Lethal Shot

by Robert Driscoll

The permanent Royal Navy crew is in charge of the actual running of the ship. We’re not responsible for piloting the thing or manning the guns, loading the missiles or protecting the ship. The Navy has all that covered. We’re there purely to be ferried from A to B and to be the meanest bastards we can be on arrival. That’s not to say we didn’t have a role to play if the ship came under attack. Before the unit arrived I had to be on top of all security protocols and all safety procedures.

  The group’s first destination was Portugal. For departure the entire company lined the deck, in uniform, standing to. Once we were at sea the training started. To a large extent it was as though we were on land. The PT drills, the artillery training, the strategy meetings, they could all have taken place anywhere. The only difference was having to familiarise yourself with your station if the ship came under attack.

  The cabins were as small as you may imagine. Everyone had a bunk and a locker and that was about it. I shared with a bunch of great lads. Marines mingle effortlessly and it didn’t take long for me, Sibsy, Briggsy and another lad called Rob to hit it off. (Rob was fairly studious, and in fact later became a teacher.)

  I could feel the change in the temperature the further south we sailed. When we arrived in Lisbon at the end of August it was like mid-July back home. For the ship’s arrival in port we once again took our stations around the deck. The display is as much a show of strength as an impressive sight. It also let the locals know exactly what they were in for.

  As it turned out, there was no strategic purpose to our stopover in Lisbon. We were there purely for rest and recreation (R&R), and when that had ended we sailed down to Gibraltar, then eastwards to Cyprus.

  Training of British forces in Cyprus has been going on for years, for the island is perfectly equipped for what we needed to do. Exercise 1 was pure ARG. We were split into sections and, under emergency conditions, ordered to board helicopters and storm the target beach in a full-on aerial assault. We were only firing blanks, but it was exhilarating. Not just for me: C Company was alive. The amount of kinetic energy, the sheer volume of bodies and the display of hardware took me straight back to books I had read about military history. It didn’t matter who we went up against. You could not imagine our being bested by any force on earth.

  After the pure amphibious work we relocated from the ship to Camp Bloodhound in the south of the island. We weren’t the only ones there. An American contingent had been attached to the ARG for the duration of the exercises. Before we did anything we had to erect our own tents, and after that the training didn’t let up, with much of it focused on team versus team. Again, the hardware, the energy, the aggression and firepower, they were all up there. It was as much fun as you can have with blanks. Only the ridiculous heat put any negatives on the day. At a time when half the island was still in swimwear, we were bogged down in armour and kit weighing 30 pounds (13.5 kilos).

  The temperatures didn’t drop just because it was now September. A few days after our arrival at Bloodhound we were in the middle of an exercise when suddenly it was stopped. No explanation, no clue, just one simple order: ‘Back to camp.’ It was the middle of the day, we were roasting, and any break in work is happily received. Still, there was something odd about the way it happened. Marine training is relentless. It stops for nothing. Something was definitely up. I just didn’t know what.

  We made our way back to our tents sharpish. No one knew what was happening. There were no mobile phones or television. Crucially, no intel from above, either, although we were put on standby. It was clear we were responding to some unknown event.

  After what seemed an age one of the American sergeants came into the camp. He summoned all the US contingent and led them into one of the makeshift buildings. The rumours flying around ranged from the bizarre to the ridiculous. None of them, though, was as unimaginable as the truth. The Americans were shell-shocked afterwards as they told us what had happened. Two passenger jets had been flown into New York’s Twin Towers. It was Tuesday, 11 September 2001.

  * * *

  When British troops were sent into Kosovo, the mood in Arbroath had been one of eager anticipation. If there was going to be a rumble, we wanted to be the ones bringing the noise. But as details about what would come to be called 9/11 gradually seeped down to us, we couldn’t afford to be so gung-ho. Thousands of people had died. We couldn’t forget that. It wasn’t right to get excited so quickly. Especially with some of our American colleagues having relatives and friends in the Big Apple. At that stage no one knew who was dead and who was alive.

