Combat Camera

by Christian Hill

  They began moving back towards the road, Tom with one arm under Stephen, supporting him. Another soldier also helped. Stephen’s condition was deteriorating: he was very weak and faint, garbling his words.

  When they got to the road, Tom picked up Stephen and started to carry him. He managed to cover about 150 metres before Stephen told him to stop.

  “I feel sick,” he mumbled.

  Tom stopped and stood him up in the road. They were still some distance from the patrol base, but there was a small ANP checkpoint less than a hundred metres away.

  “I’ll walk,” said Stephen.

  He began to walk towards the ANP checkpoint, Tom and another soldier either side of him. After a few steps, he collapsed and started fitting.

  “I was directly beside him and delivered immediate first aid,” Tom recalled. “I rolled him onto his side into the recovery position, which proved difficult because of how rigorously his muscles were contracting. The main concern was his airway, which had fully closed because his neck muscles were pulling his chin down onto his chest, while his tongue had retracted into his throat. He was frothing at the mouth and had not drawn breath for at least thirty seconds while I wrestled to force an airway. At this stage he had gone blue and was clearly in trouble. I forced my knee into the base of his neck and counter-levered his forehead to open his airway. He then proceeded to projectile-vomit a mixture of blood and water from his mouth and nose. This continued sporadically for about five minutes.”

  As this was going on, the Rifles went into all-round defence. They were dangerously exposed on the road, and the atmospherics were not good. Within the last few minutes, all the women and children in the area had disappeared from view.

  “The area was not secure,” Tom said. “Further casualties would’ve caused tremendous problems. I was not going to let that happen.”

  Tom ripped off Stephen’s body armour. Other members of the patrol started pouring their water over his body, trying to cool him down. They strapped him to a stretcher and carried him the rest of the way to the ANP checkpoint, where a Mastiff from Patrol Base 2 met them.

  “When we got into the Mastiff, space was tight. Stephen could not fit into the vehicle comfortably. In order to shut the back doors, he had to be moved as far forward as possible, which caused his head to raise up and his airway to close. I grabbed his belt buckle and pulled him hard towards me, which caused his head to drop back again.”

  In the medical centre at Patrol Base 2, Stephen was still fitting. It took several soldiers to hold him down while one of the medics applied an intravenous drip.

  “It was a struggle to keep any lines or oxygen in or on him due to his convulsions,” Tom said. “But the medics, who clearly had a lot of experience with heat casualties, were able to help him.”

  Stephen’s body temperature began to lower and he started to regain consciousness. A US “Pedro” medevac helicopter was called in, landing at Patrol Base 2 twenty minutes later. The Pedro medics sedated Stephen and flew him straight back to the hospital at Bastion.

  Stephen stayed in the hospital at Bastion for three days, during which time he’d recovered enough to write a feature on his experience for the Bournemouth Echo:

  The doctors told me I had a temperature of 41° C, that my blood tests were “deranged”, and that I was the worst case of heat illness they’ve had this year.*

  He was then flown back to the UK and spent four days in Birmingham’s Queen Elizabeth Hospital before being discharged. During his time there he wrote another feature on the incident, thanking all those who saved him:

  I will always remember the professionalism and care of the people who helped me from a dusty Afghan roadside all the way back to a fifth-floor hospital ward in Birmingham.†

  In his weekly report following the incident, Faulkner repeated his calls for PJHQ to implement a more comprehensive training programme for embedded journalists. He drew heavily on Tom’s account of the incident with Stephen, even though the unflappable commando was keen to play down his heroics.

  “Ultimately it was the patrol commander and his men who saved Stephen’s life,” Tom said. “I simply happened to be stood right beside him because of the nature of my job.”

  *

  Sky News (online), 6th July 2011: ‘Four Afghan Civilians Killed by RAF Drone’.

  *

  Air-to-ground missiles used by RAF Tornados. Not to be confused with the counter-IED teams also known as Brimstone.

  †

  An observer reporting troop movements to the insurgents.

