Sweating the Metal

by Alex Duncan Frenchie

  REMF – the acronym for Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers – is a sobriquet applied to any non-forward based jobsworth. You didn’t have far to go to find them at KAF. In fact, you didn’t need to find them at all. They’d find you. Alongside the enforcers of bullshit, the term also encompassed those who had convinced their friends back home that they were single-handedly taking the fight to the enemy and getting shot at on a daily basis. Kind of difficult when they were paper pushers and admin clerks who never set foot outside of, or flew above, the relative safety of Kandahar. Some of these guys were so far from the front they could send their laundry forward.

  I quickly became bored of the good food, the gym and the TV, and I’d read all the books I’d brought with me. I also started to feel a little paranoid about the regular rocket and mortar attacks that were a feature of life at KAF. They weren’t aimed – the launch system that the Taliban was using was far too primitive for anything like aiming – but they were no less dangerous for that. It was more a case of ‘fire and forget’ from anywhere in what became known as the ‘Rocket Box’ – an area of vegetation and crops outside the wire which the Taliban could rock up to in a truck, fire their ordnance and drive away before we could respond.

  I knew the chances of being hit were minute, but so are the odds of winning the lottery and people play that every week. Chance and statistical probability are all well and good, but a million-to-one chance is only relevant if you’re not the ‘one’. I couldn’t think of anything worse than surviving the fire that had been aimed at the Chinook, only to die in a random rocket attack while I was killing time, waiting for a flight home. So I resolved to do something about it.

  One of the biggest frustrations for all military personnel deployed anywhere involving a flight are the movers. Sure, they have a job to do, but it’s the attitude of many of them that pisses people off. Their job is logistics and that means freight – people or cargo – and making sure that the right bit or the right person goes on the right aircraft to the right place. The trouble is they are a little bit possessive about aircraft. They always refer to them as ‘my aircraft’, like they own the fucking thing, and they come over all high and mighty and dictatorial; but bless them, they have to get their kicks somewhere. Their insecurity at never really moving outside the safety of the perimeter wire usually manifests itself in an unhelpful, aggressive manner. The default answer is generally ‘no’, regardless of the question.

  As per usual, they were being no help whatsoever in my attempts to get on a C-17 to fly home. Ostensibly, it should have been a straightforward proposition. After all, the Boeing C-17A Globemaster III strategic heavy-lift transporter – to give its proper name – is one of the most modern and capable aircraft in the RAF’s inventory. It’s also by far the biggest. The cargo compartment can accommodate most large wheeled and tracked vehicles, tanks, helicopters such as the Apache, artillery and weapons. Three Bradley armoured vehicles comprise one deployment load on the C-17. The Challenger 2 main battle tank can be carried with other vehicles or it can swallow a Tornado F3 fighter jet. Several flew in and out of Bastion every week and all I wanted was space on one heading home to Brize Norton.

  Again, it should have been easy because the crew area on the C-17 is pretty large too. A staircase leads up to it from the cargo deck and opens into a crew rest area behind the cockpit containing two seats and two full-size bunks, which can be curtained off for privacy. Through a doorway is the flight deck itself, again one of the largest in aviation. Of interest to me was one of the two observers’ seats directly behind each of the pilots’ positions.

  I tried every avenue available from KAF, but the movers blocked my path at every turn, treating me like an idiot and saying things like, ‘Sorry sir, I can’t get you on my aircraft because there’s no room.’ Like one single body and extra kit bag would tip one of the world’s biggest aircraft over its weight limit. In the end, I did what I should have done from the off. I called the duty officer at 99 Squadron in the UK who operate the C-17 and it was sorted. One phone call and the man said yes.

  That said, I hadn’t reckoned on the determination of the movers to fuck things up. I was stood at the ramp down at Bastion, dressed in uniform with my bag all ready to board, when one of the movers told me, ‘Sorry sir, you won’t be able to travel on this aircraft as they are repatriating a UK national who was killed in action last week.’

  That UK national was Captain Jim Philippson.

  ‘I was one of the pilots involved in the mission to bring his body to Bastion last week,’ I tell him.

