Commando

by Chris Terrill

  'You all right, mate?'

  'Bloody hell,' I reply. 'What did they put in that bar mine – a small H-bomb?'

  'That was the funniest thing I have ever seen.' Dave is laughing almost uncontrollably now. 'You were blasted three feet into the air and then landed right on your bum!'

  'Thought I'd gone deaf!'

  'I bet that'll be the last time you stand up that close to a bar mine, mate.'

  'Damn right. But at least the camera survived the blast – I hope.'

  I rewind the tape and play back the moment of the explosion. The camera caught it beautifully – a dramatic blast that shakes the ground and wall I am filming. But almost immediately the picture changes into a wobbly streak of blue sky as I'm blasted backwards off my feet. The microphone catches the sickening 'thud' of my unceremonious landing followed by an audible gasp and some pretty extreme cursing.

  'Hoofing, mate,' says Dave. 'I bet you edit that bit out of your film!'

  Ten minutes later the whole troop is congregated by yet another wall we need to get through. This time, however, there is a large doorway through it that has been completely bricked up with large dry mud slabs. 'Anybody fancy barging through that?' asks Pete McGinley.

  'Vinders!' everyone shouts spontaneously.

  Vinders steps forward with a grin. He looks at the blocked doorway, narrows his eyes and drops his right shoulder. Then with a short sprint he hurls his massive frame towards the obstruction. Crunch! The impact of the largest marine in M Company on mud-brick results in an explosive cloud of dust and the sound of falling masonry. As the billowing dust settles, all we can see is a huge man-shaped hole in the shattered brick wall –just like in the cartoons. Vinders then reappears looking in from the other side. 'You lot coming or what?'

  There is nothing in the field and this marks the end of our search. The enemy have evidently fled, so we start our way back to the police compound where we left our bergens this morning. We follow the course of a dry riverbed as it keeps us in low ground and again we spread out in a long line as bunching makes us more vulnerable. It's a long yomp to do after such a long and tiring day but we have to maintain vigilance because we're still in enemy territory and therefore remain open to attack. The Taliban have had a bashing today and they may well have gone away to lick their wounds. On the other hand, their honour has been slighted and they could retaliate at any time.

  Me with 11 Troop at the end of deployment.

  Adam Collins with 924 Troop in the back of a Chinook.

  YOs on riot control exercise.

  Williams on the death slide.

  The dreaded Full Regain.

  Me carrying Orlando on the fireman's carry.

  The recruits on the 30 foot ropes.

  Exhausted and emotional after the thirty-miler.

  Me and Hamish Robb at the end of the thirty-miler.

  Mark Blight not feeling the strain of the thirty-miler.

  924 Troop with Green Berets after the final test.

  The original 924 Troop ...

  and those who received their Green Berets.

  Tom Curry.

  18.00

  Finally, after over twelve hours on the go, we arrive back at the police compound. Exhausted, dusty, thirsty and hungry we stagger into the dilapidated main building to pick up our gear before returning to HQ. Suddenly a loud explosion rocks the already crumbling walls, closely followed by another and then another. Sergeant Major Taff John, who has come over from the HQ to count us in, shouts, 'Incoming! Take cover!'

  The Taliban are mortaring our position, but the observation post on Sparrow Hawk has identified the mortar position and is engaging. The attack only lasts about twenty minutes and thankfully there are no direct hits but it illustrates the nature of the enemy – ferocious, courageous, single-minded and determined, even after having suffered a significant defeat.

  19.15

  We cross the bridge over the river and climb the short hill up to the HQ. As we approach the ops room we hear the familiar barks of Tanghei and Asbo as they run excitedly to greet us. We are home and desperate to eat and rest but not before finding out news of Richard Mayson. Everyone is relieved to hear that he is comfortable in hospital at Camp Bastion and will be repatriated to the UK as soon as possible.

  19.30

  I join Bertie for a debriefing with Marty Collins and the other troop commanders. Marty is clearly pleased with the way the day has gone.

  'Gentlemen, we can count today a success – and on the Taliban's home ground as well. We have shown them that we can go wherever we want and not be beaten back.'

  He turns to an aerial map of the area pinned to the wall behind him and points to a red marker. 'This is where we will establish the vehicle checkpoint tomorrow. We can expect enemy reaction because I don't think they'll give this area up without a fight. So 10 Troop and 11 Troop will go in under cover of darkness

  It is astonishing. After a long day of fighting M Company is already preparing for another advance tomorrow. But then I consider the vital importance of keeping up the pressure on a dogged enemy still determined to inflict as much damage as possible on the British forces. Today's firefight has not been the first in the area and will certainly not be the last. The Taliban will be back – perhaps in even greater numbers.

  'We've had two good days,' says Marty to his officers. 'But make no mistake – there is still much to do if we're to achieve our aim of returning this area to peaceful prosperity . . .'

  As Marty talks I look over at Bertie – exhausted but listening intently to his commander – and I consider once again how incredible it is that only three short weeks ago he was passing out at Lympstone. Bertie has now seen battle. He has shot and been shot at. He is initiated. In fact, he has already seen more action than some professional soldiers see in their entire careers. And you know what? Bertie has changed – and it is a change that has happened virtually before my eyes.

