Sweating the Metal

by Alex Duncan Frenchie

  Sweating the Metal

  Alex Duncan Frenchie

  With bullets flying, wounded soldiers scream out in pain as the Chinook comes in to land in one of the most dangerous parts of Afghanistan. At the machine’s controls is one man and if he doesn’t stay calm then everyone could die.

  That man is Flt Lt Alex ‘Frenchie’ Duncan and he’s been involved in some of the most daring and dangerous missions undertaken by the Chinook force in Afghanistan. In this book he recounts his experiences of life under fire in the dust, heat and bullets of an active war zone.

  At 99ft long, the Chinook is a big and valuable target to the Taliban, who will stop at nothing to bring one down. And yet Frenchie and his crew risk everything because they know that the troops on the front line are relying on them. Sweating the Metal is the true story of the raw determination and courage of men on the front line – and it’s time for their story to be told.

  Alex Duncan

  SWEATING THE METAL

  Flying Under Fire

  A Chinook Pilot’s Blistering Account of Life, Death and Dust in Afghanistan

  To my wife Alison, and my boys Guy and Max

  Destiny chose me to fly the sky, since conception in the womb,

  While nurtured by my mother’s breast, I had a duty to assume.

  For I have flown past heaven’s door, to places you’ve not seen,

  Constantly lived my boyhood dreams, in the places I have been.

  I’ve flown the depths of darkness, by the light from stars alone,

  I am utterly spellbound by that world, the world I call my own.

  Taken from ‘The Fighter Pilot’ by Bazza

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First and foremost, I’d like to express my deepest and most heartfelt thanks to my lovely wife Alison, my boys Guy and Max, and to my parents, for their unflinching love and support through some extremely testing times in my career as a military pilot.

  Thanks are due to James at Watson, Little and to my publisher, Rupert Lancaster, for seeing the potential in this book from the very beginning. They both shared my belief that the work of the Chinook Force should be brought to a wider audience. Also to Kate Miles and all at Hodder and Stoughton who worked for so long to bring the book to life. I can’t thank you enough for your support, enthusiasm and sheer hard work. Thanks to Tara Gladden for polishing the manuscript – you really did a sterling job.

  I’m indebted to the Ministry of Defence and its staff, in particular Squadron Leader Stuart Balfour, for allowing this story to be told and for supporting and facilitating Antony Loveless and those who worked to make it happen. Thanks Stuart, for shepherding the manuscript through to publication and for your advocacy in ensuring that what I wrote saw it through to the end.

  Although the events that I describe in this book are as they appeared to me, they also represent the words and memories of countless others. To all of you, both named and anonymous, who gave up your time and your memories, thank you.

  Huge thanks are due to all of my friends and colleagues in the Chinook Force at RAF Odiham, in particular the crewmen who work so tirelessly and give so much to make each sortie a success. I salute your commitment. The great unsung heroes of the Chinook Force are the technicians and engineers who keep us flying – thank you all. And a special thank you to JP, a brilliant leader, tactician and friend.

  Special thanks to my friends and family who have backed and encouraged me throughout.

  The final word must go to all those men and women of the British Armed Forces who fight so hard under such punishing and inhospitable conditions, while living in spartan, basic accommodation. Thank you all. You are a credit to yourselves, to your uniform and to the nation, and I feel proud to work alongside you. And to those who never made it back – you will never be forgotten.

  PROLOGUE

  MAY 17TH, 2008

  I check my watch; we’ve been sitting ‘turning and burning’ – rotors spinning, burning fuel – on the pan at Camp Bastion, for fifty minutes now.

  Early afternoon – Helmand Province in May – and the outside air temperature display on the instrument panel says it’s 50°C. The Chinook’s windscreen takes the full glare, turning the cockpit into a greenhouse where the ambient temperature is nudging 65°C. Hot doesn’t even come close; there’s no frame of reference for this.

  A bead of sweat trickles from underneath my helmet and into my eye. I’ve had enough; I radio control…

  ‘Bastion Ops, Black Cat Two Two. Where’s the armourer?’ I ask.