  The mover’s face fell; it was like someone had pricked a balloon. All the bluster and self-importance seemed to rush out in a puddle on the floor.

  ‘Ah, sorry sir,’ said the REMF. ‘I didn’t realise you were aircrew.’ Like that should have made a difference! I didn’t have time or energy for a fight though. All I wanted now was to get home.

  When the C-17’s pilot walked across the ramp, I recognised him at once. It was Guy Givens who I knew from my days at 101 Squadron at Brize. He took one look at me and smiled.

  ‘Frenchie mate, how are you?’

  ‘I’m good, mate, thanks. Been an interesting tour but I’m looking forward to getting home.’

  ‘Get yourself up to the cockpit then, you can have the jump seat behind me. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right with you.’

  The sense of excitement and apprehension I felt was palpable. After what had been quite a stressful tour, I was going home to Ali and I couldn’t quite get my mind around it. It’s recognised that the guys on the front line need a break between here and home and if they’re lucky they get it in the form of ‘decompression’ – a few days in Cyprus where they get to drink, swim, fight, have barbeques and generally get all the rivalries, resentments and pent-up aggression out of their systems before going home. For everyone else, it’s front line to front room in twenty-four hours or less and it takes some getting used to.

  I must have bored the tits off Guy all the way back, but I don’t think he minded. It’s one of the biggest indicators of how different things were at the beginning. At the time, there were no embedded journalists and almost nothing of what was happening in theatre was getting out. All the information so far had come from private emails between those in theatre and their loved ones at home. Eventually, things leaked out into the media, but at this point the war was really only just starting and, even within the RAF, there wasn’t a great deal of understanding of what it was like, so I was being asked all sorts of questions by the crew.

  I loved that whole trip. One, because I was going home, but also because flying there in the cockpit of an RAF C-17 piloted by a mate is the best way to travel. We chatted, we caught up and then, when we were done, I unrolled my sleeping bag and lay down on a bunk to sleep. I woke up about an hour out of Brize Norton to a cup of steaming hot coffee and a full English breakfast served from the galley. It was the perfect welcome home.

  15

  ANOTHER PERSPECTIVE

  It took me a while to settle after I got back, but you accrue a month or so of leave on Det due to the time you spend being operational, so I was taking things a day at a time and just enjoying being back with Ali.

  After a week or so, I went over to ‘B’ Flight, 27 Squadron. They were due to fly out a few days later to take over from us in theatre. Hannah Brown had been posted to ‘B’ Flight straight from the OCF, so I wanted to see her and give her and her colleagues a heads up on how things really were on Det. It was all pretty informal. As I was back three weeks or so earlier than the rest of my squadron, they invited me over and asked me what the tour had been like. So I pulled up a bar stool and told them. When they left a few days later for the handover for their two-month stint, I felt confident that they’d have an idea of what life on the ground would be like.

  Those in the military outside of the Chinook Force, particularly soldiers, tend to only notice the headline figure of our time on deployment: two months. Their tours last for
six months. Some people see an iniquity there. But those headline figures hide the real truth, which is that while soldiers aren’t liable to deploy for another two years after they return, aircrew deploy every eight months. Basically, we spend four months out of twelve in theatre on a rolling basis. Some have completed eight or nine detachments now – that’s up to eighteen months of one’s life on high-density combat ops in Afghanistan. That said, I still wouldn’t trade with a soldier. They earn every penny they get and more. I have the utmost respect for what they do and the conditions they endure, but I feel a lot safer up in the air flying a Chinook.

  It was early September when Hannah and the rest of the Flight arrived back at RAF Odiham, so after taking leave entitlements and everything else, it was mid-October when I next saw her. By then, much had changed for me. Ali and I had moved into married quarters – a lovely detached house just around the corner from Woodsy. I’d become a dad – Alison gave birth to our son Guy that October – and I’d moved from ‘A’ Flight, 18 Squadron to ‘C’ Flight, 27 Squadron. Although Hannah and I were on different Flights, we were based in the same building, so it wasn’t long before she sought me out to tell me about her Det. This is what she told me…

  ‘We flew out from Brize on July 8th and I flew my first pre-planned operation on the 14th. Craig Wilson did my day and night TQs – they were my first two flights. My third was Operation Augustus just two nights later.