  More importantly, what opponent could we fight? In Kosovo the enemy was clear. This time there wasn’t a foreign agency claiming responsibility. When it did emerge that the terrorist attack had been the work of al-Qaeda, we were none the wiser. Osama bin Laden, the group’s leader, was apparently a native of Saudi Arabia. We couldn’t go to war against the Saudis, could we? – given Britain’s long alliance with the country.

  There followed a stagnant pause during which everything kind of stopped. For forty-eight hours we didn’t train, we didn’t march, we just sat on our beds and surmised. What, we wondered, were the officers doing inside those buildings all day? What were the options they were discussing? I hated being kept in the dark. For the first time since April I found myself missing the signals branch. If I was still on comms I’d be in that room with the officers, and would know exactly what was being said, what plans were in the pipeline. On paper I had more responsibility and rank than ever before, yet I was getting all my gen. on a need-to-know basis, just like everyone else. And I fucking hated it. Had I cocked up by leaving that branch? Was it another decision I’d got wrong?

  The only thing that kept me sane was knowing that if we were mobilised I was better served as a general-duties player. But ‘if’ can be a big word.

  After two or three days word began to circulate that Afghanistan might be a potential target. Why, it wasn’t clear. Suddenly everything I’d read about that hellish country came flooding back.

  ‘Anybody that goes into Afghanistan is going to have a fight on his hands.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Other Rob said. ‘These are not people to be underestimated.’

  ‘But you know what?’ Briggsy said, ‘I still hope it’s us.’

  No one disagreed.

  You could have cut the atmosphere in the camp with a bayonet. We were desperate to be called upon. Surely it was only a matter of time. We were on HMS Ocean, the R1 of the Navy, we were just a ride through the Suez Canal away from the perceived enemy and we were primed to the nth degree to go. We had helicopters, weapons, ammunition, we were fresh, we were keen and we were near by. What more could the politicians and strategists back home need?

  As the list of New York’s civilian casualties piled up the talk in the newspapers grew more aggressive. There was definitely going to be a response. Our news supply was second-hand at best – actual papers took a week to reach us – but as reports filtered through of ships heading out to the Arabian Sea I started to feel just a little nervous. Oh my God, this is actually real. We’re going to get the call. I couldn’t help smiling.

  This is going to be our war.

  Finally, the metaphorical white smoke emerged from the officers’ building. They had a plan. It was time to move out.

  This is it, I thought. Adrenalin levels were already sky high. There was a chance they were about to tip over the edge.

  Then we got the order. We were returning to HMS Ocean. But we weren’t heading to Afghanistan. We were going to Oman.

  To train.

  * * *

  It was Kosovo all over again. What part of R1 was someone out there not understanding? Were they telling me there was a better-equipped, more highly trained force on the doorstep than ours? It didn’t matter that I was in a unit of more than 600 people. When you keep getting overlooked for what’s rightfully yours it’s hard not to take it personally.

  We were soon shocked out of our disappointment. The route to Oman was vi
a the Suez Canal. Generally this was a safe passage. However messy Britain’s relationship with Egypt had been historically, fully armed helicopter carriers weren’t generally considered targets. But, a few weeks earlier, nor had Manhattan skyscrapers.

  As we approached Port Said the command was for full-alert battle-readiness. The ship’s crew all had their stations. Each part of the ship was split between sailors and their fixed-gun positions augmented by us with general-purpose machine guns (GPMG). There was a weapon primed every ten yards, the full 360 degrees. Orders were clear: fire on anything that comes near this damn ship.

  The fact we were on red alert tells you that the officers had concerns. If there was a specific threat it was kept from us. Most the lads were okay with that. I was doing my nut wishing I could be party to the intel. We were about to steer slowly through Egyptian waters and I didn’t honestly know whether they’d played any role in the terrorist attacks. We were completely in the dark.

