Danger Close

by Colonel Stuart Tootal

  With the Marines in place we were ready to lift out of Sangin for the last time. I took one final look at the district centre from the port gunner’s hatch. I watched Corporal Stentiford drive Tac’s quad bike over the rutted field towards us. The aircraft was already packed with fifty men and the aircrew were impatient to lift; then Stentiford bogged the quad bike. We had already spent too long on the ground. JDAM House had gone, but RPGs were probably already being primed against us. I heard the pilot tell me he needed to lift; I felt myself sigh as I flicked back the intercom switch and said, ‘Roger out.’ The airframe vibrated violently as the power came on and we climbed from the LZ. I caught a brief glimpse of Corporal Stentiford through the gap in the tail gate as the rear of the aircraft pitched momentarily backwards. He sat on the quad with his arms outstretched as the helicopter lifted away from him; it was like a scene from Oliver Stone’s film Platoon.

  With the exception of Corporal Stentiford, who was eventually picked up after spending five days as a guest of the Marines, it was the end of 3 PARA’s time in Sangin. Apart from Easy Company and the Gurkhas, virtually every member of the Battle Group had pulled some duty time there. We had fought in Now Zad, Musa Qaleh, Kajaki, in isolated villages, in the green zones of close country and in the open desert, but the defence of the town’s district centre had become the touchstone of faith during 3 PARA’s tour. Half the Battle Group’s men killed in action had lost their lives there and everybody had a Sangin moment. For some it was the rocket attack that killed corporals Hashmi and Thorpe, for some it was the loss of young jacko and for others it was the gallant death of Corporal Budd or the mortar strike that killed Corporal McCulloch. The constant attacks, fierce firefights, near misses, danger close fire, fatigue, fear, experience of carrying a fallen comrade and the privations were etched in the memory of all those who occupied a sangar and went out on patrol. In the words of Private Martin Cork, the periods spent in Sangin were the `crazy times’.

  People’s experiences were punctuated by highs and lows that created an odd dichotomy: on the one hand the blokes hated Sangin and sometimes questioned their purpose, especially when the casualties and risks mounted. However, it never stopped any of them doing what was asked of them and they saw having fought there as a kind of badge of courage and endurance. That in itself was something that they were proud of. When the soldiers of 3 PARA had first arrived in Sangin the district centre was vulnerable, but it had withstood ninety-five days of sustained attacks and by the time they left the attackers’ guns had fallen silent. As B Company and Tac were lifting from inside the HESCO perimeter the Taliban had asked for a ceasefire which came into effect the next day.

  The last few days of the tour were spent handing over the other locations of FOB Robinson and FOB Price to the Marines. Having only arrived in July, the Fusiliers would stay in Now Zad under the command of 42 Commando. Easy Company would also be staying. As part of the ceasefire agreement, they would spend another five weeks in Musa Qaleh until their unorthodox extraction in the form of being driven out in vehicles provided by the elders. There was an end-of-term feeling in the air as 3 PARA’s sub-units began to return to Bastion. Equipment and stores were checked and signed over to the Marines and personal kit was packed and accommodation swept out. For the first and last time since the beginning of the tour, the Battle Group was together in the same location. I watched them gather for the Battle Group photograph as they arranged themselves on WMIKs and armoured vehicles flanked between two Chinooks matted with oil and sand.

  There were over 1000 soldiers: paratroopers, Irish Rangers, the Estonian Platoon, the Gurkhas who had held Now Zad for the most demanding six weeks, aircrew, gunners, engineers, signallers, medics and cavalrymen from D Squadron.

  Regardless of their parent regiment, all of them had served in numerous actions and all had played their part. Many were not infantry men, but every one of them had proved that they were fighters first. The engagements we had fought had been 360° affairs, where there were no safe rear areas. Royal Military Policemen had crewed GPMGs on the rooftop in Sangin, a dentist had carried a resupply of mortar ammunition across an LZ under fire and Engineers had downed tools and gone left-flanking to break up a Taliban attack. It was an awesome sight and the pride I felt for them coursed through every sinew in my body as an Apache hovered in position over the massed ranks and I took my station at the front. The photograph taken, I turned to address them. I spoke of what they had achieved and what they had been through. I told them that I knew it had not been easy, but that they had performed brilliantly. Regardless of the risks, the danger, the lack of resources, shortages of helicopters, hard conditions and uncertainty, they had never failed to deliver. When it really mattered they had stepped up to the plate, they had been counted and had not been found wanting.

  The prayers we said at the memorial service we held after the photograph were few and short. We assembled in rough ranks around the Battle Group memorial that had been built by members of the Household Cavalry. It was made of large smooth stones taken from the surrounding desert and cemented together into a narrowing column. On top was placed a simple cross fashioned from 30mm Rarden brass shell casings which reflected the rays of the sun as the padre spoke. I looked at the bowed heads of the soldiers around me as RSM Hardy read out the names engraved on the polished metal plaque that had been fixed to the column. Space had been left for others, that I had no doubt would be filled in the coming months. I thought about the men of the Battle Group who had been killed as we observed a two-minute silence; names of fourteen soldiers and one Afghan interpreter who would for ever have a place out here in the empty desert, but who would not be coming home with us.