  ‘Operation Augustus was a strike mission with the objective of killing or capturing a Taliban leader who intel said was based in two compounds a few klicks north of Sangin. It was a big op because it was believed that the Taliban commander had a hardcore of about fifty fighters who would fight to the death to protect him, so Lt Col Tootal committed “A” Company and Patrols Platoon. He also used “C” Company who he had to pull out of Gereshk where they were based at the time.

  ‘The plan was to fly in “A” and “C” Companies to assault the compounds and kill or capture the Taliban commander and his fighters. They would then be supported on the ground by Patrols Platoon, 3 Paras’ Mortar Platoon and a company of Canadian infantry mounted in light armoured vehicles to provide a cut-off.

  ‘By the time we arrived, Woodsy and the rest of “A” Flight had amassed over a hundred hours flight time in theatre, so there was obviously a massive amount of experience there compared to what we had having just touched down. So the Brigadier asked Woodsy if “A” Flight would agree to stay on to undertake the mission, mixing some of the 18 Squadron crews with some of us on 27 Squadron who had just arrived. He agreed.

  ‘It was a huge op, using five Chinooks for the insertion, with close air support to be provided by the Apaches, a B-1 bomber and an AC-130 Spectre. Colonel Tootal had convinced the US to provide a couple of Black Hawks which he would use as a Command and Control platform. The insertion would happen in two stages, with three helicopters in the first wave, and two in the second. We’d be really pushing the envelope in terms of power – each Chinook would be carrying forty-odd Paras with all their ammo and individual kit plus a quad bike. Also, due to the resistance that we expected to receive, each cab had a third crewman so that every weapon was manned – an M60 on each door and one on the ramp.

  ‘Nichol Benzie (18 Sqn) was to lead the formation, flying in the No.1 cab with Russ Norman (27 Sqn), and I was earmarked to captain the No.2 cab with Woodsy as my co-pilot. However, due to my lack of experience in theatre, I offered my seat to Glen Militis (27 Sqn), who was supposed to be flying the No.5 cab. I was like, “Come on, it makes sense – I’ve only flown twice since I got here,” and he agreed. So that was No.2 sorted – Glen and Woodsy. Chris Hasler (18 Sqn) was captain on No.3 flying with Adam Thompson (27 Sqn). Nelly Bauser (27 Sqn) was flying No.4 with Jonny Shallcross (18 Sqn) and I would be flying in No.5 with Andy Lamb from 18 Squadron.

  ‘You can’t exactly disguise a nine-ship formation of Apaches, Chinooks and Black Hawks in the middle of the night, but you can try to confuse any potential dickers, so we flew south in the opposite direction of the target for about twenty minutes. As soon as we were over open desert, Andy gave the order for the crewmen to test fire their weapons and then he gave the fire control order. We’d been briefed that there were no friendlies at the HLS; therefore anyone we saw was to be treated as hostile. We were “weapons live” so he authorised the guys to engage as soon as they established a firing point for any incoming fire.

  ‘You know how it’s drummed into us that no battle plan survives the first contact with the enemy? We didn’t even get to first contact before things started unravelling. Colonel Tootal started to receive intel from a Predator UAV that was picking up movement at the grid. The plan relied upon us getting in undetected, so we were flying in a holding pattern away from the HLS while the 3 Para CO decided whether or not the op was a go.

  ‘While this is all going on, I was frantically crunching some numbers because the fuel gauges were showing us with far less fuel than expected. The fact that we were flying at the absolute limit of capacity and the time we’d spent flying a holding pattern had both taken their toll, and I realised we had just eight and a half minutes of fuel left. We needed eight minutes to get back to Bastion, so I told Nichol that we had just thirty seconds of playtime left. Longer than that and something would have to give – the mission, or us reaching Bastion. It was tight.