  *

  Bournemouth Echo (online), 9th July 2011: ‘Echo Journalist in Black Hawk Rescue’.

  †

  Bournemouth Echo (online), 16th July 2011: ‘Reporter Pays Tribute to Armed Forces after Being Taken Ill in Afghanistan’.

  Last Legs

  On the same day that Stephen Bailey nearly died, another 1 Rifles patrol, this one from A Company, conducted a security operation just outside Salaang. As they crossed the corner of a ploughed field south-east of the base, an IED detonated. One of the Rifles lost both his legs below the knees, and one of his arms below the elbow.

  Elsewhere in Nahr-e Saraj, Danish soldiers from 2 Armoured Infantry Company were out on a foot patrol when they stopped for a moment alongside a wall. As they rested, an insurgent on the other side of the wall threw two mortar rounds at them, fashioned as hand grenades. The resulting blasts left three of the Danes Cat A and three Cat B. They were flown to Bastion with a variety of fragmentation wounds to their arms and legs.

  “102 significant acts today,” Faulkner said that evening. “It’s gone up slightly.”

  As per usual, it was all about the numbers. Away from the eyes of the media, that was how we measured the tempo of the war. That was our report, the only one that counted.

  The next day the number of significant acts fell to eighty-five. It kept falling through the weekend, and by Tuesday it was down to forty-two.

  “The figures are looking good at the moment,” Faulkner said that evening. “114 insurgents killed in the last week. 224 detained. Also Nad-e Ali is showing a fifty-per-cent drop in significant acts year-on-year. And the number of locals coming forward and reporting the locations of IEDs has gone up by sixty-eight per cent.”

  It wasn’t all good news. Even when the number of significant acts was low, the hospital at Bastion was kept busy. That lunchtime a joint foot patrol from 215th ANA Corps and 2nd Battalion 8th US Marines struck an IED in Sangin, leaving one Marine with Cat A blast wounds. Two hours later a foot patrol from 1st Battalion 5th US Marines struck another IED in Sangin, resulting in another Cat A Marine. Back at Bastion, he died from his wounds. Four hours later, a joint patrol from 215th ANA Corps and 3rd Battalion 2nd US Marines came under small-arms fire in Now Zad, leaving two Marines Cat A. They were also flown back to Bastion, where one of them later died

  Outside Helmand, meanwhile, there was bad news coming out of Kandahar. Ahmad Wali Karzai – the half-brother of President Karzai and a leading power-broker in the south of the country – had been shot dead by a man described as his “head of security”. The Taliban had issued a statement claiming responsibility, their spokesman Zabiullah Mujahid calling it one of their greatest achievements in ten years of war. Doubts had been raised about the Taliban’s claims, however, amid rumours the killing had been fuelled by a personal grudge. Unfortunately the gunman’s exact motives were difficult to establish, as he’d been shot dead by another security guard almost immediately.

  “We think Ahmad Karzai’s death could cause a few problems,” Faulkner said. “Intelligence are talking about a destabilizing power struggle.”

  He moved on to media-related matters. Miles Amoore had written a less than flattering article on the state of the ANA following his short stay with 1 Rifles the previous week. It had run in the Sunday Times with a quote from one of the Rifles officers: “Without us cajoling, pushing or pleading, the Afghan army would sit on their arse and do fuck all.”*
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  “It’s outrageous,” Faulkner said.

  “Not good at all,” added Dougie.

  The article described an operation by 1 Rifles in Nahr-e Saraj back in May. Soldiers from A Company had come under fire while occupying a compound in the village of Alikozai. Amoore had written up the piece following his recent stay with the Rifles at Patrol Base 2. His style of reporting was not dissimilar to Virginia Wheeler’s, full of punchy, vivid detail:

  The bullet tore into the British sniper’s hip and knocked him to the ground. Surrounded by Taliban fighters after being pinned down by heavy fire inside a mud compound for seven hours, British soldiers suffering from heat exhaustion dragged the wounded corporal from the rooftop and into an inner courtyard.

