Commando

by Chris Terrill

  There is an area of high ground north of the river but visible from where we are in the HQ compound. A limestone plateau thought to be honeycombed with caves, it is known as the Shrine. It's not actually a shrine but a Taliban stronghold from which the marines have received a lot of incoming fire from small arms, mortars and rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs). Marty wants to assault the Shrine as soon as Sparrow Hawk is in his hands.

  'We haven't got the men to establish a permanent presence on the Shrine but I want to show the bad guys that they can't use it with impunity. They also need to know that we can go anywhere we choose at any time. We need a big show of force.'

  Later, after dark and a snatched supper (boil-in-the-bag beef stew and potatoes followed by rice pudding), I go down with Bertie to another stone building in the compound to meet his team – known as 11 Troop.

  'The troop is twenty strong,' says Bertie. 'Great guys all of them and they made me immediately welcome. Sergeant McGinley is my stripey and he's looking after me very well and showing me the ropes.'

  Pete McGinley is a smiling, jocular man from Blackpool. He welcomes me with a firm handshake and then, rolling a cigarette from a packet of Golden Virginia, promises that 'we'll have a bit of fun out on the ground over the next few days!'

  His corporals, 'Sully' Sullivan and 'Jacko' Jackson, also greet me effusively although they're a bit preoccupied with opening some Christmas mail that came in on the Chinook. The rest of the blokes all step forward to shake hands, full of questions about what I'm doing and when the films will be out on television. One guy, a Scouser called Richie Rawlings, says he's definitely up for being on camera but is immediately silenced by howls of derision and laughter. Next to him is the biggest Royal Marine I have ever seen who greets me with a broad smile and a handshake that hurts. 'Welcome to Kijaki holiday camp, mate,' he says. 'This'll be a Christmas you'll remember!' This giant Bootneck from the East End is called Tom Curry but known to everyone as 'Vinders' – as in Vindaloo.

  'Vinders,' shouts another marine holding a pile of letters and a big parcel. 'These are for you, mate. Looks like a load of cards and letters from your missus and a present too. If there's any nutty [chocolate] in there make sure you spread it round, mate!'

  'I'll arm-wrestle you for it if there is!' says Vinders with a grin.

  As I crawl into my sleeping bag the night temperature outside is dropping well below zero, but by the sound of it things are hotting up on top of Normandy and Athens. Long blasts from 0.5 heavy machine guns are firing tracer bullets into the night, no doubt aimed at suspicious movements and shadows seen through night-sight binoculars. It's a disconcerting sound but fascinating also and for a while I lie awake just listening to the combinations of long and short bursts from what I reckon must be at least four guns. Finally, tiredness pulls me into a deep slumber and I become oblivious of the savage sounds around me – even Dave's spectacular snoring.

  25 December

  Christmas Day. After breakfast (boil-in-the-bag bacon and beans, and Pusser's coffee) we attend a carol service given by Padre Mike. Bertie reads the lesson and everybody gets a chance to sing some carols with suitable gusto.

  M Company is on constant standby naturally but today Marty Collins would like his men to relax a bit – perhaps the last chance before the reinforcements arrive and the start of Operation Sparrow Hawk. Many of the men use their Paradigm cards (military telephone credit cards) to try and call home on a satellite link and grab a few words with loved ones.

  At midday we all wander down to the galley where a Royal Marines cook, known to everyone as 'Smiler', has prepared Christmas dinner. He tries to provide at least one cooked meal every other day for the company who otherwise exist on field rations. I am amazed at what he has come up with – proper turkey dinners with all the trimmings, from sprouts to red sauce. There seem to be almost unlimited roast potatoes in huge saucepans and gallons of gravy in tin jugs. On trestle tables behind the cookhouse are dozens of Christmas puddings and hundreds of mince pies lined up in serried ranks awaiting our eventual and hungry attention. There are even crackers. Soon, therefore, most of us are wearing paper hats and reading out naff jokes. Captain Tony Forshaw puts on a red hat to go with the tight red rubber cocktail dress with white trimming he has chosen to wear today. Ever prepared, he has strapped a 0.9 Browning automatic pistol to his stockinged right leg. Sergeant Major Rick Groves of 29 Commando (an army artillery unit that has undergone commando training and works closely with the Royal Marines), who is responsible for establishing and building relationships with some of the local Afghan notables, has brought along the district commissioner, the police chief and the local jailer as guests. They are imposing figures in their long cloaks, heavy black beards and beautifully wrapped turbans, though made slightly less imposing when they also don brightly coloured paper hats – on top of their turbans.

