Spoken from the Front (14 page)

Woe betide anyone who isn't down with this lingo, and death
was only a whisker away for my colleague, who is RAF, when
he made the mistake of calling 29 Commando 'twenty-nine'
instead of 'two-nine'. And we just about managed to save him
from the gallows when he almost called I Company Ivory
Company instead of India Company. Oh, how we laughed.

Bearing in mind that we are 4 and half hours ahead of you
there isn't much to do in the media department from then
until the UK wakes up around lunchtime other than look at
my emails and suchlike and read through all the early
editions from the UK papers for the afternoon repeat of the
morning's brief.

Still your hero soldiers on until lunch, a relatively impressive
affair with a range of choices from curry to burger and
chips to salad and pasta and all that gumph.

Then it's back to it in the afternoon. I hope you're all deeply
impressed with the bravery being demonstrated on a daily
basis.

The afternoon is normally punctuated by a short snooze
back in the tent. Ah, yes, the tent, my home for the next two
and a bit months. The interior is a relatively Spartan affair but
most occupants have brought a little bit of individuality to
their corner with duvets, bits of carpet and hanging
cupboards. My own slice of individuality is mess, and lots of
it. This mess comprises of a stash of empty water bottles (real
Nestlé Pakistani tap water), the odd wrapper from an issue
bar of 'Italian' milk chocolate (cocoa not included) and the
contents of the Xmas box we got from the Govt and you
the people of Britain for the bravery we are demonstrating in
being out here. Thanks for the flashing red nose and Santa
hat. They'll come in useful.

What has perked up things no end is the recent addition of
our own mini cinema. We've only just got it but it consists of
a super-duper new projector with which we watch DVDs on
the wall. Great. You can pick up cheap bootleg copies of
DVDs dead easy out here. The Saturday market at Kandahar
airfield is a good place to buy them.

This is in itself an experience. Kandahar is a massive base,
mainly resembling a building site, which has around 10,000
troops from a mix of nationalities, and wherever the Yanks go
so goes commerce. So, there is a big football-pitch-sized dusty
playing field surrounded by a wooden boardwalk, cleverly
entitled 'the boardwalk', and around this boardwalk is a host
of shops selling anything from North Face camping-style
clothes and Afghans selling hats, blankets and rugs, but there
is also a Burger King, Pizza Hut, Subway and Canadian
donut chain Tim Horton's. Not to be outdone the Canadians
have rigged up a mock ice-rink so they can play dry ice
hockey.

To add to this demonstration of rampant commercialism,
on Saturdays there is an Afghan market selling everything
from knocked-off DVDs, including copies of
Rocky Balboa
,
which isn't even out at the cinema yet, to dirt cheap carpets
and pashminas, fake watches of all shapes and sizes,
jewellery stalls selling huge lumps of lapis lazuli, mummified
tarantulas the size of your hand in delightful display boxes, a
man selling old weapons from swords to old muskets and
bloody great machete-type knives. There were also enough
ancient coins on display to keep an archaeologist happy for a
year. Place your orders now.

I could have quite easily spent the whole trip shopping.

I visited Kandahar on my way to a whistle-stop visit to
Kabul. After a deeply unappealing delay at the large, tented
refrigerator, which doubles up as the waiting lounge at
Kandahar, followed by an hour in the back of a Hercules,
which is actually much better than it sounds, we arrived at
5.30 a.m. to a bloody freezing Kabul airport, with snow piled
up by the side of the runways, to spend two hours in a freezing
cold tent before travelling to ISAF [International Security
Assistance Force] HQ. This was redeemed by the fact we then
drove for ten minutes through Kabul to ISAF HQ so I had my
first sighting of actual Afghanistan people in their natural
habitat rather than washing my smalls. This largely meant
people wandering across a dual carriageway, and shepherds
with herds of straggly goats by the side of the road. Lots of
goats.

I hope I am painting an accurate picture of a life on
operations with the military. And I haven't even started
on the dependency I have developed for my daily fix of issue
custard and the fact that my hands have begun to crumble
because you have to wash them thoroughly before every
meal and after each lav break with alcohol-based products for
fear of spreading dysentery and vomiting.