  “It’s overly graphic for no apparent reason,” Faulkner said. “He wasn’t there, how would he know? It’s just him repeating other people’s stories.”

  The article had then shifted its focus onto the relative merits of the Afghan soldiers:

  There is a growing realization among British officers that the end result will not be perfect. The British have begun to call the outcome “Afghan good enough”.

  “If they want to piss in the showers, smoke hash, blow the generator, refuse to wear helmets on patrol, then so be it,” a British officer said.

  At least Faulkner didn’t hate all journalists. Mick had just returned from the flight line, where he’d dropped off a handful of reporters from the West Midlands.

  “They wanted me to pass their thanks on to everyone,” Mick said. “They said they’d been really well looked after.”

  “That’s the way it goes,” Faulkner said. “Some of the media have been complete arsewipes, and some have been brilliant. You just have to suck it all up.”

  I was due to fly home with Faulkner the following afternoon, both our tours ending on the same day. I had been hoping to relax as soon as I boarded the Tristar, but I had visions of Faulkner sitting next to me, lecturing me for hours on the warped duality of the media. It didn’t help that we had to stop halfway in Cyprus for a mandatory twenty-four-hour decompression package. That meant sitting on the beach with him all afternoon before moving into the bar. Neither of us knew anybody else on the flight, so it had all the makings of a very long journey home.

  * * *

  Ahead of my last night in the JMOC, I learnt that Russ was not coming back. The compassionate cell back in the UK had deemed the condition of his close relative so serious that he was to remain in the UK. The Media and Communications Team at Andover was now trying to find a replacement who could fly out as soon as possible. Realistically, however, we were unlikely to get anyone for at least another fortnight.

  Meanwhile Ali was on her way home, flying back for two weeks of R&R. I said goodbye to her outside the office, giving her a hug.

  “It’s been a pleasure working with you,” I told her.

  She laughed. “You don’t mean that, boss!”

  “Of course I do.” I did as well. “Make sure Joe looks after you.”

  I’d hardly seen anything of Joe over the last week. He’d been glued to his cameraman every day since their arrival, working all over Bastion. When they weren’t filming, Joe went straight to the gym, determined to pump himself up. He was already pretty trim, but he still felt the need for a daily workout.

  “He can’t wait to get out on the ground,” said Ali.

  “That’s what worries me,” I said. “Don’t let him do anything daft.”

  I felt guilty saying goodbye to her. She still had six weeks to push when she got back from R&R. If Joe was desperate for action, then she would soon find herself back in harm’s way.

  “I’ll be fine,” said Ali. “See you at the next training weekend.”

  I waved Ali off, then went to my final evening brief. It was taken by Faulkner’s replacement, a pint-sized wing commander called Baxter.

  “Eighty-eight significant acts today,” he mumbled, reading slowly from his notes. “So it’s more than doubled from yesterday.”

  The worst incident had taken place in Kapisa, where French soldiers had been guarding a shura between tribal leaders. A suicide bomber had walked up to the soldiers as they stood by their armoured vehicles and detonated his explosives. The blast had killed five of the soldiers and left four with serious injuries.

  “But there is some good news today,” said Baxter, suddenly sitting up. “The insurgents behind Highlander McLaren’s death have been killed. They were a four-man team, apparently. I can’t tell you much more than that. Just that we got them about two kilometres from where he was found.”

  * * *

  I said goodbye to my colleagues in the JMOC the following afternoon. Harriet had left while I was in Kabul, so it was only really Dougie and Mick.

  “Hang in there, Dougie,” I said.

  He gave me a wry smile. “They’re letting me go home in September now,” he said. “I’m getting a month off for good behaviour.”

  “How about you, Mick?”

  “Back in November.”

  “November?”

  He nodded. “They’re letting me go home for Christmas.”

  Faulkner and I got a lift to the Passenger Handling Facility, where we checked in our bags and weapons. Away from the JMOC, on his way home after six months staring at a computer screen in the middle of desert, he was in a good mood. We drank coffee in the holding area, chatting about home and all the things we were going to do on leave. The time passed surprisingly quickly.

