A few minutes later we are assured the problem has been sorted out and so we continue to taxi to the take-off runway. Seconds later the warning light comes on again. After a lot of button pressing, switching of switches and conversation over the internal radio network we are again assured that all is tickety-boo.
The pilot lines up the aircraft at the beginning of the runway and pulls back the throttle. The TriStar responds with a deafening but thrilling roar and moves forward with a lurch that pushes us right back into our seats. Gordon turns and looks over to me with eyebrows raised, holding up his right hand with fingers firmly crossed.
In moments we are airborne and Oxfordshire is soon a patchwork of receding green fields beneath us. We are on our way to join Bertie Kerr for Christmas – somewhere in war-torn Helmand Province.
I return to my seat in the main cabin and settle back to read my omnibus edition of P.G. Wodehouse stories – a book that has been all around the world with me over many years. It came with me to the southern Sudan when I was working with the Southern People's Liberation Movement during the Sudanese civil war; it came with me to Tigray and Eritrea during their wars against the Dergue in Ethiopia: it returned to the area later in the eighties when I was there during the terrible Sahelian drought and famine; it came with me too when I went to live in South Africa in that extraordinary year of 1992 when the country lurched dangerously towards its first full elections. It has also visited Cambodia, Taiwan, Jordan and Iraq. I take the book particularly to the more dangerous places as it not only entertains but also comforts in an almost spiritual way. Wodehouse creates a world of such innocence and essential good-heartedness that I find his beautifully observed and wonderfully eccentric characters and sweetly crafted storylines can often take away the bitter taste of the real world that I am visiting or travelling in. I have read these stories hundreds of times and each one is now like an old and familiar friend that I can depend on for companionship. Now they are coming with me once again as I head towards the bullets and bombs of Afghanistan.
Seven hours later we approach the military airfield at Kandahar in southern Afghanistan. As we descend all the cabin lights in the aircraft are turned off and we are told to put on our body armour and helmets. This is a precaution in case the plane is attacked on landing when it is at its most vulnerable. Again, Gordon looks a little shocked and turns a shade or two paler than normal.
We land without event and are immediately herded into a gigantic hangar where we wait for a couple of hours. Eventually, we are bussed out to a C130 cargo plane which takes off promptly to Camp Bastion – the main British military base in the war-torn Helmand Province. It is only an hour's flight but in that time we are transported to another world. Carved out of the Afghan desert, the camp is a massive tent city crammed full with troops and their equipment. It is temporary home to fighting soldiers (mostly British but also Danish and Estonian) either on their way to or returning from the main battle locations elsewhere in Helmand Province.
The desert colours of the surrounding landscape are reflected in the camouflaged tents as well as the livery of tanks, artillery and personnel carriers. A dramatic contrast to this beige uniformity, however, is provided by the explosion of Christmas decorations that adorn the place. Everywhere there are cardboard cut-out robin redbreasts, carrot-nosed snowmen stickers and a plethora of plastic Christmas trees. An Estonian convoy of dust-spattered vehicles arrives from a desert patrol and drives past us as we make our way to our tents. The convoy is led by a battle-worn and heavily armed troop carrier on the back of which is a grinning, white-bearded and red-suited Father Christmas manning a heavy machine gun!
Gordon Ramsay is immediately whisked away to the galley tents to start planning for the epic Christmas dinner he intends to provide for hundreds of troops the next day. Dave and I dump all our gear in a vacant accommodation tent and then proceed to the operations room situated in another tent with a hundred aerials and satellite dishes sprouting up all around it. Just outside its entrance I notice a brass cross on top of a stone structure. On it is a plaque with all the names of the British soldiers that have been killed so far in Afghanistan this year. Most of the early names are those of paras, but the later names indicate a growing number of Royal Marines from either 45 Commando or 40 Commando who have taken over operations out here. I wonder to myself just how many more Bootneck names are going to be etched onto that plaque before their tour of duty is over.
