer of 2006, attacks on UK forces were significantly reduced.

Intelligence indicated that the enemy had taken a severe beating, seriously depleting their manpower. Coupled with the change in seasons, this indicated that the insurgency might need a new strategy to disrupt and yet not necessarily overcome the strength of Western forces.

In a statement, Brig. Butler’s spokesman at the time told the media: ‘There is evidence that the Taliban’s tactical capability to mount large attacks on the battlefield has been seriously degraded. But they remain a significant threat and the use of improvised explosive devices is a major concern.’

A forewarning for what was yet to come was not acknowledged by the white collar decision makers in Whitehall, and by late 2006, the Taliban had changed their tactics, with more attention given to the roadside bomb. They opted for smaller operations in which they planted countless IEDs, and the volume of attacks on coalition forces soared.

When 3 Commando Brigade took over the reins of Helmand Province in October 2006, many soldiers and senior officers hoped that the political aim would be to support the military with additional force. In military jargon, this is known as ‘reinforcing success’ – in simple terms, it means putting more resources into the battle to deny the enemy the chance to regroup or reorganise any form of resurgence. Despite requests from Brig. Butler to deploy more troops and resources, none arrived.

The failure to quickly reinforce the brigade’s success by deploying more helicopters, more troops, and better equipment led to an insurgency stronger than anyone would ever care to admit. The UK government failed its fighting troops and only marginally increased the level of men on the ground. We sent nearly 40,000 into Iraq in 2003 yet could only muster 3,500 for Afghanistan in 2006; this number eventually rose to 10,000, a far cry from the figure that was actually required.

In 2010, four years after my first tour, the Americans deployed more than 25,000 troops to Helmand, lifting the coalition manpower level to more than 35,000, with the UK contribution at around 10,000. History may later suggest that this was the number that was needed when we first entered southern Afghanistan.

Road moves were our biggest danger, especially as there was no national curfew imposed. This easily employed tactic would have removed the cover of night given to insurgents to plant bombs. The lack of additional air assets gave us little chance of reinforcing any success. Helicopters provide commanders with speed and surprise. They are essential in dominating an enemy, especially in areas of difficult terrain, such as southern Afghanistan.

Our initial choice of armoured vehicles provided limited protection against IEDs and RPGs. Our mechanics added metal plates which gave more protection; unfortunately, the weight reduced their capability and speed. It also put huge strain on gearboxes. Even with the best armour, travelling across open desert created unique problems. The tracks of our vehicles cut a path through the sand, creating a huge sand cloud that signalled to everyone, Taliban included, that we were in the area. No surprise and no speed.

The Soviets suffered catastrophic losses during their invasion of Afghanistan in 1979. They poured armoured vehicles into the country, but the tactic failed. Many of their tanks still sit all across the country, stark reminders of the disastrous incursion. The mujahideen, the enemy at that time, placed mines and roadside bombs too, mounting attack after attack on Soviet vehicles, killing thousands of their soldiers.

Beginning in 2007 and into 2008, the UK adopted the same policy of using large numbers of armoured vehicles, and the number of deaths from IEDs soared. Had we not already learnt these lessons? The fighting man on the ground was let down by politicians who failed to understand the problems the military faced and failed to respond quickly to requests for more troops and equipment. Our commanders were not afforded the faith that they so urgently needed.

For me as a medic, the resources – or, rather, the lack of them – at the makeshift hospital in Camp Bastion during the summer of 2006 provided perfect examples of this. We had limited capability for dealing with serious wounds, particularly head injuries, which forced us to fly men to Kandahar to be treated by the Canadians. The sole reason that the brigade fared so well medically has much to do with the willingness and foresight of all hospital staff and support to adapt and overcome any shortfalls. Young medical officers and surgeons pioneered treatments, saving the lives of soldiers who ordinarily would have been lost. But it wasn’t just lack of general equipment and medical resources that inhibited care, it was inadequate rescue capability too.

Our lack of rescue capability was further highlighted when a patrol became trapped in an unmarked legacy minefield. (A legacy minefield is one which has been left behind by previous conflicts.) After a catalogue of disastrous events, four severely injured men, including my good friend Stu Pearson, had to lie in a minefield for an unacceptable length of time. This should not have been allowed to happen.

I recall returning to Kandahar from my mid-tour leave at the time of the incident. It was early in the morning when I heard the news about Stu. I was desperate to get back to the hospital at Camp Bastion so I could see him and make sure that he was okay. The following day, I booked in at the airhead and boarded an RAF Hercules for the short forty-minute journey to Camp Bastion. As the flight touched down on the airstrip, I couldn’t wait to get off. Hurrying from the transport, I quickly dropped my kit off in the tented accommodation close to the hospital. Heading straight for the high-dependency unit, I asked one of the nurses where I could find Stu.

Nothing prepared me for the sight of him lying there. Walking through the canvas doors of the ward in Camp Bastion was one of the most emotionally charged moments of my life. Feeling unsteady on my feet, I couldn’t control myself. I looked at Stu and mumbled, ‘You alright?’ Unable to keep it together, I started to cry as Stu looked up at me. There are moments in life when you need to be strong and resolute, and there are other moments when you just need to let it go. I think the tears came through sheer relief; I was just so relieved that Stu was still alive.

His eyes were glazed and watery because he was high on medication, but he knew that he was in a bad way. With one leg already amputated, there was a strong possibility that he would lose the other one. Lying in the next bed was Cpl Stu Hale, also missing a leg; next to him was another amputee, Fus. Andy Barlow. The four others injured that day were on the general ward on the other side of the tented hospital corridor. Another good friend and a fellow medic, Cpl Paul (‘Tug’) Hartley, was also wounded. Luckily, Tug had avoided loss of limb.

I left the room to compose myself. Wiping my face, I took a few deep breaths and went back in, only to find myself struggling to find the right words. In the end, I just waffled on about my leave and other nonsense. What are you supposed to say in these circumstances? I wanted to give Stu a hug, let him know that everything was going to be okay. But he was covered from head to toe in tubes and dressings, so I just held his hand. I didn’t like that he was the only one still awake; the others all looked so peaceful, and yet Stu had to sit and contemplate all that had happened.

He kept asking me about his other leg, concerned that he was going to lose it. This gave me a much-needed purpose: I set about getting answers from surgeons about his chances. The initial response wasn’t great. They were doing all that they could to save the second limb, but the damage was severe. I was advised that the chances of saving the second leg were fifty-fifty; most of it would be down to the healing post-surgery, and infection control was a huge factor.

Before his evacuation, I stayed with Stu. I had to be sure that he didn’t die. Sometimes people roll through life blinkered that the worst will never happen to them – but it can and it does. Sitting by Stu, I was angry that we weren’t better equipped to deal with this type of incident. When we send our heaviest helicopter to a minefield, troops on the ground see it, momentarily feeling relieved that they are going home. But then the bird flies off again because its downdraught may set off other mines.

This was often exactly what happened. And that’s how it was for Stu and the others. A mine was set off, killing Cpl Mark Wright. Lying trapped in that minefield, Mark died from his injuries. With no combat search and rescue (CSAR) helicopter to winch the injured soldiers to safety, our commanders were left with no choice but to do what soldiers always do: get on with the job and deal with the incident by using the equipment that was available. The Americans saved the day again, deploying two Black Hawks to carry out the rescue of our stricken soldiers. The aircraft flew to the scene from Kandahar, some forty minutes away.