  ‘Black Cat Two Two, Bastion Ops. Should be with you now.’

  I twist and look over my left shoulder and see him walking up the ramp; I motion for him to sit on the jump seat. Bob Ruffles, my No.2 crewman, assists the armourer and plugs his helmet into the comms.

  ‘Okay, this is what we’ve got,’ I tell him. ‘We landed at Gereshk to refuel with our formation leader an hour ago, and his cab had a massive fuel leak. It’s completely soaked his Defensive Aids Suite, so his flares are now bathed in it. We’ll fly you to Gereshk so you can replace them. We’ll be back for you after our next sortie – about forty-five minutes.’

  I look past him to the full load of passengers in the back. We’ve been briefed that they’re VIPs. They were supposed to be our wingman’s next load, but his cab isn’t going anywhere with fuel-soaked flares; it’s the armourer’s mission to replace those. Ours is to get the VIPs to Musa Qala.

  I don’t know who they are except they’re very well dressed, so they look a bit out of place. Their questioning glares and furrowed brows tell me they’re an unhappy group of suits. I guess I’d be pissed off too if I’d waited in the heat for over an hour before boarding.

  Time to get moving. Ordinarily, we’d be going nowhere without an Apache watching our backs, but we’ve been flying all morning and our escort – an Apache with the call sign Ugly Five Zero – is already at Musa Qala waiting for us.

  ‘Bastion Tower, Black Cat Two Two ready for departure.’

  ‘Black Cat Two Two, cleared for take-off and cross as required. Visibility 5km, wind two-five-zero at ten knots.’

  ‘Pre take-offs good, ready to lift,’ says Alex, my co-pilot, from the left seat.

  ‘Clear above and behind.’ This from Neil ‘Coops’ Cooper, my No.1 crewman at the ramp. Bob mans the port-side Minigun as we lift.

  ‘Take-off, Black Cat Two Two.’

  I pull pitch and lift into the afternoon sky. It’s a short hop to Gereshk, just east of Camp Bastion, and we’re in the air no more than five minutes before I land us and drop off the armourer. Thirty seconds on the ground, no more. Coops gives the all clear and I lift us once again into the crystal-clear azure sky and turn due north for Musa Qala.

  Ten more minutes and we’re about six miles from the target. I radio ahead to the Apache: ‘Ugly Five Zero, Black Cat Two Two. Inbound. Next location in five.’

  ‘Black Cat Two Two, Ugly Five Zero, visual. Be aware, enemy forces moving weapons along your route. Hold; we’re checking it out.’

  This could indicate that something major is afoot. The Taliban often ditch their weapons, cache them and melt back into the civilian population. Once they do that, they know that our moral and ethical code prevents us from returning fire. The upside, though, is that if they want to launch an attack, they need to move the weapons into place. The Apache crew are using their reconnaissance pod to investigate.

  We don’t have long to wait.

  ‘Black Cat Two Two, Ugly Five Zero. Enemy forces moving weapons to the south-west – suggest you try alternative routing. Guys, the ICOM chatter has got ten times worse. They’re up to something.’

  If Taliban radio traffic has increased markedly, something is brewing. I feel the ha
irs on the back of my neck stand up.

  I click the PTT button on the end of the cyclic to confirm I’ve received the message.

  I decide to fly a feint into FOB Edinburgh. It’s a couple of miles away from Musa Qala but it’s on higher ground so if the Taliban are laying in wait for us, they’ll see us landing there and assume its our intended destination. I brief the crew. ‘I’ll just do a low-level orbit over Edinburgh and use terrain masking so they won’t see us at Musa Qala.’

  Our biggest threat comes from rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs), but if we’re fast and low we’re that much harder to hit. Normally we fly an approach 50ft on the light and 45 on the noise; that means that if I go below 50ft, a warning light will come on and at 45ft a noise will sound. As the non-handling pilot, Alex has the noise and I have the light.