In the ops room dozens of Royal Marines and Royal Navy personnel are busy on computers, phones and radio microphones; others are poring over maps headed secret or confidential. Here the situation on the ground is being constantly updated, and day-to-day tactics and strategies are worked out as well as longer-term plans and operations. It is like a gigantic and multidimensional game of chess but with thousands of pieces and an ever-changing board. We soon find out that Bertie is stationed at a place called Kijaki about a hundred miles to the north of us. We also find out that Kijaki, strategically important because of a huge reservoir and dam there, is being regularly attacked by a ferocious and growing Taliban force. Unfortunately, we are told that because of limited flight availability, there is no certainty we will get to Kijaki before Christmas. They tell us to keep checking back as plans change all the time although we should not depend on it. This is pretty frustrating, as I desperately want to spend Christmas in the battle zone. No disrespect to Gordon's sure-to-be spectacular Christmas dinner but I would rather eat army rations with Bertie in Kijaki and get on with what I came to do – filming. There is not much of consequence for me to film here in Bastion so I go to bed disappointed and a bit depressed. P.G. Wodehouse takes my mind off things by telling me all about how Jeeves first became Bertie Wooster's valet. (I already knew of course.)
22 December
I wake at what I think must be around six in the morning. These days I always wake early after all those weeks at Lympstone. It is pitch black and Dave is still fast asleep and snoring like a good 'un so I turn over with the intention of resuming a dream that vaguely had something to do with a pretty girl running down a sandy beach. But my eye catches sight of the luminous dial on my watch. 'Eleven thirty,' I say out loud. 'Dave, it's nearly midday! We've overslept!' Dave keeps snoring.
I jump out of my camp bed and feel my way to the entrance of the tent. I pull up the zip on the door and let in a shaft of intense sunlight. 'Jet-lagged!' I say in despair. We've missed breakfast and for all I know an opportunity to fly out of Bastion to Kijaki.
Dave wakes up with a sudden start probably because I am shaking him violently and shouting 'Dave, wake up!' in his ear. 'What the fuck . . .!' he says, flustered and still half asleep. But then he recognises me. 'Oh morning, mate . . . what's up?'
'Not much morning left, Dave. It's nearly midday.'
'Don't worry, mate. I was up at the crack and went to make sure there were no flights this morning. There aren't, and the way it looks not any for the next couple of days. I came back to continue my slumbers.'
'Oh, sorry, Dave. I woke you for no reason.'
'No problem, mate – but you're paying for the sausage sandwich at the NAAFI!'
Once Dave is up we wander over to the NAAFI. On the way we pass a massive queue of Royal Marines outside the main galley tent. 'What's happening?' says Dave to one in the queue. 'Christmas lunch, sir. Gordon Ramsay's doin' it.'
'Bloody hell, there are hundreds queuing up. Do you want to join the line, Chris?'
'Well, I'd love a Gordon Ramsay lunch but it'll take hours. Let's go to the NAAFI and come back a bit later when the queue's died down.'
The NAAFI is extraordinary. It is one of the few solid-built buildings in Bastion and inside looks just like a British pub – not a traditional one but a modern one. More a sort of sports bar, I suppose, but home from home certainly – although it is important to emphasise that no alcohol is served here. We get a coffee and a couple of sausage rolls and sit on the veranda and while away an hour or so before wandering back to the me
ss tent.
The queue to Gordon's Christmas lunch has if anything grown so Dave nips to another one of the accommodation tents to catch up with a couple of his mates while I go for a run around the camp. I need to keep up my training and fitness because soon after I get back to Britain I'll have to attempt the Bottom Field Pass-out again if I am to stand any chance of moving on to the commando tests.
Running round Camp Bastion is not the best running in the world. The tracks are uneven and rocky and every time a vehicle passes, which is most of the time, a cloud of desert sand and dust enshrouds anything and anybody nearby. Grit gets into the eyes, up the nose, in the ears and somehow into socks, shoes and underwear. I push on without ever considering giving up. I wouldn't dare. Even here in the middle of Afghanistan I can hear Jon Stratford shouting at me to run faster!
24 December
Christmas Eve and we are still stuck in Bastion. Gordon Ramsay and his team have left to return to Britain but not before going down an absolute storm with everyone at Camp Bastion. Some thought he might rub people up the wrong way because of his famously confrontational manner but he was nothing but gracious and charming, and no one would have noticed his swearing as F-words and worse are pretty well normal currency around here. I managed to say a quick goodbye and he wished me well for my continued stay. Good bloke, very genuine – and his 'Turkey a la Bastion' was apparently to die for!