  The fresh-faced young man, polished and shiny from training, has been transformed into a war-ravaged soldier – roughened and toughened by real action and the true sound of war. Right now, his men have become the most important thing in his life – they are his second family and, from what I have seen today, I know they would die for each other if necessary. Such intensified comradeship is powerful stuff and demands a particular brand of leadership. This is not the sort of leadership that is easily taught in training – it is the sort that is learned on the battlefield. Or perhaps it is learned in the womb but needs the battlefield to bring it out. Who knows? But it is a type of leadership born of the intellect, the instinct and the heart all at the same time. It combines strength, confidence and determination, but tempers it with compassion, respect and selflessness. And that is something that seems to have come naturally to Second Lieutenant Bertie Kerr. Perhaps that is what Clive Dytor, his old headmaster at the Oratory, meant when he said he saw in Bertie 'the perfect mix of virility and sensitivity'.

  As for me, I have seen something of battle as well –just a taste, and as a cameraman, not a combatant, but it is what I wanted. I have ticked the box I had to tick for all manner of complicated reasons that I still only half understand and I am surprised by my reaction to it. The fact is I enjoyed it. It was utterly exhilarating and bracing, like bungee jumping or skydiving but much, much more enlivening. It may sound reckless to say this, and I certainly do not mean to detract from the terrible danger that British soldiers face on a daily basis in both Iraq and Afghanistan, but war can be rousing and battle quite addictive. Of course, no amount of excitement and enthusiasm for the thrill of combat makes anyone bulletproof. Richard Mayson learned that today the hard way, and the bullet that shattered his wrist, aimed an inch or two higher or lower, could have killed him.

  Maybe I'm still revved up on adrenalin and this heady feeling will wear off but I do feel as if I have gained an insight into a soldier's way of thinking.

  21.00

  Dave and I quickly pack up our bergens as we've just found out that we're
moving out tonight. A supply flight arriving in a couple of hours can take us back to Camp Bastion and it may be days before another flight comes in. I would love to stay and see the Royal Marines push forward again to extend the limits of British control in the area, but I have to get back to Lympstone for the build-up to the all-important commando tests. We have, therefore, reluctantly decided to make a break for it.

  Once we've packed, we go down to say goodbye to 11 Troop and Bertie Kerr.

  'I'll be back in a couple of months with 924 Troop,' I tell everyone. 'At least the ones that successfully pass out.'

  'OK, mate,' says Pete McGinley. 'You'll be welcome back any time – as long as you don't bring that fucking camera with all the flashing lights.'

  'Don't worry, Pete,' I say, 'be assured that will never happen again!'

  'Good luck with the commando tests, Chris,' says Bertie.

  'Thanks, I'll need it,' I say as I go round shaking everyone's hands. 'And good luck to you guys. Stay safe . . .'

  The next forty-eight hours are spent travelling: from Kijaki to Camp Bastion by Chinook and then by C130 to Kandahar. There we wait for an PAF TriStar to take us via Cyprus to Brize Norton. Richard Mayson accompanies us on the TriStar and is given one of the stretchers I noticed on our way out. His wrist has sustained significant damage but while he faces months of surgery and rehabilitation the prognosis is good.

  'The doctors reckon I won't lose the use of my hand or fingers,' he says with a smile. 'I just want to get it sorted and then return to Afghan. I want to be back with the lads.'

  4 January

  13.50

  We start the descent for our landing at Brize Norton. Below is the English landscape resplendent in its winter livery of greys, browns and bursts of evergreen. It is good to be back of course, and I'm looking forward to talking to my family, but I am feeling a strange sense of reverse homesickness for Afghanistan. Well, not Afghanistan exactly but M Company and specifically 11 Troop. The lads are still out there fighting the fight and, while I suppose I'm pleased not to be dodging bullets and rocket-propelled grenades, I do miss that incredible adrenalin rush I felt that morning on the Shrine. I also miss the community of the troop and the sense of solidarity that you begin to feel with other men when facing daily dangers together. As we come in to land, and I see around me all that is safe and familiar, I cannot help wondering how 11 Troop are faring in their continued push into Taliban territory and just what threats they will have to face before my return in a few weeks.

  Once on the ground and through the airport I say goodbye to Dave who is heading back to London. I pick up my hire car and prepare to drive back to Lympstone. First, however, I phone my parents. I tell them bits of my experience but not everything. Maybe I'll tell them more when I see them. After that I phone Laura to tell her I'm back.

  'Oh, thank God!' she says when she hears my voice. 'Every time I opened my desk drawer I saw those horrible "death letters". I started shutting my eyes so I didn't have to look at them.'

  'Are you OK?' I ask.

  'I am now, but it's been horrible as I was always expecting a phone call from the MoD,' she says in a gabble. 'I don't think I can stand you going out again, especially with any of the 924 guys. With Bertie there already I'll just have too many people to worry about!'

  'Well, I'm not going back out just yet.'