  A nearby bomb shelter has been transformed into a Santa's Grotto complete with a Santa and lots of willing little helpers in the shape of pointy-eared elves and a suspect-looking gnome dressed in nothing but a pale blue thong and a leather biker's hat who is in charge of distributing gifts from a huge hessian sack. I go into the grotto to find Padre Mike on Santa's lap having a photo taken by an elf. I proceed to the gift-giving gnome who beckons me with a highly suspect invitation. 'Come on, Mr Cameraman, put your hand in my sack!' I duly oblige and pull out a box of chicken Cuppa Soups. 'Cuppa Soup!' he shouts out delightedly. 'Cuppa Soup!' echo the elves even more delightedly.

  At that point we hear Normandy opening up with its machine guns and grenade launchers. It is routine firing into enemy territory and there is no immediate return of fire, but it emphasises that, despite the Christmas jollity, nobody here is on holiday. I think briefly of my own family and friends and wonder what they're doing right now. England is a world away – an age away.

  That afternoon Dave and I trudge up the steep slopes towards Athens and Normandy to pay the gunners a Christmas visit. It's a long way to the top but once there the views are stunning. From the summit of Athens you can see for miles and from here it is possible to appreciate the enormity of the reservoir that feeds the Kijaki dam. Captain Will MacKenzie-Green greets us and brews up some hot chocolate in his drystone hut – complete with Christmas cards and centre-page pin-ups. Later we walk over to Normandy via a linking mountain ridge but we keep strictly to a path marked by whitewashed stones as the mountainside was heavily mined by the Russians after their invasion of the country in 1979. One para has already been killed and three more seriously wounded by one of these mines that was washed into low ground by the rains.

  The gun emplacements on Normandy, like those on Athens, are surrounded by thousands of spent shell cases – testimony to the rate and frequency of fire from these positions. Powerful telescopes and binoculars are constantly trained on the plains below. West of Normandy and plainly visible is Mount Sparrow Hawk – soon to be the object of all our attentions.

  I am standing in a lookout post peering over a massive machine gun with its straps of ammunition gleaming in the late-afternoon sunshine. I survey the land the weapon is pointing at as it stretches to a hazy horizon and wonder just how many Taliban are out there and whether they are looking towards us right now. Who are they? I wonder. What sort of people? The anthropologist in me considers what is driving them in their zealous and ferocious determination to fight the present government in Afghanistan and, by association, its NATO allies.

  The Taliban are drawn mostly from the Pashtuns – the largest and most dominant ethnic group in Afghanistan, although the Pashtun tribal territory stretches across the border into Pakistan. Apparently, as many as 3 million Afghan Pashtuns live in Pakistan as refugees, even though most Pashtuns recognise the political but not the cultural border between the two countries. Many want to unite the two Pashtun areas into a greater 'Pashtunistan'.

  While there has been and continues to be a worldwide outcry against the extreme nature of Taliban beliefs and practices – particularly its a
ttitude towards economy, education and the continued subservience of women – not everyone fully understands the cultural dynamics involved. Such an appreciation is not to excuse Taliban extremism but it does help to understand what informs some of their thinking and, indeed, that of the wider population in Afghanistan as well. The conflict here is really one being fought on two fronts. One is the actual day-to-day fighting – known in military terms as 'kinetic'. The other is the battle for the hearts and minds of the people to stop them siding with the Taliban and helping to direct their thinking towards democracy and wide opportunity for everyone. This approach is referred to as 'non-kinetic' but is still part of the wider military strategy. That is why people like Rick Groves, who brought his Afghani guests to join us for Christmas lunch, is doing all he can to establish links between the British military presence and the indigenous population.