Dave and I go to the ops room twice through the morning to check on flights. Nothing. We go to the NAAFI and then to the gym to do a bit of shadow boxing and some work on the punchbags. Dave stays to do a spell on one of the cycle machines and I go for a few laps around the camp.
After about ninety minutes I collapse back into the tent thinking only of a shower and a cold drink. Dave is by his bed packing his bergen.
'Chris, mate. Get packed. We're out of here in three hours. A Chinook is taking emergency supplies and ammunition to Kijaki and we're on it.'
7
Christmas in Kijaki
24 December
Dave and I carry all our kit to the helicopter assembly point where we meet up with Mike Sharkey, a Royal Marines chaplain, who is also heading to Kijaki for Christmas. We board the waiting Chinook, carrying everything we need on our backs. My bergen and daysack together with my fully packed webbing must weigh around 150 pounds and it is all I can do to walk up the inclined ramp and into the huge hollow belly of the twin-rotor chopper. Once we're strapped in, a massive pallet of supplies is rolled onto the aircraft behind us and secured on rails fixed to the floor. Right next to me a gunner takes his position behind a machine gun pointing out of an opening in the forward fuselage. Another gunner takes his position at the rear of the aircraft behind another gun pointing back from the semi-raised ramp. An RAF corporal gives us a safety briefing and explains the escape procedures should we have to make what he euphemistically calls an emergency landing. He also explains that when we land at Kijaki the aircraft will stop only briefly to allow us off so we need to move fast once we touch the ground.
'The aircraft is incredibly vulnerable as it comes in to land,' he says. 'The Taliban are always trying to hit these things with rocket-propelled grenades as well as small arms fire. The pilot will come in to land fast and when he is just a few feet above the ground we will release the pallet of supplies which will roll off. Then he will rest the aircraft briefly – touching wheels. That is your time to get off but move it and run straight for cover in case there's contact. The marines will be there to meet you and they'll be looking out for the bad guys but don't take any chances.'
I nod my understanding but wonder just how fast I'll be able to run with all that I have to carry.
Dave reads my mind. 'If we get contacted just drop everything and run for cover. Bugger the equipment.'
The pilot fires up the engines and the massive rotor blades, drooping towards the ground in their stillness, begin to splay outwards as soon as they turn. Before long they are spinning as one with a deafening 'thwoka thwoka' sound muted only by the yellow earplugs we've been given. The enormous centrifugal energy of the spinning blades reverberates through the entire airframe as well as our bodies. Within minutes we are airborne and heading north. We fly low over the Afghan desert, the gunners constantly scanning the ground as it rushes beneath us.
Three-quarters of an hour later we climb high to cross a range of snow-capped mountains. I look over the shoulder of the machine-gunner next to me and see below us a rough-hewn landscape of desert plains, dry riverbeds and rocky outcrops. We swoop down over a massive lake which I reckon must be the reservoir that makes the Kijaki area so strategically important. My hunch is confirmed as we fly over a dam and hydroelectric power station – the target of a Taliban bent on destabilising the country in any way it can.
The Chinook descends over an open desert area next to the dam. A few feet above the ground the pallet of supplies rolls off and crashes into the soft sand. Seconds later the wheels touch down momentarily. 'Go, go, go!' shouts a crewman. I follow Dave out of the back of the still moving aircraft into a swirling cloud of dust. The enormous downdraught adds even more weight to the load on my back and I feel my legs begin to buckle but somehow I keep going towards a group of Royal Marines crouched in a trench about fifty yards away. Behind them I see two heavily armed Wimiks (weapon mounted installation kit – a heavily armed open-top Land Rover designed for fast-response attacks over rough ground) poised to respond should there be enemy contact. The helicopter surges forward and up with a terrific roar and then almost immediately turns sharply towards the south on its way back to Camp Bastion.
This time the Taliban guns have remained silent.
Padre Mike, Dave and I are transported by Land Rover to the M Company headquarters. Located near the river and at the foot of a series of rocky mountains the HQ is a collection of stone buildings, formerly NGO offices, now surrounded by sandbags and larger defensive walls. As we approach the largest of the buildings – evidently the ops room – I spot a familiar face.