  It was also a time to say goodbye to the living as the elements of the Battle Group split up to start the journey home. A Company left in the first phase of the movement plan. They had been first in and had initially borne the brunt of the fighting and it was right that they should be the first ones to go out. But as I said goodbye to them, I reflected that there was no difference between any of my three rifle companies. They had all contributed and in terms of capability and performance I could. not tell them apart. I would be flying out with C Company, so I also said goodbye to B Company who would follow on behind us a few days later. Other goodbyes were said to I Battery whose guns had helped keep us alive in places like Musa Qaleh and Sangin. I thanked the Estonians for all they had done. Unlike some of their western European counterparts they had never once shied away from the risks and had always been ready to do more. I also fulfilled a promise that I had made on St Paddy’s Day to 9 (Ranger) Platoon when we were training in Oman back in March. I had said I would give them a bottle of Irish whiskey for an excellent platoon night attack they had conducted. I finally met my obligation to them when I handed over a bottle of malt that Bill Neely had given me. Whether part of 9 (Ranger) Platoon or Easy Company, all the Royal Irish soldiers who were attached to 3 PARA had been outstanding. Three of their men had been killed and the number of their wounded ran into double figures, but they never faltered and they had become a respected and integrated part of 3 PARA. Like the rest of the Battle Group team that was now breaking up, I was sad to see them go.

  Command passed from 3 PARA to 42 Commando at midday on 6 October. I shook the hand of Matt Holmes their CO, wished him and his men luck and cast my eyes around the JOC for one last time. The report of a contact was already coming in over the radio as I walked towards the door. Had it occurred any earlier, it would have been our 499th engagement with the Taliban. I paused momentarily; it was someone else’s show now and we were done.

  17

  Coming Home

  The pitch of the engines changed as the pilot pushed forward the throttle, released the brakes and the C-130 gunned down the gravel strip to begin its take-off As the aircraft climbed away from Bastion and headed towards Kabul, beams of bright sunlight shone through the portholes of the fuselage as if to cast a spotlight on to my thoughts. As the floor of the Helmand desert s
lipped away beneath us, I reflected on what my men had been through and what they had achieved. We had been sent to Afghanistan to bring security and to start reconstruction and development. The mission had been hailed as a peace support operation where it was hoped that we wouldn’t fire a shot. But we had found ourselves in the middle of a vicious counterinsurgency and become engaged in an intensity of fighting that had not been experienced by the British Army since the Korean War in the 1950s.

  We had fired nearly half a million rounds of ammunition, from machine-gun bullets to antitank missiles and high-explosive artillery shells. We had also dropped hundreds of bombs and killed hundreds of Taliban. It was a prolific rate of expenditure, but it reflected the fact that in combat only a very small percentage of bullets fired are actually effective. Even so I marvelled at the extraordinary number of rounds that need to be fired to kill one man. We had expected to do some fighting, but no one anticipated the amount of combat that unfolded. I reminded myself of the military maxim that no plan survives first contact on the ground. I was confident in the knowledge that we had adapted, overcome and had learned to live with the constants of scarce resources, uncertainty and risk. It is what the military does, not least as the battlefield is an inherently chaotic place where nothing goes to plan and everything is down to chance. Success became dependent on making some order out of that chaos. We tried to do it by identifying threats and opportunities and then defeating or exploiting them, by communicating orders to disparate subordinates and then trying to harness the necessary resources to deliver them. It wasn’t easy, but then combat never is.

  There is no doubt in my mind that our arrival had stirred up a hornet’s nest in a province that many had considered quiet until then. But it was only quiet because the Taliban and the drug warlords had been allowed to hold ascendancy there. There was no rule of law, no government authority, and any ‘peace’ was due to the ruling tyranny and corruption of bandits and insurgents. Although no one ever said it to my face, some safe at home in the bureaucratic corridors of Whitehall later suggested that 3 PARA might have been overly aggressive in its approach. But they were not the ones shedding blood, sweat and tears in the service of their country. The Battle Group did not go looking for trouble. Anyone who thinks that we did has never been in sustained combat, has never risked their life on a daily basis, has never had to make what might possibly be the last call home to a loved one, has never had to pick up the body parts of one of their comrades or zip them into a body bag and has never spent the day covered in the blood of one of their men. My men were also bound by ROE and time and again they checked their fire at personal risk to themselves to avoid causing civilian casualties. Tragically, a small number of civilians were undoubtedly killed in the fighting. However, my soldiers also risked their lives to pick up and treat any locals whether hit by our fire or that of the Taliban, who showed no such compassion or restraint. But regardless of the tragedy that the fighting entailed, anyone who thought that the British were just going to walk into Helmand Province without being challenged was naive and no student of history.

