Anyway, as expected, we saw a hail of 30mm cannon fire from the AH and we were about to move up again thinking they’d finished, when they radioed us to say, ‘Yeah, test firing’s good. Further test fire coming up. Standby…’ and Rich and I looked at one another like, ‘What the fuck?!’ just as they fired rockets at the fucking desert floor! That one thing highlights the dichotomy between them and us from a military perspective – a lot of what they do is so much more laid-back than for us. I guess it’s largely economy-driven; they have so much more money to spend on defence than us, and it shows in the way that they can afford to be so profligate with ordnance. On the other hand, they have very little autonomy in how they operate – micromanagement seems to be the order of the day, whereas in the Army or RAF we are generally given a task or objective and it’s up to us as junior commanders as to how that is achieved.
They were great to work with though, because when we were down at low level, they’d be there with us. When we got down on the deck for the run in, whether that was at 50ft or even 10ft, they’d be right there in the dirt with us on our wing. British Apache crews tend to sit up at around 2,000ft and a couple of klicks back, which gives them a degree of protection while providing them with an overview of the battle area or HLS, but these two guys, wherever we were, they were on our wing all the way. They’re good people – and they have a surprising number of female Apache pilots, something our own Forces could benefit from.
August 18th saw us back on the HRF/IRT cycle back at Bastion. It felt good to be back doing some proper work again. We all know that taskings are vital to the operation, but I think most of us felt more of a sense of achievement on the IRT because we could see first-hand that we were making a difference.
While we were on HRF, Sir Richard Dannatt, the then Chief of the General Staff (CGS), was undertaking a tour of Helmand Province. Now Dannatt was a really, really good bloke, a proper soldiers’ soldier, and the lads really liked and respected him. He was like a breath of fresh air compared to most of the faceless generals who’d preceded him and he garnered a lot of respect from the rank and file when he wilfully stepped the wrong side of the political divide as far as the PM and his Cabinet were concerned, by refusing to back the Government line. Dannatt infuriated Gordon Brown who, as the media have widely reported, was never the military’s greatest fan, by speaking out on everything from our strategy in Iraq and Afghanistan to soldiers’ pay and conditions. He was refreshingly honest, spoke it as he saw it and was respected and well liked by all of us.
He was at Lashkar Gah, where I assumed he’d been taken the day before by one of the cabs on tasking. We were tasked to pick him up and take him to Shorabak, which was the base where all the ANA were trained. After dropping him there, we did some resupply taskings around the province until it was time to collect the CGS.
His easy manner and natural charm were evident the minute we picked him up; he spent a few minutes chatting with the crewmen and then came straight to the front and sat on the jump seat.
‘Welcome aboard Eurotrash, sir,’ I said. He laughed but, perhaps wisely, didn’t ask any more. ‘I assume you’ve been to the front several times now, but have you ever flown to KAF at low level?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Would you like to?’
‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘Assuming it doesn’t impact your tasking.’
‘It’s the end of a long day; it’ll keep me awake if anything, sir! What we’ll do then is take you down south from Lashkar Gah where there are some brilliant valleys running west to east in the middle of the Red Desert. Fancy some of that?’
‘Sounds great!’
So that’s what we did. We were flying as a pair with Morris and JP; we dropped down to 50ft and flew across the Red Desert to KAF.
‘So sir, what’s going on with regard to new aircraft? Are we going to get Blackhawks or anything else decent?’
‘In short, sadly not. I wanted Blackhawks – far superior aircraft and much more capable platform for what we need – but we got Merlin instead. If I had my choice, it would be Blackhawk and Chinook all the way, nothing else. No Sea King, no Merlin, no Pumas.’
It should be about the right tool for the job but, more often than not, it’s about what is politically expedient and beneficial to those who make the decisions. It’s realpolitik in action again but, as we’re British, we take what we’re given graciously, and somehow still more or less manage to do what is asked of us.