  The Suez Canal is 120 miles (193 kilometres) long from top to bottom. Some of it runs through vast swaths of desert where you’re lucky to see an animal, let alone a human. Elsewhere it’s like rowing up the Seine: a narrow waterway through thriving urban areas. You can almost smell the people on the banks, they’re that close.

  The not knowing was the worst aspect. In the really narrow parts of the canal a kid could have lobbed a bottle and it might have hit us. The ship’s that big. Imagine what an aggressor with a gun could do. For eight hours we didn’t dare blink as we cut our way through.

  The wider sections had their own difficulties. With nothing to see but orange land and blue sky it’s harder to keep your energy up. I was begging for just a farmer to go by on his tractor simply to break up the monotony. I’m proud that no one let their guard down. Marines sleep when they’re allowed to, not before. Only when we hit the deeper waters of the Red Sea were we were allowed to take a step back. As the coastline disappeared our machine guns became less useful. Anything that occurred now could be handled by the ship’s own defences.

  We arrived at Muscat, the capital of Oman, without incident and disembarked. Again we stayed in tents we erected ourselves, this time in a fairly ad-hoc camp. Bloodhound it was not. We were miles from anywhere, cut off from everything. Whatever was happening post-9/11 it was happening with us still in the dark. The mood, as a result, was a mixture of sombre reflection and agitation. We were a strike force without anything to strike. Whatever the brass had lined up for us would have to be exceptional to make up for the disappointment of missing out on front-line service.

  We were in Oman for a planned six-week programme. The first part was not dissimilar to the jungle training in Belize. We were working with tanks, and on desert navigation, tactics and warfare. Throw in the heat and new equipment and it was pretty intense. The second part was more role-play, teams versus teams. It was a big deal. The scale of the exercise was mind-blowing, which only made you more conscious of how it could be better deployed on the other side of the Gulf. But would that have been as profitable?

  Midway through we were joined by a division of army boys. Now the war games kicked up a gear. They had their Challenger 2 tanks and all manner of state-of-the-art vehicles and artillery. We had our trenches in the ground, our rifles and GPMGs, our bergans and our wits.

  Oh, and superior training, skill and expertise. The only problem was, we weren’t allowed to use them. The point of exercise was to prove the unsurpassed capabilities of the hardware – for the simple reason that potential buyers from all over the Arab world were present as observers. If you’re going to be cynical about it, we were one giant advert for an arms dealer – that dealer being the UK government. The last thing they wanted was the Royal Marines, defending against the army and their high-tech weapons and equipment, showing off their natural superiority.

  Week after week we obliged. We played the role of baddies to a T. We conducted raids, we attacked, we tracked, we retreated, we did everything you’d expect from a crack military unit. It was all done at 100 per cent effort, the only way we knew how. Ultimately, though, we were overpowered – we had to be: it was in the script – and the army forces and their shiny toys won the day.

  It was hard to stomach. There were so many ways I could see that we could overturn a result, had we been permitted. On more than one occasion I was tempted to say, ‘Fuck it all.’

  It turned out I was not alone.

  On one particular afternoon we were all manning our trenches. The script said that an armoured vehicle – in this case, a Warrior infantry fighting vehicle – would approach our position, open fire and we’d roll on our bellies, feet in the air, like good dead pups. We knew the score, we’d done it so often. It never got any better.

  On this occasion the Warrior roamed into sight. It ‘opened fire’ and we all ‘died’. Almost all. When the dust settled and the infantrymen in the tank opened their hatch a lone figure leapt from the trenches. He ran screaming at the tank, pelting the emerging soldiers with rocks. They didn’t know what hit them – although it was obviously rocks. In the end they started scurrying back inside the Warrior, but not before our man scrambled up the side, ripped open the turret hatch and chucked a large stone inside.

  ‘Grenade!’ he yelled. ‘You’re all fucking dead!’