  I thought about what we had achieved by the contentious policy of holding so many district centres and the high price my soldiers had paid in holding them. We had gone to places such as Now Zad, Sangin, Kajaki and Musa Qaleh at the behest of the governor, who represented the Afghan government we had been sent to support. Their occupation had fixed us, stretched our limited resources to breaking point and meant that the risk of tactical failure had never been far away, especially if we had lost one of the helicopters that were so vital to sustaining them and getting out our casualties. But had they fallen, the front line of the insurgency would have been in places like Lashkar Gah and Gereshk where there was no fighting and the government held some sway. Holding the district centres also forced a battle of attrition on the Taliban, which they lost. They did not drive us out as they had claimed they would and their credibility in the eyes of the people was damaged in the process. As the ceasefires in Musa Qaleh and Sangin demonstrated, the traditional tribal elders were prepared to exercise their influence and turn away from those who intimidated them with violence. Conversely, the resolve of the UK’s commitment to Helmand was demonstrated by the tenacious defence against a concerted onslaught of attacks. We did not win the war, we did not bring about peace or reconstruction, but the successful prosecution of counterinsurgency campaigns is a protracted business and the campaign in Afghanistan is likely to last for decades. Our achievement lay in the fact that we had fought a testing break in battle which permitted the UK to make its entry into Helmand and to set the conditions for subsequent British forces to build on.

  The front-end nature of our operation and the reaction it provoked meant that our focus became fighting the Taliban. But I regretted that precious little development and reconstruction had been completed in areas where there had been no fighting, such as Gereshk. In the battle for the hearts and minds of the Afghan people, the limited opportunities that had existed to make a difference had not been seized. The incident of the failure to plumb in the washing machine in Gereshk’s hospital, which later provoked a vigorous defence from DFID, was a case in point. But even if arguments for its non-installation, not advocated at the time, had some practical bearing, the complete failure of that one quick-impact project was symptomatic of the malaise and bureaucratic inertia of the whole development programme. Of the thirty other projects that we had identified, all of them lay unactioned on the numerous forms we had submitted to the PRT. The failure of the development programme was highlighted by the withdrawal of the development civil servants from Lashkar Gah when their efforts were needed most and was typified by the comment from their department that they ‘didn’t do bricks and mortar’.

  Lofty ideals of longer-term development of the instruments of modern government were all very well in a country that had some semblance of peace and a functioning bureaucracy, however corrupt and inefficient, that extended beyond the capital. In Afghanistan, where the writ of the government extends scarcely beyond the environs of Kabul, the people have little time for alien Western concepts of liberal democracy. They live in a society where bricks-and-mortar issues, of basic security, freedom from intimidation and economic betterment are what count. The Battle Group may have assisted in demonstrating Britain’s commitment to Afghanistan and enabled some to turn their voices against the Taliban, but in the struggle for the will of its people I felt that we had probably left the majority of Helmand’s population still sitting on the fence.

  But as we journeyed north and the drab desert became broken by the rocky spines of the Hindu Kush, I reflected mostly on the blood we had expended and the performance of my people. I thought about the remarkable valour of simple men and what they had been through. Most soldiers spend their entire careers waiting to be tested in battle and many never get the chance. But it is one thing to go into combat once and quite another to do it on a sustained basis for months on end. The first battle during Operation Mutay at the beginning of June and the losses we subsequently suffered taught us to beware what every professional soldier wishes for. The casualties and the risks and privations my soldiers endured reinforced the fact that war is not a game. It is a bloody and brutal endeavour, where the price of participation is measured in the unlimited liability of life, limb and sorrow. However, my soldiers coped with shortages, the rigours of the stifling heat and austere living, hunger, prolonged sleep deprivation, the stress of constant risk and the loss of comrades. They went out on patrol again and again in the full knowledge that in places like Sangin they had a 75 per cent chance of being ambushed by the Taliban every time they went out. On occasion I saw real fear in men’s eyes when I gave orders for a dangerous mission and I sometimes wondered whether they would be coming back from it. For those who went out, the issue of survival was not lost on them. They too often wondered if they would come back alive, what would happen to their families and whether they should write a last letter home. But the aircrews of the Chi
nooks, young officers, NCOs and Toms didn’t falter. They kept on going out, stoically accepting that loss and risk are part of the business they are in.

  For most of us, those six months in Helmand were both the best and the worst of times. When we took casualties, people became close, bonded and dealt with it. But people also got a buzz from doing the job that they had joined the Army to do. The morale and comradeship we enjoyed were exceptional. I saw people grow up and become men. Younger soldiers who might have been a disciplinary challenge to manage in barracks suddenly came into their own in battle.

  Nor was there anything wrong with the brand-new blokes. Older generations tend to wonder what the youth of today are coming to. Soldiers are no exception, and senior men often claim that the new generation of recruits are not up to their standards. But despite the fact that new soldiers come from a youth culture marked by the wearing of hoodie tops and eschewing any sense of duty or respect for authority, such views are completely mistaken. Many of my soldiers were eighteen-year-olds fresh from training who came straight out to join us in Afghanistan. Young men like Private Hook who within hours of arriving in Bastion was flying up to Sangin with other new recruits and going straight into a contact. Hours later he was flying back again having been wounded, but he was still adamant that he was ready to return to the company he had only just joined earlier that day. His actions and attitude were a reflection of the other recruits who, with only six months of basic training, were punching well above their weight.