'Welcome to Kijaki, Chris!'
'Wotcha, Bertie. How goes it, mate?'
'Busy,' says Bertie with a grin.
Almost on cue a sudden burst of distant machine-gun fire echoes around us. 'Don't worry,' says Bertie. 'Those are our guns firing from the mountains. They've probably spotted some suspicious movements north of the river – that's bandit country. Come on, I'll give you a hand with your gear.' Bertie picks up my bergen and leads us to a nearby building. Following him are two dogs who clearly want to play. 'Yours?' I say. 'No, not really,' laughs Bertie. 'We inherited them from the paras. The black one is called Tanghei after the local town and the other is called Asbo because he's a bloody nuisance!' I bend down to pat Tanghei and Asbo and notice with amusement that they're wearing Union Jack tags on their collars. 'Smart, eh?' says Bertie. 'Actually, in dog terms they've won the lottery because dogs are pretty much hated in Afghanistan – they are considered unclean – so these two, adopted by the British Army and now the Royal Marines, have landed on their paws. They get better fed than any of us, I reckon!'
Bertie shows us to our room where I am amazed to find proper beds with mattresses – not hard army camp beds. 'These beds were left behind by the people who used to be here,' says Bertie. 'But now everyone from the area has fled because of the Taliban. The town of Tanghei over the other side of the river is completely deserted and all the villages to the north as well. It's those villages and compounds that the Taliban now hold out in, store their weapons and ammunition in, and fire from.'
'Do you venture into that area?' asks Dave.
'Oh yes. Most days we go out on patrol just to show them we mean business. On my first patrol two weeks ago we had contact [armed contact with an enemy] four times.'
'When's your next patrol?' I ask.
'Not sure right now. Probably tomorrow or the next day. It depends on what happens and the intelligence we get on Taliban movements. But actually you've come at an interesting time as the boss has a secret
plan for a big operation over the Christmas period. It should be pretty exciting, but I don't know whether he'd allow you in on it. You'll have to ask him.'
The 'boss' is Major Marty Collins – friendly and very welcoming when I meet him in the ops room but, understandably, he doesn't immediately give much away about his plans. I reckon he wants to size me up first and make sure I'm not going to be a liability. Non-combatants can be a pain at the best of times but when the chips are down people like me are seen as unwanted burdens and a waste of valuable resources because we have to be looked after. Dave quickly explains that the last thing we want is to get in the way, that I have undergone months of training at Lympstone and that he is there as my backup if the bullets start flying. Marty Collins is finally assured. 'OK. I think we can do business. Let's have a cup of tea and then I'll tell you all about Operation Sparrow Hawk.'
Marty Collins, it emerges, has been working on plans for a major offensive operation for weeks. Code-named 'Operation Sparrow Hawk', it is designed to extend the immediate area under control of the Royal Marines, as well as the Afghan Army and the Afghan National Police, and therefore to push the Taliban further and further away from the all-important Kijaki dam and power station. At the moment the Taliban control the road leading to the dam and are continually obstructing or destroying any traffic that attempts to approach it. This has meant that the dam, capable of supplying electricity to over two million people in Helmand Province, is operating at a fraction of its potential. Only one turbine is in partial and intermittent use, thanks to a handful of courageous Afghanis who continue to brave the Taliban threat by working at the dam. The plan eventually is to get three turbines up and running as well as enticing everyone back to the local town of Tanghei, but before that the hinterland needs to be secured and made safe. To achieve this end, Marty first intends to establish a Royal Marine base on the top of a nearby mountain that overlooks the HQ called Sparrow Hawk. He already commands the two mountains next to it – code-named Athens and Normandy and on which he has substantial gun and missile-launching emplacements – but he needs Sparrow Hawk to ensure arcs of fire onto the approach road to the dam that follows the line of the river and which is hidden from both Normandy and Athens (see map). The Taliban have been sporadically active on Sparrow Hawk so the taking of the mountain is not guaranteed and that's why Marty has asked for reinforcements from Bastion and they are expected to arrive sometime in the next few days. Assuming Sparrow Hawk is taken, Marty confides in us, there is an exciting but potentially much more dangerous extension to the plan.
Commando Page 16
