“Yeah, I tend to agree with you, Dex,” replied Joe. “A lot of the lads out there are very young; last time I felt like an uncle. And you look around in training; I didn’t know what to think half the time. I was worried for them. But it doesn’t stop them.”
“It doesn’t stop you either,” replied Dex.
“I’m not out foot patrolling, mate; we do our jobs, look at the Intel and fly around in helis and that, but for me it wasn’t the same – or what I imagine to be the same. But I suppose they want to do their job so it’s up to them.”
“Not for the faint-hearted; but I get what you’re saying,” said Baz. “I think they deserve a lot more when they come back as well as more pay when they are out there. I read somewhere that they still only get the equivalent basic rate of a traffic warden - I mean for fuck’s sake!”
“What did you make of the Afghans when you were out there, Joe?” asked Dex.
“I only met a few, but they seemed friendly. I hope I meet some more this time. Why do you ask?”
“I just wonder how radical some of them are; are they all religious?” asked Dex.
“I don’t know, mate; I’ll try and find out for you and report back without getting shot.”
***
Az dragged out the HME, along with an array of other equipment, and got his men to follow the instructions he had given them in setting up the devices. They were keen to learn, but the barriers were still there, especially as many of them couldn’t read or write and were hardly numerate. It would take a few days to get the message through about quantities and the different types of devices in relation to the tasks in hand. The one good thing was that they all knew how to operate a mobile phone.
Az had settled into a routine of setting up training schedules and sorting out who had the right skills for which job. He had also just started writing down his own thoughts about how he felt in his diary.
“I am stuck inside of some boundary zone and unable to move. Whether it’s conditioning or my own background is irrelevant. No one I know wishes to truly discuss the issues that should be discussed so I am alone. Nothing I see convinces me that people are listening here, so what am I doing?Many are living outside of real intelligence; the intelligence that comes with being a believer as opposed to just being an object and taking up valuable space; the intelligence that comes with intellectual thought and changing other people’s perceptions as an objective.”
He paused, thinking it probably wasn’t a good idea to write things down in case someone found it and misinterpreted what he was saying. He then tore out the page and burned it on an open fire inside one of the ramshackle buildings. “It doesn’t matter,” he thought. “I know what I feel. I don’t need to justify anything.”
He and the others would not be staying in their location for much longer in that part of Kandahar – they had been given notice to move for twenty-four hours hence and had packed their kit. The devices they had been working on would be used locally by another group at some point in the future and had been stored in a hiding place.
***
They had been given three days notice to appear at the camp, where they had to carry out their predeployment training, for mobilization to Afghanistan. It was February and bitterly cold.
A week later, after much classroom based training, Joe, Cam and forty-five other soldiers were making their way across the ranges in the cold Lincolnshire drizzle of a winter’s morning with helmets, webbing and weapons. They looked like a formidable bunch especially when the front ranks started shooting at pop-up targets soon after the briefing. The 5.00am start, the range instructor barking instructions; according to Cam no matter how many times someone did it in their military career it was always a rude awakening. Most hadn’t bothered with the Gortex weatherproofs and were already soaked. Joe became more aware of the conditions when he discovered that his trigger finger was frozen. He had to lean over with his warmer left hand and massage the finger before taking a shot.
“Usually I walk it,” he joked to himself. He had no idea how Cam was getting on although in the end everyone passed. The other activities on the training course were not such a barrier for Joe. The eight-mile timed march was memorable only because a colour sergeant had decided to run alongside Joe whilst telling him he was going to bin him off the circuit if he put so much as a foot wrong. Meanwhile a short thuggish-looking man repeatedly tried to trip him up from behind. When Joe had confronted the latter after the march they had squared up to each other; Joe just looked straight back at him and stared, without comment. The man skulked off.
“You always get the occasional fuckwit,” Cam said to him that evening in the NAAFI, so he just put it down to experience. The humour was definitely missing this time around compared to eighteen months previous. Moreover only Joe and Cam were deploying from their unit.
The weeks of training flew by and the briefings were generally on the same subjects as the previous deployment although the emphasis now was on staying alive and not killing innocent people. Joe realised that with these repeated deployments came the nuances of change seen through the eyes of people who had been there and bought the T-shirt.
At one briefing a colonel explained how much better the kit had got over the years – then Joe and Cam recalled that the head torches they had been given at the Training Centre didn’t actually work. Moreover they had been promised backpack water systems and the ‘improved’ sleeping systems with integral mosquito nets. The items had never actually materialized and neither had any working head torches. In the end Joe and Cam had managed to acquire their own mosquito nets and water systems through the G10 stores and had bought the head torches at the NAAFI shop.
He wondered what he would do when he returned from Afghanistan. Deep down Joe desired to travel, and possibly work on short contracts for the UN again in some exotic location; the only thing stopping him was Alison. He was back in the old crisis situation; bored with a “career” that didn’t excite him. After all wasn’t that why he was a willing accomplice in the mobilization process? It meant you could shift gears whenever you wanted, rather than rise to the level of your own incompetence in the office hierarchy. But thinking about Alison brought him down to Earth again. He knew that the itinerant side to his life was probably over.