He was very gracious and appreciative when we arrived back at KAF and didn’t rush off, but hung around to chat. He took a genuine interest on the flight back, asking lots of questions, listening and making notes. I found him to be a thoroughly nice chap, really easy to talk to, candid, open and with a manner and approachability that belied his rank as head of the Army. After saying goodbye, I felt genuinely enlightened about a lot of things that were happening in theatre – and in the Army itself. I think he’s a great bloke, really interesting. His retirement from the military was the Army’s – and the Government’s – loss.
He’ll be missed.
22
THE FOG OF WAR
In war, there’s neither truth nor lies. It’s not all packaged up and chronological, with answers and successful outcomes to nicely timelined battles. The understanding, order and control – that all comes later, when the exhibitions of photographers’ despatches have taken place, the newspaper and magazine articles have been published and the books by those who were there have been researched, written and reviewed.
War is dynamic, disordered and chaotic. Information and intelligence is king, but they are scarce commodities at the time and valueless in the aftermath. War is confusion. You get snippets. Things get misinterpreted. Viewed through the lens of hindsight, some events appear ludicrous, but at the time they are impossible to interpret in any way other than how they appear. You can only act according to the information you have available at the time.
It took the best part of three years to make sense of the incident that took place in Helmand Province on the evening of Thursday August 23rd. After all the interviews, the investigations, the hearings and coroners’ courts, what we know now is that three British soldiers – Privates Aaron McClure, Rob Foster and John Thrumble from 1st Battalion The Royal Anglian Regiment – were killed in a ‘blue-on-blue’ incident. It took place after their platoon came under heavy fire from a determined Taliban force during a fighting patrol to disrupt enemy activity north-west of Kajaki. During the ensuing firefight, air support was requested from two US F15 aircraft, but the 500lb bomb dropped to take out the enemy positions some 500 yards away struck the compound where the three soldiers and their section were located instead. Privates McClure, Foster and Thrumble were killed instantly and two others soldiers were injured in the incident. It later transpired that the platoon’s forward air controller gave the Americans the correct eight-digit coordinate for the airstrike but, deafened by enemy mortars, he replied ‘Roger’ after they were incorrectly repeated back to him.
Rich and I were at Camp Bastion with Bob and Jim on IRT/HRF rotation that day. We’d been in the JOC when we became aware that something had happened – people were running backwards and forwards way more than usual. There were worried expressions and people went about their tasks with a noticeable sense of urgency. Information was scarce, and what there was was confused. All we knew at the time was that there’d been an ‘incident’ near Kajaki involving The Royal Anglians. We knew there were multiple casualties, but at that stage we didn’t know the ‘who, what, how or why’.
The JOC was right next to The Royal Anglians’ control centre, so we could see how everything was ramping up, and one of the hardest things to witness was the sense of panic in the eyes of their officers. They knew at the time they were looking at three missing from 7 Platoon B (Suffolk) Company – a major loss by any yardstick.
They wanted to scramble us to take some troops up to the area to search for survivors and to recover the injured,
but it was really difficult for them to get the order for us to lift because the command structure had just changed. Although we were based out of Bastion, the Chinooks and Apaches were a NATO/ISAF asset, and control had switched to HQ Regional Command South (RC South) under the command of a NATO 2-star General at KAF. Everything now had to be cleared by JHF (A) at Kandahar but they, in turn, had to go up the line to HQ RC South for that clearance before coming back to us. It was a crazy, convoluted and time-consuming chain of command.
We were really desperate to get going and JHF (A) at Bastion wanted us airborne, but it wasn’t their call any longer, so it was hell waiting around to get authorisation to lift. The order had to be thought through and there was a process to follow. It’s about assessing where the incident is – do they scramble an aircraft from Bastion or KAF? What else was going on? What were the risk factors to the aircraft and crew? For the commanders, it was all about balance.