  It was crazy, it was brilliant, and for us ‘dead’ marines it was a lifesaver. There wasn’t a man among us who believed for one minute that a battalion of army regulars could touch a crack marine unit. And this crazy man had proved it. For a week afterwards morale was through the roof. Yes, it may have cost a few billion pounds in lost sales, but what’s money?

  The man in question I’ll call ‘the Canadian’, for obvious reasons. He’s a good friend of mine and mad as a box of frogs. But you’d want him on your side, not against you, no question. In peacetime he’s entertainment itself. In wartime he’s an animal. Perfect, really. And just what you need to keep your spirits up when you realise you’re never, ever, going to see action on the front line.

  * * *

  When we left the ship and went into the desert we lost connection with everything. The whole of the outside world didn’t really apply to us any more, for it would have been a distraction. Mail came every couple of weeks, newspapers were a long time out of date, communications were only for the people giving orders. For us, being so far out of the loop was not getting any easier.

  Post from home affected everyone, of course. When you’re away for months on end your personal mail is considered a priority, especially if you have a girlfriend who is a bit hacked off because you keep disappearing. It wasn’t a daily service by any means but every so often you’d see a corporal with a postbag in the most unlikely of places. In early November he found me.

  I was lying with four other guys in a trench that it had taken us most the morning to dig. We were in full battle kit and sweating a pound of weight an hour, I swear. During a slight lull in proceedings before the next staged attack a shadow suddenly loomed over us.

  Two of us got letters. Three didn’t. Maybe next month it would be their turn. I took off my gloves and ripped open mine. I hoped it was from Deborah, my girlfriend, but unless she’d acquired an MOD franking machine I was out of luck.

  The letter read simply: ‘You have been chosen for SBS selection on 23 January 2002.’

  Shit. Another decision.

  * * *

  You could be forgiven for thinking that I didn’t want to join the Special Boat Service. I did. A lot. Doing so would all but guarantee front-line action. Just not soon enough. I looked at where I was. Geographically, that was obviously Oman, barely a paddle to Afghanistan, comparatively speaking. Situationally, our six-week war games/marketing exercise were drawing to a close. We had to go somewhere next. My money was on north-east – to Afghanistan, only 1,100 miles or so by air. It made sense. On 7 October the United States had launched Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF) in coalition with the UK. The mission was in response to the Taliban government’s refusal to han
d over to America Osama bin Laden and other al-Qaeda members. Its objective: to remove the Taliban government and destroy the terrorist cell. It was only a matter of time before NATO and world opinion joined them. The clock was ticking. As far as I could tell, 40 Commando was on the cusp of going into theatre.

  Or was it? Was I jumping to conclusions? The intel around the camp hadn’t changed. We were still being told nothing. The only information passed directly to us was that Christmas – our Christmas, that is – was cancelled.

  I needed clarification. I spoke to my sergeant-major.

  ‘Are we going into Afghanistan?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know.’

  ‘But we’re not going home for Christmas?’

  ‘That could mean something or it could not. You know how it is.’

  Opinions were divided 50/50. Everyone I spoke to said the opposite to the last guy. We were either skipping Christmas because we were setting sail for Afghanistan. Or we were skipping Christmas to wait and wait and wait, then go in in six months later as a peacekeeping force.

  Not for the first time I cursed no longer being inside the inner sanctum of signals branch. What to do? I really wanted to get my hands dirty. If I tried out for the SBS I definitely would. But what if the ARG on board HMS Ocean entered the fray first?

  With a heavy heart I accepted the invitation to SBS selection and informed my superior, the company sergeant-major. He was annoyed but wheels started turning almost at once, and two days later I was on a flight back to England. I wasn’t alone. The Canadian and one other marine were going to selection as well. At least the journey home would be lively.

  All three of us had suffered the same anguish. By the time we landed in London, though, we’d convinced ourselves that we’d done the right thing.

  ‘There’s no fucking way Charlie Company is going to Afghan,’ the Canadian said.

  The two of us agreed.

  Ten days later I turned on the news. HMS Ocean was powering her way through the Arabian Sea.