He met up with Alison and her friends for a few drinks before departing. For anyone he knew who had an opinion on the subject they had used some kind of rhetorical comment to signal disapproval for the continuing conflict in Afghanistan. It was interesting to see how people responded, but when Alison asked him why he was happy to go again he couldn’t think of a reason.
“Well, you do get a new issue of kit; decent socks and underpants as well.”
“So you are going to a war zone because you wanted a new pair of underpants?” Alison replied, laughing in front of her friends.
“Actually they’re quite clingy; I might just take my own.” She stared back at him shaking her head. She wanted to say that she would have bought him a pair of decent boxers if that was what it took to stop him going but he was so obviously happy at going on another deployment. He was himself again, the real Joe. She knew that he hated office work so much that this was his only way of finding a way out; a way of being himself – of achieving something for himself, although she had no idea what.
***
Az walked around the market area in the Nahr-E Sarej district of Helmand Province with the two small groups he had been assigned to. He had travelled down to the area on the orders of a senior Taleb commander who had been made aware that some of his more talented recruits were going to waste.
“This will be a good opportunity to prove myself,” thought Az.
If stopped by the ANP he was not to answer, but leave it for the others. He could see the sangars and the outer walls of the British Brigade HQ from various locations as he walked. Viewing the base from different vantage points helped him build a picture of the layout, but he would be able to get some plans from the local commander
. His training had taught him never to rely on plans, but to always build a 3D model and picture the area in your head as you needed to get the lie of the land. It may look like a simple route on a plan, but in reality there could be all sorts of obstacles in the way and there was always the question of what kind of clear paths there would be for snipers and sharpshooters from both sides.
He made some notes in the small black diary he now kept on him at all times; stuffed full of technical facts and broken Pashtun in case he had to refer to it.
NES: locations 1 thro 4. Poss 5 – confirm area. Five sites located. HME and 2 no. PKM. Check CP area to West; narrow approach ideal amb. Recce routes & channels.
He turned to one of the local Talebs.
“Maa te washayaast, wasla newal.” Show me the safe house.
They walked around the village and through a grove of fruit trees. A couple of small structures became apparent to one side of the grove and they walked in. Az pulled off some covers and counted ten AKMs, five AK47s, two PKM rifles and a Dragunov sniper rifle. There were boxes of rounds and in the corner sat the ubiquitous palm oil containers used to store HME. There were also some Kalabash jars in the other corner. Some chickens ran around and Az noticed how noisy the birds were in the area. They looked like weaverbird nests in the trees.
“This should be OK for now,” he noted. “We’ll see what else we can get hold of in the next few days.”
Az contented himself that he could carry on with reccying the area ahead of any future attacks to be planned. “I’m not going to rush this,” he thought. “If anything I am going to enjoy being here, sod the consequences.”
***
Cam and Joe and the rest of the soldiers grabbed their helmets, body armour and daysacks and started boarding the giant C17 transport plane on the tarmac at RAF Brize Norton. They had stayed at the “RAF Hotel” over night; a building with a bar and a series of lounges, dating from the 1970s. They put their bundled weapons through the check-in and then checked the rest of their kit through. There would be a stop-off in the Middle East and then straight through to Camp Bastion in Helmand Province.
They were both looking forward to going back. It seemed like they were returning after a short break; a return to a place they had both known. But this time what the job would entail exactly would depend on the new reality of life on the ground in Afghanistan. The plane was only ferrying about twenty soldiers, but the rest of the cargo in the hold looked impressive, including a Warrior armoured vehicle.
As the previous time, the journey to Camp Bastion was memorable for the long descent with the aircraft blacked out. Joe had forgotten how long the descent seemed to take. This time it wasn’t as warry; they were not in serried ranks in half-light with only the backs of helmets visible. They were sat with their kit. But it felt like a return to a half-forgotten world.
***
“It really is Labour, Liberal and Tory, same old bloody story, Khalil,” Jeff shouted at the bar of the social club. “What have we got to lose? We are caught between a Labour Party that would destabilize our society even further with yet more mindless economic practices, playing Russian roulette with our economy, and a Tory Party that axes whole sections of our public sector, destroys the green shoots of recovery and panders to the far right whilst not being able to overrule even the most basic indiscretions of the European Charter. We are caught between hell and high water.”
“If it were not for the fact that I completely agree with you I would be more reticent about the whole thing, but you are preaching to the converted here, Jeff,” replied Khalil, conscious that some of the older members may have been getting annoyed at Jeff’s outbursts.
“Yes, but I am passionate about this. Every day feels like a day lost. We have to do more to take the fight to them. People are dying in the Middle East for far less.”