  I brief Alex. ‘Okay, I want you to put us four miles north of Edinburgh. There’s a deep valley (or “wadi”) there, and I want to be flying low through it at max speed on the approach. Bug the RadAlt down to 10ft; I’m gonna put the light on at 20 and we’re going to go in as fast and as low as we dare.’

  It’s called a CAD, or Concealed Approach and Departure; when less experienced guys train in the UK they do it with speed and height commensurate with safety. The received wisdom is that speed is life, altitude is life insurance; no one has ever collided with the sky. But whoever said that was clearly unfamiliar with Helmand Province. As captain, I’m responsible for the safety of the aircraft and everyone on it. And for me, here and now, that means going low and fast.

  ‘Bob, get on the starboard Minigun. Standard Rules of Engagement; you have my authority to engage without reference to me if we come under fire. Clear?’

  ‘Clear as, Frenchie.’

  I want him on the right because, looking at the topography of the area, that’s where we’d most likely take fire from. He can scan his arcs, I’ve got the front and right, and Alex and Coops have the left. We’re as well prepared as we can be, even if it does feel like we’re flying into the lion’s den.

  Alex gets us into the perfect position and I drop down low into the wadi as I fly us towards FOB Edinburgh at 160 knots. Trees are rushing past the cockpit windows on either side but I’m totally focused on the job at hand so they barely register. We’re so low, I’m climbing to avoid tall blades of grass as we scream along the wadi and I’m working the collective up and down like a whore’s knickers, throwing the aircraft around. Anyone trying to get a bead on us is going to have a fucking hard time.

  It’s about twenty seconds later when I see the Toyota Hilux with a man standing in the back. It’s alongside the wadi in our 1 o’clock position and about half a mile ahead. It’s redolent of one of the Technicals – the flat-bed pick-up trucks with a machine-gun or recoilless rifle in the back that caused so much mayhem in Black Hawk Down. They’re popular with the Taliban, too. Suddenly, alarm bells are ringing in my head. They’re so loud, I’m sure the others can hear.

  ‘Threat right,’ I shout as both Alex and I look at the guy in the truck.

  My response is automatic. I act even before the thought has formed and throw the cyclic hard left to jink the cab away from danger. Except the threat isn’t to the right; the truck is nothing to do with the Taliban.

  The threat lies unseen on our left, on the far bank of the wadi. A team has been brought in specifically to take us out and they have a view of the whole vista below them, including us.

  I’ve flown us right into the jaws of a trap that’s been laid specially for one particular VIP that we’re carrying.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!

  The Defensive Aids Suite comes alive and fires off flares to draw the threat away from us; too late though. Everything happens in a nanosecond but perception distortion has me tight in its grip, so it seems like an age.

  I feel the airframe shudder violently as we simultaneously lurch upwards and to the right. I know what’s happened even as Coops shouts over the comms: ‘We’ve been hit, we’ve been hit!’

  There’s no time for Bob to react on the gun. The aircraft has just done the polar opposite of what I’ve asked of it. And for any pilot, that’s the worst thing imaginable – loss of control.

  ‘RPG!’ shouts Coops. ‘We’ve lost a huge piece of the blade!’

  The Master Caution goes off and I’m thrust into a world of son et lumière. Warning lights are flashing, and the RadAlt alarm is sounding through my helmet speakers – we’ve got system failures. We’ve got sixteen VIPs in the back. And we’re still in the kill zone.

  We’re going down.

  PART ONE

  BEGINNINGS

  1

  ACCROCHES-TOI À TON RÊVE

  I always wanted to fly. I was six when my uncle gave me a book called Les Ailes d’or L’Aéronavale US (Golden Wings of the US Navy). Full of high-quality photos of F-14s, it awakened within me an interest in flying which then demanded attention like a recalcitrant child. Once I’d opened my mind to the concept of flight, I dreamed of being a fast jet pilot and began an enduring love affair with aviation that remains with me still.

  My father is British. He’s an accountant, and my mum (who’s French) is an English teacher. They met when my dad was reading French at Oxford and, as part of his degree, went to France for a year to work as the assistant to an English teacher – that teacher was my mum. I was born in Belgium in 1976, where my father was working at the time, but moved to Paris when I was one.

