Sweating the Metal

by Alex Duncan Frenchie

Back at the tent, we pick up with Gavin and Stacey but we’re a lot more subdued. Laughter doesn’t come so readily. 18:30 passes with no shouts so make our way to evening brief. Same as this morning’s, except it’s in the evening! That complete, make our way to dinner with the medics. Halfway through meal our radio crackles alerting us of another shout. We jump up, run through the canteen, climb in our wagons and drive like lunatics to the cab. This time it’s a different ball game as it’s night. Not night at home, with reflected light from 100,000 street lights, cultural lighting, light pollution. Night is night here, and even our NVGs, some of the most advanced military technology in existence, struggle to perform. Sometimes, the best science can offer isn’t enough.

  Again, we’re airborne very quickly. I get initial casualty report over air. One eight-year-old involved in IED strike. No pulse, not breathing. On the way, informed artillery is firing in vicinity of our destination, so I negotiate around it and initiate descent through the darkness into black hole that is the low-level environment. We know the ground’s there, but can’t see it. Eventually mortar illumination shells are fired from destination enabling us to finally see some ground texture 100ft below us. On run in we get another radio call. There’s a second casualty; the child’s father. Once on the ground, only one casualty is brought to us. I radio ground call sign asking about second casualty already knowing the answer. The eight-year-old doesn’t need evacuating as he passed away. We lift and rush back to Bastion. Once again an aircraft with twelve UK military personnel on board is deathly quiet on its return journey.

  Once on the ground, we debrief some of the issues as a crew, I sign the aircraft which served us beautifully throughout the day and night back in, and we make our way to our beds praying for a quiet night. It happens. A relatively good night’s sleep the only saving grace after another difficult day in Helmand.

  41

  DESTINY’S CHILD

  Remember what Woodsy said to me in the immediate aftermath of my return to Bastion, following the attack on Black Cat Two Two? Meeting me off the cab with JP, he’d said, ‘Don’t worry Frenchie, lightning never strikes twice.’ Yeah, right…

  December 15th 2010 was never going to fill me with excitement. Offer most of us a choice of IRT or taskings, and nine times out of ten we’ll take the IRT, thanks. On IRT, there’s never a dull moment, and you feel like you’re making a difference. It’s dynamic and unpredictable – but there’s always the prospect of riding your luck and avoiding fire. Taskings – sure, they’re vital and important, but they just feel routine. And nothing ever happens on a tasking, does it?

  It’s 07:00 at Bastion. I’ve slept reasonably well for here (nobody ever sleeps well in theatre) and having showered, I dress in my uniform and walk out of the tent that’s been my home for the past few weeks. I’m not overly excited about today’s planned tasking, but there’s a definite spring in my step as I think of home and our impending departure from theatre in just a couple of days’ time. The harsh sunlight is blindingly bright after the darkness of the tent, and I squint as I turn left and walk the short distance along the Rola-Trac walkway towards the crew tent. Ah yes, the crew tent. I’m showing my age in Det terms – it’s what used to be the IRT tent, but now serves as a rest area for aircrew before and after sorties. The widescreen TV is still there, along with a selection of newspapers, a console, games etc. And the coffee machine.

  ‘Morning Waldo,’ I say as I walk in. As per usual, Flt Lt Andrew ‘Waldo’ Waldron is early and already has the coffee machine on.

  ‘Morning Frenchie! It’s just brewed and ready to take out,’ he replies, as he pours and hands me a cup. ‘Cheers pal. Shall we?’

  There’s nothing better than walking across to the JOC to plan the day’s formation, with a nice strong coffee. The JOC tent complex is a few steps across the dusty road that runs just outside the crew tent. We walk across to it, shortly followed by Master Aircrewman Mick ‘Fryster’ Fry and Flight Sergeant Dave Wray. The four of us are operating on task line one as formation lead for today’s tasking. Our wingmen, Flt Lt Pete Amstutz and Flt Lt Doug ‘Snoop Dog’ Gardner, both appear a short time after.

  Waldo has been my co-pilot on this Det for a few weeks now. I’ve had him doing most of the flying so that he can develop his flying skills in theatre and come out on our next Det as a Captain. It’s what Nichol did with me on my first Det in 2006, and it’s the best way to gain experience. Waldo’s a very conscientious pilot, straight down the line, and he has a brilliant sense of humour. It’s a pleasure being crewed with him.