  ‘Nichol radioed the Apache and put him in the picture: “Either we go now or we’re all going home.” The AH checked out the picture with its thermal camera, picked nothing up and I guess Tootal made the call – it was a go.

  ‘Nichol went in first, and as soon as he made his approach, it all kicked off. Tracer started arcing up towards us and the sky was alive with danger – the glow of red and green tracer, RPGs exploding, Dushka heavy machine-gun rounds. It was absolute mayhem. So much for the surprise – the Taliban were there and they’d known we were coming. We’d been forced into an upwind holding pattern so the noise of five Chinooks flying in circles had carried down to them. Great!

  ‘Once Nichol was committed, so were Woodsy and Chris Hasler – less than three aircraft would have meant the troops in Nichol’s cab would have been completely outnumbered.

  ‘The Apache came over the radio with frantic cries of “Abort! Abort! Abort!” just as we were about to start our approach, so Nelly in No.4 and Andy both heaved on the collective. You should have heard the creaks and groans of the cabs as we demanded more and more power from the overstressed engines. We banked away throwing our Paras around the cabin in the process as they were standing like commuters on a tube train at rush hour.

  ‘Those in the three lead aircraft got out, straight into a wall of fire. There seemed to be firing points everywhere. I looked down and saw tracer streaking towards Nichol’s cab from both sides. All three guns on his aircraft were engaging targets, as were the Paras as they streamed off the ramp. Until they were all clear there was nothing Nichol could do but sit there. Somehow nothing hit his aircraft but, as he took off, his cab became the filling in an RPG sandwich as one shot over his aircraft and another passed just feet below its belly.

  ‘Woodsy’s aircraft was immediately behind and it started taking fire. A hail of bullets streaked along the side, impacting the fuselage; I realised immediately that it was the one I should have been in originally. Poor Glen! He did me a favour by taking my place and got shot up for his trouble! I’m not superstitious and I’d had no premonition of danger or anything like that – it was just the way it worked out. Luckily, Glen didn’t hold it against me, but it was weird seeing it all happen and knowing that I should have been there – it sent a shiver down my spine. One of the Paras on board wasn’t so lucky and took a round straight through his shoulder, but even that wasn’t enough to keep him down. I know these lads are hard, but what the hell do they make them out of? Even after being shot, he still wanted to get out and join his mates in the fight. In the end, an officer had to physically restrain him to prevent him getting off, and order him to return to
Bastion for treatment.

  ‘Chris Hasler was the last one in and he came in fast and steep, pulling up the nose and using the cab’s underside as a brake to scrub off speed. He started taking rounds from firing points and I could see both door guns and the M60 on his ramp firing back at targets through 360°. His troops got off and I think there must have been a breakdown in communication somewhere because as he started to lift, Matt Carter – who was the JTAC for the mission – was still on the ramp with his signaller. Realising that without him the operation would have no close air support, he and his signaller jumped into the darkness from about 15ft as Haz was lifting. They were both carrying about 90lbs of radios and kit and landed on their backs in a ploughed field, winded but otherwise safe. His decision to jump was decisive in the mission’s eventual success.

  ‘Nelly’s cab got away okay but, as we flew away from the area of the landing site, we could see all of the firing points as they engaged Nichol, Glen and Haz’s cabs. Two of my crewmen – Craig Wadeson and Dave Neale – engaged targets on the ground with the M60s. No pun intended, but it was a real baptism of fire.

  ‘Our fuel state was perilous, so we diverted to Gereshk with Nelly to refuel. It was while we were away that Matt Carter managed to gain the initiative for the op which was in danger of getting bogged down before it got under way. He called in support from the AC-130, which is an amazing piece of kit – basically a converted Hercules C-130 with the ability to fly slowly and loiter for extended periods. More importantly, it has massive firepower in the form of 40mm cannon, a 25mm Gatling gun and 40mm and 105mm howitzers.

  ‘Once Matt gave them a grid they were able to see everything through the extensive high-def array of low-light TV and infrared and radar sensors. They told him, “We can see exactly where you’ve deplaned; I can see all enemy firing points. There are four around a machine-gun…”