The biggest frustration of coming under RC South and its much bigger command structure was that we couldn’t just go. It was the worst feeling for us – we knew that our boys were bleeding somewhere on the ground; they were suffering and they needed us. We had aircraft and crews ready to go, and we knew that sometimes we were the thin line between living and dying. Every second counts – it’s that simple, and when you’re that close to it, you think, ‘Fuck it, let’s just go and get them.’ If it was down to us, we’d lift every time as soon as the call came, so we couldn’t always understand why it took the higher-ups so long to make a decision.
As if things weren’t tense enough, suddenly we heard that The Royal Anglians’ control centre had received an emergency signal from Private Rob Foster’s Bowman radio. Private Foster was one of the three missing guys, so they’re thinking that at least one of the guys was still alive; maybe he was alone and had the Taliban running after him? You can imagine the pandemonium. The wheel had come off and it was all hands to the pump.
While we were waiting, we noticed a Squadron Leader who we knew. He was working as Air Liaison officer to some of our forces in theatre who were mentoring the ANA.
While waiting for the order to lift, Rich and I had been looking at the plot ahead; we were quite close to the end of Det and had some concerns about being able to get a flight out of Bastion so we could get back to KAF and on to a TriStar home. The Squadron Leader overheard us talking and said to us, ‘Listen boys, if you are worried about missing your transport back to KAF we might be able to help you out if our Herc is operating in the area and has the time to do a detour.’
I looked at Rich; Rich looked at me and we said, ‘Er… thanks.’ I was hoping we’d never have to call in this favour because I knew there had to be a quid pro quo; the guy must have some kind of an agenda. We didn’t have to wait long.
‘Look, I’ve got a tasking for my boys in our Herc but it looks like we’re not going to get supported by the Chinook force on this op. I need to insert 54 ANA soldiers to a location near Lashkar Gah.’
Rich and I had originally been tasked to help out on that mission, but events had since moved on and our priority had to be the rescue of Robert Foster. I didn’t have a problem helping the Squadron Leader out and I didn’t like the way the mission had been planned so that would have to be changed but – personal Herc to KAF or not – the missing soldier had to take precedence.
One of my concerns about the plan was that the Squadron Leader wanted to use two Chinooks to insert his 54 troops into Lash late at night but that was never going to happen – do two moves and you might tell the enemy you’re coming. So I suggested that we move the whole lot in a single cab. He didn’t think it was possible so I said we’d look at the figures. Rich and I worked the numbers and logistically, it was possible – we’d have to have some of them standing, but I felt more confident about it because we wouldn’t be flying into fire. The lift was into a ‘safe’ HLS so I thought if we fuelled light – about 800kgs – it might be a goer.
The Squadron Leader’s Herc was supposed to be flying down from Kabul to land on a dust strip alongside FOB Phoenix – an ANA base – pick up the troops and bring them to Bastion where we’d be waiting with our rotors turning ready to pick them up and fly them to Lash. 800kgs of fuel gave us enough for 15 minutes of loiter and the flight there and back so I went to work out how we could slot this in.
By now, the order to lift had been cleared by RC South and the plan was for us to fly to FOB Robinson at Sangin, collect two companies’ worth of troops and drop them in Kajaki to look for Private Foster and return them all to Bastion. By the time we got back, the sun would be coming up so I told the Squadron Leader that we’d drop the troops at Kajaki and instead of waiting for them, we’d fly back to Bastion to refuel to 800kgs, do his job, refuel again at Bastion and then fly up to Kajaki for the extraction. It would be tight, but we’d get everything done.
The best laid plans of mice and men eh? As it was, there were so many people for us to move when we got to FOB Rob that the night flew past in a miasma of lifts: Bastion to Sangin to Kajaki to Sangin to Kajaki to Bastion to FOB Rob to Kajaki to FOB Rob to Kajaki and back to Bastion. In the end, we’d dropped over 200 troops at Kajaki, and they were fanning out in the search for Private Foster. Everything would be done to find and rescue him; no man left behind.