  I look at the tasking, which has not changed from the previous night; some kind of plan is already in my head. The J2/J3 (Intelligence/Current Ops) briefs confirm my ideas are viable.

  There are two things that make our mission different. Whereas on all previous Dets, we’ve flown all but the most vital of our sorties by night, we’re flying by day this time. Secondly, and perhaps most controversially, the threat assessment for all HLSs has been downgraded by the powers that be due to ‘lack of enemy activity’. To my mind, this lack of activity reflects the quality of the tactics that we in the Chinook Force employ, rather than a lack of capability in the enemy’s operation. The fact that we have previously flown to the most dangerous landing sites in the wee small hours of the morning to accomplish our taskings was largely down to the simple fact that there was less enemy activity then because Terry Taliban was sound asleep.

  The effect of this downgrading means that sites that were previously designated as safe at night only are now allowed by day. We are told to mitigate the risk so that we don’t fly after 08:30, as the enemy might be up then. Ah yes, that’ll be because Terry Taliban uses an alarm clock that’s set for 08:00. Personally, I’d bet that he gets up when the sun comes up, but what do I know? All we do is cross the wire and face the dangers on a daily basis, whereas the people who come up with these great ideas fly desks instead of cabs and rarely leave their tents.

  The changes have had one other major effect: on some sites, where previously we could only fly with an Apache escort, we can now fly as a pair with two Chinooks providing mutual support for one another. The threat isn’t deemed high enough to warrant wasting Apache hours on escorts. Some said that was fair enough, an opinion that events would soon prove wrong, warranting a U-turn of policy.

  The plan for the day will see both us and our wingman taking underslung loads (USLs) to FOB Kalaang on the southern patrol base line in Nadi Ali South. Following that, there’s a troop move from Bastion to PB3 and PB2 for a single cab, which Pete and Snoop will undertake while we provide mutual support. Then we’ll fly to a grid 3km south-east of PB3, where we will drop off a USL of helium gas bottles. From there we’ll recover to Bastion, where we’ll pick up a whole lot of our colleagues and fly them to KAF, their last stop before flying home. These guys are surplus and need to be out of the way as space is limited at Bastion. This is the end of our tour and 27 ‘A’ Flight have started to replace us.

  FOB Kalaang is a site that, had we been flying yesterday, we’d have visited by night only. PB2 and PB3 are both locations that we’ve previously only flown to under escort by the Apache, and the grid we are to deliver the helium bottles to is right in the middle of the Green Zone – again, not a place we’d normally fly to at midday. Still, we can only play with the hand we’re dealt; it’s time to brief the crew…

  ‘Right Pete, for Kalaang we’ll approach from the west with a small split, where we’ll drop each load one after the other so that we don’t expose ourselves too long in the area. For PB2 and PB3, I’ll remain in the overhead at FL60 2km to the west; you’ll run in from the NW to PB3 and then direct north to PB2. You then go back to Bastion, I’ll complete this other job with the Lynx and we’ll meet up at Bastion to transit back to KAF with our engineers and aircrew. Happy?’

  It’s all good, so I carry on with the rest of the brief, covering admin points for the formation, Rules of Engagement, emergencies, frequencies etc. Everyone happy, we walk out to
the cabs, spin up and hover-taxi to the load park where we collect our USLs.

  ‘Bastion Tower, Ultimate Two One Flight, formation consisting of Ultimate Two One and Ultimate Two Two. Four POB on each, ready for departure from load park through HALS 19, no southern cross required.’

  ‘Ultimate Two One Flight, Bastion Tower, clear for take-off load park, wind is two-two-zero at seven knots.’

  ‘Ultimate Two One Flight clear for take-off load park,’ I call.

  Waldo already has us in the hover, our four-and-a-half-tonne load of food and ammo destined for Kalaang hanging like a pendulum from the centre hook on the cab’s belly. He gently transitions forward as I scan the engine instruments and monitor the increase in temperature caused by the additional power required to accommodate the weight of the load; it’s vital we stay within limits. Everything looks good, so he accelerates smoothly from the load park, turns right and flies down the HALS heading south.

  Our Apache escort for the first run is already ahead of us, where he has established comms with the unit receiving our load at Kalaang.