  Paris dominates my memories of growing up, so the city had quite an impact on my sense of identity. We lived in a spacious apartment near the Seine in a suburb to the south-west of the city. We spoke English and French at home, so I passed the exam for a bilingual secondary school and eventually graduated with my Baccalaureate. England, though, was also a huge influence on me; my paternal grandparents lived in Sevenoaks and I adored it there. I travelled there regularly from a young age and when I was older I’d spend summers there to improve my English so I had a pretty good grounding in British culture.

  We travelled a fair bit when I was younger and I looked forward to the flights almost more than I did the actual destinations. I was always asking my dad to draw aircraft or make paper airplanes for me; I wasn’t so much concerned with how a plane was kept in the sky, it was the graciousness of it – there was a certain magic about the fact that it flew.

  I don’t think the French Air Force ever figured in my thoughts, even from when I first dreamed of flying; it was always the RAF. When I learned about World War II, I always imagined I was in the cockpit of a Spitfire. So when it came to choosing a university, it had to be one in England. I read Aerospace Engineering at Manchester and after graduating in July 1999 (alongside my degree, I also acquired the nickname ‘Frenchie’) I was accepted into the Royal Air Force as a direct-entry pilot.

  The RAF’s motto is ‘Per Ardua Ad Astra’, which, roughly translated, means ‘Through Adversity to the Stars’. A very loose translation might be, ‘It’s a rocky road that leads to the stars,’ and having travelled that arduous, winding and infinitely long road to gaining my wings, it’s a maxim that really means something to me.

  I was well aware of what the process involved when I did my initial assessment with the RAF, but somehow, by the time I presented myself at RAF Cranwell (the RAF’s equivalent of Sandhurst) on August 6th 2000 to begin my six months of officer training, it’s like I’d forgotten. I knew on an abstract level that you don’t just join the RAF and start flying on day two, but there was still a part of me that expected to be given the keys and told to go ahead and fly!

  The process of turning civilians into functioning, capable military officers is an exact science, tried, tested and honed over generations, but basically it boils down to breaking and then remaking you. The process irons out all the flaws, the bad habits, the laziness, lack of fitness and absence of discipline that are hallmarks of civilian life, and replaces them with military bearing, an ability to march, work as part of a team and lead by example. It was Februar
y 2001 when I passed out as Flying Office Alex Duncan but, because there were no slots immediately available at the Elementary Flying Training School (EFTS), I didn’t start my basic flying training until May.

  The four-month course is broadly similar to the course that civilian pilots do to obtain a Private Pilot’s Licence, except it’s much more comprehensive and the pace of learning is accelerated. You can be flying in formation, hanging off the wing of another aircraft, with around fifteen hours flying under your belt, a time when many PPLs have only just soloed. The training is exceptionally good and despite not being a naturally gifted pilot, I aced all of my final exams and left EFTS with sixty-five hours, experience in my logbook.

  Despite now being able to fly a light aircraft in cloud, at night, alone, and perform aerobatics and low-level flying, you’re still of no use to the RAF. EFTS is all about identifying your strengths so you can be streamed to one of three arenas that the brass thinks you’re most suited to, depending on where they have the greatest need at that particular time – fast jets, multi-engine or rotary. Fast jets was my first choice, followed by multis and finally, rotary, which is what I got. I’d sailed through all my exams and handling tests, and I was informed I’d achieved the grade, but there was a problem affecting the Tucano T1, the aircraft on which the RAF teaches basic fast jet flying. It created a huge backlog of pilots, so they looked at my performance and decided I had the aptitude to be a good helicopter pilot.

  I was so gutted at first that I even considered leaving the RAF, but ultimately I accepted the decision because I realised it was about what the Air Force needed, not what I wanted. Whatever I flew, be it fast jets or helicopters, I’d love the job because I would still be flying. Maybe a different kind of flying to what I’d dreamed of, but still flying nonetheless.