“Keep your voice down Jeff: not everyone here is in your party. Again, you don’t need to tell me that. I’m only too aware of the issues relating to parts of the Muslim world.” Khalil felt a chill as he said it.
“Of course, Khalil; and I wouldn’t suggest otherwise. But let me add…”
“No, Jeff; I have listened to a lot of diatribes and, as I said, I tend to agree with your outlook so please stop using me as a sounding board. If you want to get more out of people like me you need to understand what it is that makes us tick. And I’ll tell you now it isn’t raw politics; which is what makes you tick. I am engaged, and I will have a family within eight months. That’s what’s important for people like me; how to provide.”
“Oh; congratulations to you both,” Jeff replied; clutching a glass of Chablis.
“Thanks: anyway people like my fiancé and me are terrified about the economy. We are not fools and neither are we so political that we can really be bothered with half this crap. We need to know what the future offers in some small way; not some grand gesture. People like us are not about legacies. I’m not really that bothered about the great ‘issues’ of the day, Jeff.”
Jeff looked long at Khalil and realised that for many years his own ideas and methods may have been wide of the mark. He replied: “I tell you what I don’t claim to understand your exact problems. My kids have long since flown the nest. The economic and social problems facing your age group are different to the ones we faced. And I must admit this is all a bit of a retirement ‘exercise’ for me, even though I am passionate about the politics. But I will cut you some slack here. You’re right, life is complex, more complex than I can imagine. But whichever way we choose to act between us, in this party, we have to have an impact and work together. Let’s agree on that at least, Khalil. Let’s trust each other enough for that.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Isn’t it a bit late for all this? Someone should have told the Yanks to stop bombing the wrong people at least ten years ago,” observed Cam. “Jeez, it’s getting redders out here. I mean I used to be a smouldering chestnut and now I am a bleached blond.”
“Cam, I don’t think you actually have enough hair left to be able to describe it anyway. Sorry to disappoint you, mate,” replied Joe.
They had been sat under desert camouflage nets for an hour listening to a briefing on “Rules of Engagement” and the wonders of “Card Alpha”. Under the new “COIN” strategy of counter-insurgency civilian targets were to be avoided at all cost. It seemed a bit surprising that this had come so late in the day.
“Clear, hold and build boys!” one of the other soldiers on the RSOI in-country training course exclaimed.
“Something to do with fortified sandcastles no doubt,” Cam joked back.
The hearts and minds strategy from their previous tour of duty had appeared to have been sidelined; Joe decided that so much damage had been done already to the country that it was just an exit strategy that was being rolled out. In most respects, Joe thought, intuition would naturally guide people away from causing civilian casualties and also minimize them wherever possible. He himself had managed to accidentally shoot a civilian in a simulator based on a real compound in Afghanistan. The speed of reaction, quality of light and adrenalin all played a part in affecting people’s judgements. Faced with that situation in real time he hoped he would take time to control his trigger finger. He also wondered if any of the other armies had this kind of training.
“Life is all about a series of choices,” Joe said to Cam when they had a break. “It must be human nature to support the innocent, but not everyone seems to go along with that philosophy.”
“Yeah, it’s what NATO has been trying to instill in its own soldiers, to distinguish between aggressors and innocents, even more so under this new COIN strategy,” replied Cam, his years as a senior NCO showing through. “But it’s taken centuries for European countries to stop killing, robbing and raping innocent people; so how long will it take people out here?”
It seemed almost like a new approach that civilian casualties really were to be avoided at all costs. Unlike eighteen months previous there would be l
ess artillery fire from FOBs and use of artillery in general would be curtailed. A female instructor taught them how to behave if searching an Afghan compound.
“The Koran will always occupy the highest spot in a room: usually on the ‘top shelf’ and you always pay the book total respect and don’t handle it; it should also be covered.”
At the same time they were being taught to use their eyes and ears more. If people were suddenly absent from an area it could be an indicator of what might be about to happen. Soldiers were taught to look for `atmospherics’ – the absence of the normal, and presence of the abnormal, something Cam had then called the “presence of the paranormal!” Similarly, they were to be more aware of markers and ground signs. A bunch of stones arranged a certain way, or a series of objects at the side of the road. None of this was new, but it was being rammed home in the training.
The message was simple: fighting a conventional war against a guerilla army that was constantly changing and re-morphing was essentially impossible. Only counter-insurgency, surveillance and building up the ANA and ANP could have any hope of working in the long run – at least according to the briefings. And intelligence-led operations were the only way forward.
“Are you still with us, buddy?” Cam asked Joe. It was forty-two degrees and the winds were sand-blasting everything in their path as they sat in the open tent.
“Day-dreaming mate. What’s up next?” Joe replied.
***
“So what if our brothers fear the Apaches in particular; they belong to the enemy,” Az was having an argument with one of the local elders. “Look we are here to fight,” he continued. “If they hit the village it will be even worse for the enemy. Look at their strategy these days; they are scared of fighting in civilian areas.”
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