  ‘Ugly Five One, Ultimate Two One Flight, inbound Kalaang in figures ten, request HLS brief.’

  ‘Ultimate Two One Flight, HLS is clear and secure. Route west to west initially with a right-hand turn to the south on short finals.’

  It goes like a dream; we’re in and out with no problems. It’s on the way back to Bastion that my ears suddenly prick up as I hear the Apache talking to a JTAC on the ground saying, ‘Yeah, Widow Six Three, Ugly Five One, can you confirm the grid for the small arms fire at the Chinook?’

  I look at Waldo. ‘Fucking great. So much for their “08:30 will be safe” bollocks.’

  ‘Ugly Five One, Widow Six Three, both call signs were engaged on the way in and out by bursts of SAFIRE, we think 2km north-west our location.’

  ‘Widow Six Three, that’s copied. We’ll investigate now.’

  ‘Don’t you just love taking fire first thing in the morning?’ asks Mick.

  We land on at Bastion for a suck of gas and pick up our three-tonne load of helium bottles in a USL net, while Pete and Doug collect their pax from the passenger handling facility. In a replay of our earlier lift, Waldo transitions away from Bastion to the south, this time turning south-east and heading towards PB3.

  We climb and I establish comms with the JTAC controlling PB3 to get his HLS brief and instructions, while Pete and Doug maintain low level and take a longer route. This is to ensure their arrival coincides with the end of my call to the JTAC, so I can relay the details to Pete before he immerses himself in the ‘low-level, dirty dash, initial point to target run.’ As he starts his run in, we follow at height to ensure his safety.

  It’s paramount that responsibility for providing cover to Pete’s cab is passed from Mick to Dave and back again whenever each one reaches the limit of his lookout and arc of fire. Pete’s aircraft will remain in sight at all times and it’s technically a very difficult exercise in CRM; however, not for this crew. We’ve been together in theatre for almost two months by now, so it’s all well rehearsed.

  Suddenly my radio crackles.

  ‘Ultimate Two One, Widow Six Five, your wingman Ultimate Two Two is taking SAFIRE north-west of our location. Multiple firing points.’

  I relay the message but Pete has already heard and taken evasive action. He makes it into PB3 without getting hit, where he unloads one lot of pax and collects another for the sortie to PB2.

  I wonder how we’re going to get out of this. Pete has two options – he can carry on to PB2 or cancel the serial, but even if he does that, he still has to fly through the contact zone to get out. I have an idea. I know that Apaches are regularly in the area providing air support for ground units so I throw it open…

  ‘Any Ugly call sign, this is Ultimate Two One.’ I wait for a few seconds and I’m rewarded with a response.

  ‘Ultimate Two One, Ugly Five Three, pass message.’ Result!

  ‘Ugly Five Three, Ultimate Two One formation, flight of two consisting of Ultimate Two One currently in the overhead at PB3 and Ultimate Two Two at PB3. Two Two was contacted between PB2 and PB3. Request assistance and escort from PB3 to PB2 if you have the fuel to ensure his protection.’

  ‘Ugly Five Three, that’s no problem. Your location in figures five.’

  I call Pete to give him a heads up, ‘Ultimate Two Two from Two One, I have Ugly Five Three inbound in five minutes to provide you with escort for the next serial if you are happy to continue.’ Of course, Pete’s more than happy. Sorted!

  Ugly Five Three arrives on station just as Pete’s ready to lift and bizarrely that’s when the contact stops. Cheeky fuckers are happy to take us on when we’re by ourselves but they’re not so brave when the extra muscle turns up. Pete flies on to PB2 without trouble and completes his mission, although I’m not happy – that all-too-familiar feeling returns, as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I sense that we’re not out of the woods yet. That’s twice we’ve been under enemy fire now in the space of just an hour and a half.

  I push the sense of impending trouble to the back of my mind – there’s nothing I can do and we still have to deliver our USL. Waldo flies us across the Green Zone at 3,000ft and we position to the east of the Helmand River to start our run in to target.

  ‘Frenchie, do you fancy flying this one?’ asks Waldo. ‘I’ve flown it all day yesterday and today.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, trying my level best not to push him too much the other way in case he changes his mind. I want to get some stick time; I’ve missed handling.

  ‘Sure, take it. You have control.’