  'No, I know. That's something. It's not good for my health. Are you going straight to Lympstone now?'

  'Yes. I have to get back to training straight away. I'll try and get up to London next weekend or the one after.'

  'OK. I'll bake some more biscuits for you to take back down for the recruits.'

  'And for me, I hope.'

  'Well, I'll think about it. You don't really deserve any for putting me through all this worry.'

  10

  The Full Regain

  5 January

  07.30

  I wake up in my bed at the commando training camp at Lympstone. It's strange to be back but, of course, a great relief. Safe and familiar, this has become my second home, and now that I have done a bit of time on the front line, I feel I can raise my head just a little bit higher around here and in the company of my Bootneck friends. I'm still pretty revved up by the whole Afghan experience, and while half my mind is still in Kijaki, I'm really looking forward to seeing everyone in 924 Troop and the training team.

  After a snatched breakfast I head down to the accommodation block to see who's around and bump into Orlando on the stairs.

  'Welcome back, mate,' he says. 'Heard you had some excitement over Christmas.'

  'Who told you that?'

  'Oh the "Royal" grapevine – no secrets among Bootnecks, you know.'

  'Well it was quite something,' I say. 'I'll tell you all about it later, but how are things here?'

  'Well, we're still down to just ten originals though we've picked up five backtroopers. That gives us a troop strength of just fifteen which is a bit worrying as we're bound to lose some more to the commando tests – always casualties there.' We go into the team office and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

  'And how's your social life, Orlando?' I ask. 'As colourful and chaotic as usual?'

  'Ah well,' he says conspiratorially. 'The fact is . . . I . . . er . . .'

  'Yes?'

  'I ... I've got myself one of those girlfriend things.'

  'Orlando! I don't believe you!'

  'It's true, mate. Her name's Hannah and she's gorgeous.'

  'Bloody hell. I never thought I'd see the day.'

  'Nor me, mate! I've become a one-chick man, but it's OK actually. Enjoying it.'

  'Tomcat!' shouts Hamish Robb, striding through the door. 'Welcome back, mate.'

  'Thanks, McLegend,' I say, shaking the smiling Scotsman's hand. 'It's good to be back.'

  Hamish's two gigantic Alsatians, Marra and Stella, bound in and greet me with their wet noses and slavering pink tongues. I immediately think of Tanghei and Asbo back in Kijaki and tell Hamish and Orlando all about them.

  Minutes later 'H', Jim, Sean and Matt arrive and soon, over tea and several packets of Hobnobs, I am regaling them with my 'war stories' and showing them some of the photographs I took.

  There are lots of questions about section attacks, troop attacks, weaponry and tactics which I do my best to answer. Eventually, when all the Hobnobs are finished and I have exhausted all my tales of tracer bullets, Hellfire missiles, mouse-hole charges and stun grenades, Hamish brings me back to the here and now with a jolt.

  'That's all bloody hoofing, mate,' he says, 'but you're back here now so you've got to forget all about Ghaners and crack that fucking Bottom Field. You're running out of time if you want that green lid.'

  'I know, I know,' I reply with a pained expression. 'I need a bit of time to train up and gain weight. I lost nearly a stone in Afghanistan.'

  'Yeah, but you have to pass it in the next couple of weeks,' says Orlando. 'Otherwise you'll be too far behind to catch up with the rest of the troop. They start training on the Tarzan assault course this afternoon. You should be with them.'

  My heart sinks. I can already feel the Green Beret slipping away. I'm not allowed to graduate to the Tarzan assault course until I have passed the Bottom Field, but I feel physically exhausted after a month in Afghanistan living on boil-in-the-bag rations. I have lost a lot of weight, and despite my efforts at the Kijaki 'gym', I've lost upper body strength as well. Plus my injured left shoulder is a continual worry.

  'You feeling up to it, mate?' asks Hamish.

  'Well, I'll give it my best shot,' I say, trying to sound as resolute as I can. Deep down, though, I am far from confident. I am not at all sure that, in my present condition, I can climb those thirty-foot ropes in full battle order let alone do the 200-metre fireman's carry in under ninety seconds. And as for the horrendous full regain over the tank ... I do not want to even think about it. I think the training team are beginning to doubt my chances as well. They're not saying as much but I sense it
somehow. Maybe I am about to bite off more than I can chew.

  09.00

  I phone Jon Stratford to tell him I'm back. He doesn't answer so I leave a message on his voicemail. I try to sound upbeat.

  'Hi, Jon. It's Chris. Back from Ghaners. Just wanted a quick chat about doing Bottom Field. Need to get it done soon as possible as you know. Give us a call. Cheers.'

  I say a quick hello to some of the lads in 924 like James Williams, Joe Hogan, Mike Urhegyi and Mark Blight and tell them I'll come along and watch their 'acquaint' on the Tarzan assault course this afternoon. I then drop in to Hunter Company to look for Terry John. I find him in his dormitory amid a cloud of steam pressing his C95 trousers.

  'Hey, Chris,' he shouts as he sees me. 'How was it? When did you get back? Are you OK? Did you see any action?'