When I’m on HRF or IRT, I always make a point of briefing the engineers on what we’ve done – as well as keeping the guys enthused, it also boosts morale when they know that what they’re doing is worthwhile. There’s nothing worse than being in the dark and I think it’s vital that whenever they take the ropes off an aircraft, or refuel it in double-quick time while the rotors are turning, they know that they’re helping someone else to live because they’re doing their job so quickly. We landed back at Bastion with about 5-600kgs of fuel left so I stressed to the engineers that I wanted 800kgs total – no more – and I did it three times because you tell one guy who tells someone else it’s 800 and he tells someone else and suddenly, you’ve got 1,800kgs and that extra ton of fuel translates to 5% less power available.
Rich and I then strolled back to the tent to see what was going on and as we walked in I could see the Squadron Leader sat in a chair looking pretty gloomy. German and I walked past him and went to talk to one of the radio guys.
‘Any news on the Herc for the next mission?’ I asked him. ‘Is it still on time?’
Then another guy walked past us and in a completely matter of fact tone, said, ‘The Herc crashed’ and carried on walking.
There was a moment where time sort of stopped. Rich and I were stood there trying to process this but it just wasn’t computing – it’s not exactly the sort of thing that happens every day.
‘Come back here! What do you mean the fucking Herc crashed?’ I said.
And he said, ‘Yes sir, it crashed.’
We were firing questions at him like there was no tomorrow. ‘Crashed? How? What, did it fall out of the sky, was it shot down, any casualties, what the fuck’s going on?’
‘There are no casualties sir,’ he said. ‘We think it landed a bit too heavily as they were going to pick up your passengers.’
‘So the mission’s off, then?’ we said together.
Maybe it was the stress of the evening, the worry over Private Foster and the other missing lads but Rich and I had to walk outside the tent; after everything that had happened I think we both just needed a breath of fresh air. Those ten minutes outside made a world of difference though and we both felt better for the break.
We went back into the JOC. JP was talking about waking up the IRT crew if they found Private Foster, so I told him, ‘Look, we’re not that tired. I know we’re going to push the limit, but if you wake up the IRT crew, you’re starting their clock now which means they’ll have to go into rest earlier and then you’ll have to bring in another crew, which doesn’t make sense. Just keep us on and we’ll see it through. Hopefully they’ll find him and then we can move all the troops back in.’ As it was, we’d been on duty s
ince 07:00 the previous morning, although we hadn’t been called out – we’d spent most of the day lazing around, so we weren’t inside-out with tiredness. JP considered it and agreed, so we stayed on.
Sadly, a short time later the news came in that everyone was dreading. They’d found Private Foster’s body with those of his dead colleagues, Privates McClure and Thrumble, under the rubble of the building they’d been taking cover in when the JDAM hit. They wouldn’t have known anything about it.
The worst twist of all was that the Bowman radio that Rob Foster had been carrying survived the blast intact and it’s thought that a piece of rubble flicked the switch that sent out the emergency signal; he’d been dead all along. We were completely gutted by that and, as you might imagine, the mood in the JOC was very sombre. But there was work to be done – the bodies all needed recovering and the troops we’d moved up to search for Private Foster would all need moving back to their original positions.
The full details of what happened took almost three years to come out, so all that was known at the time was that the guys had been killed as the result of a JDAM dropped by a US fast jet. As you might imagine, emotions were running pretty high. Later that morning, we were joined in the JOC by the crew of a US Pave Hawk; they wanted to be part of any attempt to recover the bodies because they felt a sense of responsibility. Obviously, because of what had happened, you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife in the tent when they came in. There were a lot of heads down including, I’m ashamed to say, mine. It was difficult not to feel angry towards them at the time. Whenever there’s a blue-on-blue, it always seems like it’s the Americans dropping the bombs and our boys on the end of it, never the other way around.
Sweating the Metal Page 17