  ‘I have control, thanks Bud. Right, next pre-landers and hook checks please.’

  Waldo runs through the pre-landing checks to prepare the cab for the drop-off while we’re still at height, meaning we won’t need to do it in the more dangerous environment at low level where we’ll likely need all our concentration.

  I gently manoeuvre the aircraft down from 3,000ft approximately two miles east of the Helmand Desert, giving us approximately five miles to run in at low level.

  Waldo talks me on to target, giving me the headings I need, pointing out features on the ground and counting down to the HLS. Meanwhile, Dave Wray has his head in the hatch looking at the load while giving me regular updates on its behaviour, which is different at speed and in the higher-density air at low level. Mick Fry stands sentinel on the starboard Crowd Pleaser. All the crew are working in unison, each of us engaged in a different task, all of which are vital to the success of the mission. Remove just one of us and it all goes tits up.

  ‘Three miles to run,’ calls Waldo as I descend over the wadi on the eastern bank of the Helmand River.

  ‘How can somewhere so pretty be so shit?’ I ask myself.

  We cross the river. ‘Two miles to go, 12 o’clock, you should be visual with the grid on the nose.’ Good, I’m on target. My spine is tingling for some reason. I remember this feeling…

  ‘One and a half miles to go,’ calls Waldo, as we start to cross the Green Zone with its abundant crops, trees and compounds – all of which provide boundless cover for Taliban forces.

  Straight ahead, I see a motorbike. It’s stationary and I see two fighting-age males dressed all in black looking at us; no sign of weapons though. The tingling sensation increases; all my senses are on overdrive. I put my thumb over the USL release switch on the cyclic just in case. We fly over the motorbike.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  ‘Fucking hell,’ shouts Waldo.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ asks Mick, sticking his head in the cockpit.

  BANG!

  Almost simultaneously, there’s a huge explosion just outside the port door, which caves in under the force of some kind of blast, shards of paint and metal hitting Waldo and Mick in the face. The aircraft lurches to the right.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ I think. ‘Not again.’

  I throw the cyclic hard left and hit the US
L release button; immediately, the load pings away and becomes a dumb bomb, falling to earth and who gives a fuck where it lands. My only priority is the cab and my crew; I need lightness and manoeuvrability.

  I hear Waldo on the radio: ‘CONTACT, CONTACT, Ultimate Two One, small arms hit 3km south-east of PB3. Turning east. Wait out.’ Good lad, I didn’t even have to prompt him. In fact, I couldn’t have done it myself – I have problems of my own to deal with.

  ‘Shit, we’ve lost an engine!’ I say as I watch the N2 drop like a stone. I look at the torque. ‘What the fuck? Shit, we’ve lost both…’ This all happens in a millisecond. ‘Hang on, we’re still flying, we still have power. Fuck it, turning left,’ I say, manoeuvring out of the engagement zone and shrinking in my seat to make myself as small a target as possible. The lead’s flying and I don’t want to get hit.

  We take another round in the engine.

  I get the aircraft to the eastern edge of the Helmand River and we’re still flying. I pull power to get further away from the enemy. Height is safety. ‘Right, time to assess what’s going on,’ I say to myself.

  I’m struggling. Nothing makes sense. We’ve taken rounds, that much I know; an RPG has exploded outside the port door; we have no torque on either engine, which indicates how hard the engine transmission is working. I scan the engine instruments checking the Ts and Ps. We’ve got an N1 reading for both engines, meaning there’s power going in, but the N2, which measures power coming out, reads zero for the No.1 engine, meaning its turbine isn’t turning. What the fuck? It doesn’t make sense.

  All the pressures on the five gearboxes are showing zero PSI, but the caution advisory panel is clear; there are no warnings for low pressure in any of the gearboxes. The fuel gauge is showing 9,900 – the needle’s spinning like my bedroom after a night on the lash. Bollocks! I can’t even tell if we have a fuel leak. The list goes on…

  I need to get a grip; first things first. ‘Guys, check yourselves. Are we all ok?’ They all check in with no injuries reported. ‘Okay, let’s have a look outside to ensure we’re not pissing fuel.’ Both Mick and Dave look and confirm we’re not. I explain what we’ve got at the front. Everyone is baffled, but we all concur that some of the malfunctions must be gauges or sensors affected by whatever hit us.