  We got separated as we boarded the Tristar. I found myself in a window seat over the wing, looking out towards the control tower. We sat on the tarmac for a good long time, waiting for something, I don’t know what. By the time we took off, it was dark. When I looked down at Bastion for the last time, all I could see was a big constellation of lights, disappearing into the night.

  Getting up into the air, I felt more relief than happiness. I’d dreamt about this moment for weeks, thinking I’d want to shout out with joy, but now it was happening, I was suddenly conscious of all the other soldiers and Marines around me. Some of them had done proper tours, spent months in the Green Zone, risking their lives every day, seeing their best friends killed or maimed. Who was I to celebrate around these men?

  It was quiet on the plane. Every man was lost in his thoughts. Pretty soon the hypnotic drone of the engines took its toll. I closed my eyes and gave in easily to sleep.

  We landed at Akrotiri four hours later, just as the sun was coming up. Time to decompress. All of us just wanted to go home, but this package was mandatory. It was supposed to reintroduce us to the comforts of civilian life (i.e. alcohol) in a controlled environment. Given my week at the British Embassy, I was hardly in desperate need of the sun loungers and the free booze, but I shuffled off the plane along with everybody else. Some buses took us to a place called Bloodhound Camp, where we showered, ate breakfast, then went to the beach. I wasn’t normally one for swimming in the sea, but the sight of all that water was difficult to resist. I spent an hour just swimming around in circles under the watchful eye of a lifeguard in a kayak. He was just one of a dozen safety staff who tried to ensure that no one drowned.*

  They gave us our beer tokens later that night. We were allowed four cans each. In recent years it had always been five cans, but then a platoon of Paras, heading home after a particularly difficult tour, took all their clothes off in the bar, horrifying the staff, who felt the fifth can was to blame.

  We had a barbecue and watched a band perform on a small stage next to the bar. I worked my way through my beer allocation and chatted to Faulkner. We had nothing in common, but it didn’t matter. We were both just glad be going home.

  We all slept in a big dormitory full of bunk beds. Reveille was at 3.15 a.m., but no one complained. We got dressed and got back on the buses and returned to the air terminal. It was just starting to get light when we walked across the tarmac to the Tristar. There were no delays this time. We all took our seats and the pilot said good mor
ning and turned it around and took us all the way back to Brize Norton.

  It was raining as we landed. The good old rain, the life-giving rain. It slanted across my window as I looked out over the fields of Oxfordshire. I hadn’t seen it fall for more than four months.

  The pilot parked us right outside the terminal. We all got off, exposing our sun-darkened faces to the rain as we stepped down onto the tarmac. As with our departure from Bastion, there was very little talking.

  We walked into the terminal – a grey, squat building – and waited for our baggage. It came round on a carousel after five minutes. Our weapons came in separately. Each of us took a luggage trolley and made our way through to the lobby.

  I saw one tearful reunion, a blonde wrapping herself around a stunned airman, but otherwise the lobby was empty. For some reason, I’d been expecting a mass outpouring of emotion, families throwing themselves at us as we appeared in the doorway, but that didn’t happen. It seemed that most of us, like myself, had a little bit farther to go.

  Faulkner came over. His lift was outside, and it was time to say goodbye.

  “Take care, Christian. Good working with you.”

  “And you too, sir.”

  We smiled and shook hands, and that was that. He was gone. Whether he really thought it was good working with me, I had no idea. Possibly he thought I was one of the arsewipes, but didn’t want to say.

  My own transport turned up ten minutes later. It was the dreaded white minibus from Chilwell. Mercifully, the prostitute-loving corporal was nowhere to be seen. A sensible-looking civilian with grey hair was behind the wheel instead.

  It took two hours to get back to Chilwell – the normal journey time. The sensible civilian dropped me off outside the armoury. I’d rung my father on the way back, giving him a pick-up time. He still hadn’t arrived when we got there, so I had time to give my rifle and pistol a quick wipe-down before signing them back into the armoury.