  The problem, of course, is that Afghanistan is still an essentially medieval country and its beliefs are steeped in Islam as well as a very traditional cultural world view. Indeed, the 5,000-year-old Pashtun cultural practices often supersede religious ones and this can apply to all Afghanis whether Taliban or not. Pashtuns often express religious devotion through the Pashtunwali Code, a standard of behaviour centred on namuz (honour) and haya (shame).

  In practical terms, there are some aspects of the Pashtunwali Code that are of great relevance to British military thinking and to its understanding of the Taliban enemy they face as well as the Afghan people as a whole.

  One very important concept is solidarity, referred to as nang. The code mandates devotion and loyalty to families and tribes as well as designated religious, tribal and political leaders, especially those who represent the tribe. Another is territorialism (ghayrat) which dictates that loyalty to the homeland should be displayed through a willingness to defend tribal as well as personal territory, property and individuals. A third is bravery (tureh). Pashtuns consider defensive roles in warfare shameful and insulting. However, conducting a surprise hit-and-run attack against a superior force, and other such acts of bravado, brings great honour to a fighter and his tribe. A final concept is revenge (badal) because it is considered honourable to respond to slights between individuals or tribes with reciprocation. Failure to take revenge is perceived as shameful.

  All these concepts – central to the Pashtunwali Code – are of relevance to the present conflict and actually suggest that for cultural reasons alone it will be a long time before the Taliban will ever surrender – especially to an infidel enemy. And, of course, there are other considerations as well that would strengthen their resolve even in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds. These concern the Taliban's relationship with international and intranational terrorist organisations like al-Qaeda which are dedicated to global destabilisation. And it is because of this that it is now thought the Taliban's ranks are being swollen by fighters coming in from places as far afield as Syria, Iran and even Chechnya.

  As I continue to survey the distant landscape, now turning a deep shade of pink by a sun sinking below the horizon, I hear the distant sound of small arms fire. It could be the Taliban taking potshots at the Afghan police or just celebratory fire by an enthusiastic new owner of a semi-automatic weapon exchanged for a goat. Everyone, it seems, has a weapon in Afghanistan and follows a simple but ruthless tit-for-tat pattern of feuding and counter-feuding. But for all that, it is a complicated country with a complicated ethnography and perhaps that is why invading armies have never been able to find a permanent foothold amid the ever-changing tribal alliances and the quicksand of the Pashtunwali Code. The British tried it twice in the nineteenth century. The Americans and the Russians tried it in the twentieth century and now we are back again under NATO colours in the new millennium. It is a brave or foolish man who would venture to suggest what the outcome of this latest military adventure will finally be. But political projections are not for M Company or 11 Troop or Bertie Kerr to worry about. Their concerns are more immediate: the mountain called Sparrow Hawk to the west and the plateau called the Shrine to the south.

  26 December

  Boxing Day. The plan had been for Bertie to take 11 Troop and me out on patrol this morning to check out some suspicious compounds north of the river, but overnight a thick fog has descended on the whole area. This means we would get no cover from the high ground on Normandy or Athens, so the patrol is cancelled and 11 Troop has been stood down. For Marty Collins and his colour sergeant, Taff John, however, the morning is taken up with logistics and intense organisation. They are still waiting for reinforcements from J Company to arrive but they also need several Chinook resupplies of ammunition before they can even begin to think about launching Operation Sparrow Hawk. At the same time a gang of muscle-bound marines is busy chopping down two huge trees in the middle of the central compound. It would be much safer for incoming helicopters to be able to land here rather than up by the dam where we landed so a large space needs to be cleared. Meanwhile, Rick Groves is going to meet some of the Afghanis living outside the British compound and has asked if I would like to go with him. I jump at the chance as it is very difficult to meet local people in Kijaki because of the obvious dangers of venturing out very far, and anyway, the vast majority of the local population have fled the area.