Must go now. Meeting the Afghan Minister of Information.

May Allah be praised. Or at the very least not insulted by
the infidel while I am within range.

McNab:
Nato forces in Afghanistan claimed to have thwarted a
major border incursion from Pakistan by killing 150 Taliban in a
night-time operation. It was said that, the previous day, two
columns, totalling 200 insurgents, crossed into the Afghan border
province of Paktika. This was believed to be ahead of a spring
offensive against Western forces. After crossing the border, the two
groups were attacked by American planes, which dropped 1,000-and
500-pound bombs on the Taliban. The move all but annihilated
the insurgents, according to the Afghan National Army, which
found the dead bodies. Pakistan claimed it had also bombed and
destroyed Taliban trucks on its side of the border.

Captain Dave Rigg, MC, The Royal Engineers

The rescue plan to save the wounded Marine had been
worked out. It didn't involve me. I had done my bit so I
decided to get out of the way and have a 'Hamlet' moment. It
had been a long night and an even longer dawn. By now, it
was a beautiful day: the sun was out, the sky was blue, it was
about 15°C. All was calm and tranquil where we were: it was
strange to think that just five kilometres away there was a
huge amount of chaos and destruction, bombs were being
dropped and people were being killed. But this was Helmand
province, Afghanistan: we were used to trying to get our
heads round things that didn't make sense.

Having enjoyed some fresh air, I went back into the tented
command post. But the mood of relative quiet that I had left
had changed: things were once again becoming excited and
intense but I didn't know why. The CO [Lieutenant Colonel
Rob Macgowan] was on his JTAC's [joint terminal air
controller's] radio, which meant he must be talking to one of
the pilots. Then, the battle group ops officer said to him: 'Sir,
if you need a volunteer, I'll do it.' I thought: Do what?
Something strange and slightly disconcerting was going on,
but I couldn't work out what it was.

Gradually things started to add up. When I had taken my
break, there had been an agreed plan on how to rescue the
injured Marine – Lance Corporal Mathew Ford – but this was
now changing in front of my eyes. Lance Corporal Ford had
been wounded during a dawn fire-fight when Zulu
Company attacked a Taliban-held fort close to the river
Helmand, ten kilometres south of the town of Garmsir. The
assault of Jugroom Fort had been delayed, which meant it
had lost its element of surprise and had not taken place in the
darkness as originally intended. Eight Vikings [tracked
armoured fighting vehicles] had stormed across the river, but
as soon as they got to the fort side they came under a hail of
gunfire, small arms and RPGs.

The stream of casualty reports coming through on the radio
told us that things had gone horribly wrong. Eventually the
decision was made to withdraw but, in the chaos, Lance
Corporal Ford was left lying wounded against the outside
wall of the fort. It was only after the withdrawal was complete
that he was spotted from the sky – first by an unmanned
aerial vehicle and then by one of the pilots of the Apache
helicopters. He was lying wounded but, apparently, he was
still alive. Lance Corporal Ford had to be rescued or he would
fall into the hands of the Taliban. Before I had taken my tenminute
break, the plan had been for four of the Vikings –
supported by two Apaches, A10 aircraft and artillery fire – to
go back over the river and retrieve him.

Then someone told me that the Apache pilots had recommended
they go in as a pair, with two blokes hanging on the
sides of each helicopter. They would fly into position, the four
blokes would jump off, grab Lance Corporal Ford, and then
everyone would fly off again. It seemed an extraordinary,
almost unbelievable, plan. For one thing, I had no idea you
could put passengers on an Apache. Where were they going
to be? Hanging underneath it? Sitting on the side of it? No
one knew at this stage how this would pan out. But the
Apache pilots had formulated the plan and they seemed
quite confident. Without much delay, the CO decided that
this was the way to go. He asked for four volunteers. It was
then that it dawned on me, and probably everyone else, that
not only were they going to go ahead with the plan but
that they wanted us, the manpower in the command post, to
carry it out.

Without really thinking about it, a handful of people,
including myself, volunteered. It was pretty instinctive,
really. Then the CO went through the volunteers. He said to
one: 'No, you've got to control the reconnaissance force,
you've got to do this, you've got that job. Yes, Dave, you will
go.' Oh, shit, I thought. It was one thing volunteering, but
quite another being selected.