  The place we go to first is just outside the HQ compound walls. This is called Militia House, a large brick-and-stone building with bullet-pocked walls on every side. 'This place is right in the firing line of the Taliban if they're trying to shoot at us,' says Rick as we walk up to the front door. 'There was a lot of action here in the past as well,' he adds ominously. 'Apparently a Russian platoon was marooned here and fought a last-ditch battle against the Mujahidin sometime in the seventies. All were eventually killed except for two of them who were captured. They were skinned alive and then rolled in salt before being hung up to die. Nice, eh?' We go through the door and inside the place is cold and eerie. The walls are crumbling but the deep indentations left by automatic fire are clearly visible everywhere. 'You can almost hear the screams, can't you?' says Rick with a shiver. We climb the rickety stairs and at the top is a small boy wearing a broad smile and an AK47 slung around his shoulders. 'Marbles, Mr Rick?' he asks hopefully.

  Rick ruffles the small boy's hair and says, 'OK. I'll give you a game but you'll beat me – you always do.' The boy rushes off squealing delightedly. 'His name's Sasula,' says Rick. 'He's an orphan, about eleven years old and he's linked up with a local militia force that helps us fight the Taliban. They man this place from time to time and we give them some ammo and other supplies in return.' Sasula comes back carrying a plastic bag full of multicoloured marbles. Placing his AK47 against the wall, he empties the bag of marbles and sets about beating the sergeant major repeatedly. 'I hope you can use your weapon as well as you play marbles,' says Rick with a chuckle. Sasula is pushing for another game when he's interrupted by a voice at the door. 'Mr Rick!' 'Hello, Mohammed!' says Rick, jumping up to greet a swarthy-looking man with scars all over his face. He introduces me to Mohammed Khan, the Militia House commander. 'Mohammed is a brave warrior,' says Rick. 'He fought with the Mujahidin against the Russians and was a real war hero. I'm glad he's on our side this time.' With the story of the skinning and the salt still large in my mind I must say I'm inclined to agree. 'Show Chris your wounds,' says Rick. Mohammed proudly lifts the loose trousers of both legs to reveal a mess of old bullet wounds, burns and shrapnel scars. 'They're amazing, these people,' says Rick with genuine admiration. 'They don't have drugs. No morphine in the field. When they get wounded they just grit their teeth and push on. That or die.'

  We then take a couple of armoured Wimiks and head down to the dam to visit some of the workers who still manage, against all the odds, to keep one of the turbines turning over. On the way we stop by the river to watch some marines fishing commando-style. They are hurling grenades into the water, waiting for them to explode and then diving in to gather up the dead, dying or stunned fish. Naked, they are emerging
from the water with armloads of catfish and perch. 'Go nice with a plate of chips and some vinegar,' one marine shouts to us with a wave before pulling out the pin of another grenade.

  We walk through the gates into the compound leading to the dam's power station. Two inquisitive camels come up to see who we are. One of them seems to take a fancy to my camera with its furry microphone windshield and nearly succeeds in consummating the relationship. We enter the power station – a massive cavernous building like a James Bond set. I half expect to see a thousand ropes suddenly descend from the roof and an army of ninjas abseil down them amid a series of ear-shattering explosions. In fact, all I see are a dozen elderly, grey-bearded Afghanis painstakingly reading dials and pressure gauges and making careful notes on clipboards. When they see Rick and me they beckon us over with welcoming smiles and indicate that we should sit with them on a richly coloured carpet spread out in one corner of the immense floor. 'Chai?' they say as one. 'Yes please,' says Rick, taking his place cross-legged on the carpet. I join him. 'Always accept an invitation to tea in Afghanistan,' he whispers to me. 'And make sure you sit with your legs crossed. It's considered an insult to show the bottom of your feet so always tuck them in.' I do as I'm told. Rick has got close to these people and they all clearly adore him. I know there are still bloody battles to be fought and won against the Taliban but this truly is the other side of the conflict – the battle for the hearts and minds of the people. It is a battle that Rick Groves is winning almost single-handedly from the look of it – at least in Kijaki.