Another Marine, Marine Gary Robertson – Robbo to his
friends – who had just turned up, raised his hand and he was
chosen too. Then the RSM of the battle group came in, WO1
[Warrant Officer Class 1] Colin Hearn. He'd been dealing
with the casualties. He walked in as four volunteers were
asked for. 'Yes, RSM, yes, good, you'll go too,' said the CO.
The RSM nodded dutifully, oblivious to what he had just
become part of.

That gave us three 'volunteers'. Then the 2IC of Zulu
Company, which had attacked the fort, was keen for one of
his men to join. He found one of his signallers, who'd just
woken up and was making himself a cup of tea. When asked,
Marine Chris Fraser-Perry, immediately volunteered – but he
didn't know what for. So this confused bunch of volunteers
gathered around me outside the tent and it was left to me to
explain what they were being asked to do. I had been part of
the planning for the attack on Jugroom Fort from the start and
so was familiar with the lie of the land, which gave me an
advantage. But I had also watched [on computer screens in the
command post] enemy reinforcements streaming in from the
south and suspected that the Taliban were regrouping in
anticipation of our return. Going back in was a bold shout: I
reckoned our chances of success were about fifty:fifty. It didn't
matter; we had to do something to get Lance Corporal Ford
back.

I looked at the three men in front of me. Despite being a bit
bewildered, they were all raring to go. Everyone wanted to
help, but it was the four of us who had been selected to do the
job. We didn't want to let anyone down. I said: 'Okay, do you
know what we're going to do?'

'No, sir,' came the reply from all three men.

'Right. Well, we're going to get on to two Apaches and
we're going to fly to where Lance Corporal Ford is, we're
going to collect him and then we're going to fly out.' I tried to
disguise my concern, attempting to sound confident and in
control.

Judging from the expressions facing me, my fellow
volunteers were equally worried. Everyone looked pretty
stunned. The silence was awkward so I carried on: 'Right, I'll
pair up with Chris. RSM, you take Robbo. Grab your weapon
and body armour: the faster we are, the greater the chances of
our success here. We've got to get in and out really quick.
We'll have loads of supporting fire-power, but we must avoid
getting caught in a fire-fight. We just need to go in, get him,
and get out.'

Without any hesitation or further questions, the boys ran
off to get their stuff. Pretty soon, the two Apaches came
swooping over the top and landed behind us. The ops officer
stepped out of the tent. 'Right, here they are, everyone. Go,
go, go: we haven't got much time! The helos are low on fuel.'
So without really thinking about it or compiling any kind of
plan, we were sent into action. I had my SA80 with six
magazines of ammunition, a smoke grenade, a frag grenade,
my Osprey body armour and a helmet. And everyone else
had similar kit.

We'd all volunteered, but my main worry was that the lads
hadn't been briefed well enough. They didn't know where
exactly Lance Corporal Ford was, what precisely we were
going to do and, at this stage, I didn't know how we
were going to sit on the helicopters. So I was pretty nervous
about the whole thing. I asked the CO what the plan was and
he told me that the pilots would brief me.

I jogged off towards the two Apaches and the pilots both
slipped open their canopies. One of them was leaning out and
greeted me as I ran up to him. He gave me the thumbs-up, as
though to say: 'Shall we go?'

I thought: Is he mad? Did he expect me to swing my leg
over the rocket pod, and off we'd go, do the job and come
back and it's as simple as that? As it turned out, he did. But
the pilot registered my concern. He shouted a load of
instructions at me, gesticulated, pointed at the fuselage,
handed me this green strop [to tie Lance Corporal Ford to the
side of the helicopter once he had been rescued] but I couldn't
hear a word because the helicopter engine and the rotors
were still turning. However, I soon got the gist of what he
wanted us to do and realized that, with time running out, it
was up to us to make it work.

With the other boys, I moved away from the helos. We
drew a little sketch in the sand and briefed the others on what
to expect: 'Right, here's the large outer wall. Ford's there. You
boys form the reserve and cover us. We'll go and get him.'
Then one of the pilots joined us and said a few reassuring
words. Needless to say, they fell on deaf ears.