by Ed Macy
There was no made-up road from the Ops tent to the helicopter LS; it was just a stretch of desert that now resembled a mogul field. Each time a heavy vehicle transited round the outside of the camp, it carved an ever-deepening track into the compacted sand. It made for one hell of a ride.
We’d debated the best way to cross this sea of ruts last night.
‘I’ve done shit loads of off-road driving,’ I boasted. ‘Jungles, deserts, savannah, bush, you name it. The best way across is to go max chat.’
Jon took a more methodical approach. ‘If you go really slowly the vehicle will last longer.’ He had a calmer variation on most themes. As an ex-tanky, he didn’t fancy fixing another vehicle in a hurry.
I disagreed. ‘A fast rattle and a few sharp bumps are kinder to the vehicle than huge changes of angle or bashes against the rocks-not to mention the risk of getting stuck.’
Jon’s min-speed theory was definitely not going to be tested on this occasion because 3 Para were being shot to bits by the Taliban and we needed to expedite.
Unfortunately, months of traffic had turned the fine sand to talcum powder and the breeze was coming from behind us at its usual 10-15 mph. We needed to drive faster than the wind to prevent being engulfed. Driving blind, unable to see the end of the bonnet when there was around 200 million pounds’ worth of helicopters strewn all over the HLS, was unthinkable. So was driving over two-foot-high speed bumps at 20 mph, but the choice was simple: hold on.
The Land Rover came to a sharp but spongy stop. We waited a couple of seconds for the dust to settle before running the final forty metres to the Apaches.
I took the first available opportunity to cough up a lungful of dust. The light wind blew some of the remaining powder from my body, but it was too hot to cool me down.
1308 hours
Taff, the Arming and Loading Point Commander, was ready and waiting. The ALPC was in charge of the Apache all the time it was on the ground, even when the aircrew were onboard. It was his responsibility to load and unload all its weapons and fuel, and to check that the aircraft was safe during starting and shutdown. The helicopter was under his safe and ever-watchful eye until he disconnected his intercom lead from the wing.
Taff had a big smile, an eight-man arming team, many thousands of cannon rounds, hundreds of rockets, over twenty missiles, two Apache pilots and over forty million pounds’ worth of helicopter under his command and control. It was a lot of responsibility for a corporal who got paid the same as our squadron clerk.
‘All the blanks are out and the tee-fifty pin is stowed, sir.’
The small metal T50 pin sat under a cover on the Apache’s nose, just in front of the co-pilot gunner’s window. It had a long red and white flag attached to make sure we didn’t take off with it still in place. With the pin removed, the yellow-and-black, dog-bone shaped initiation device-the same as the ones in both cockpits-was automatically armed. Their job was to initiate the detonation cord threaded round the side windows, blasting both canopies fifty metres. In an emergency, it would be Taff’s job to initiate the explosion if we couldn’t.
Billy yelled his thanks.
‘I’m going in the front, Ed-jump in and get her started.’
Billy began to run round the Apache checking that all the blanks that kept dust and debris from every orifice had been removed and she was ready to fly.
I was still trying to take in what he’d said. We had fully briefed the mission, monitored whatever we could of the battle and authorised the flight, gearing everything towards me being in the front seat as the gunner and commander, and Billy in the back seat as the pilot and captain.
Every military flight required prior authorisation signed by both the aircraft captain and the authorising officer. It declared the exact conditions of the flight: which Apache was being flown, the flight date, who was captain, who was in which seat, which survival jacket they were wearing for escape and evasion purposes, the ETD and the ETA. It then outlined the mission: takeoff location, route, landing location, mission number, outline mission details, any limitations (like the minimum height), and if there were any fuel restrictions. If any of these details were altered, the authorising officer had to be informed and the authorising sheet amended before the flight.
I was puzzled by the late change, but the flight was on Billy’s authorisation as he was captain. I wasn’t in a position to order him into the back seat as briefed. I could have refused to fly until we went back to Plan A or changed our authorisation-but the time for that had long since passed. I wasn’t being anal. If we got shot down, the authorisation sheet would wrongly identify which of us was where-and that could have serious repercussions in the post-crash, escape and evasion phase.
I knew Billy would have some reasonable justification-but that didn’t stop me wondering if he just wanted to go in the front so he could do the shooting. Either way, there was no time to argue. We needed to get off the ground asap, then tell Ops and have the appropriate discussion when we got back.
It was only early summer, but the weather was unbelievably hot and taking its toll on our troops. Everyday tasks appeared a hundred times more difficult and ten times slower to perform. The sun only seemed to have one goal-to punish us for being somewhere we couldn’t call home.
My combats were already damp with sweat and clung uncomfortably to my body. As I climbed up the blisteringly hot skin of the starboard side of the aircraft I noticed that Billy was also struggling. Grape-sized beads of sweat tumbled down his face, which was contorted with concentration.
I felt much older than my forty years in this heat, but my brain felt like an eighteen-year-old’s, buzzing with adrenalin and fired up by the prospect of the impending battle. I knew Billy felt the same; we didn’t need to discuss it. We were both WO1s and had a shitload of military experience between us.
656 Squadron Army Air Corps was the first and currently the only Apache squadron in the British Forces capable of deploying to a combat zone. We lived to outwit the enemy and survive to fight another day. It was utterly addictive and nothing could compare to it. At that moment I genuinely believed it would be better to die today at the hands of the Taliban than to rot into old age, swapping war stories in my retirement home.
Today would be fun.
I heaved open the door and clicked it into place above the entrance to the rear cockpit. I stretched across, inserted the ignition key and twisted it to On.
The beast began to stir as it sucked life from the battery and the relays kicked over. The Up Front Display sparked up and confirmed that there was full fuel-no faults so far.
The UFD also had a digital clock fed by two GPSs:
13:10:08…13:10:09…13:10:10…
LATE
SUNDAY, 4 JUNE 2006
1310 hours local
CO 3 Para lands in his Chinook at the now quiet and well-protected target compound. He orders Patrols Platoon to get out of the close country and move south-west to more open ground where they can employ their .50 cals without the restrictions of alleyways and orchards.
Still kneeling beside the cockpit, I bellowed, ‘Pylons…stabilator…APU clear?’
We were now officially late. I hoped 3 Flight could push their fuel a bit longer.
Taff checked there was no one near the weapons pylons, the slab-like stabilator, or within range of the hot exhaust gases the Auxiliary Power Unit would be spitting out very shortly.
In his broad Welsh accent he reported back, ‘Pylons, stabilator and APU clear-clear to start the APU.’
The APU was the Apache’s third engine, only used to get all the systems up and running and to provide compressed air with which to start the main engines.
Back in the UK it used to take us about an hour to start an Apache and be ready to taxi. It could take as little as forty-five minutes if you cut corners and all went well. Out here, in a rush, on a good day, with no snags and if the TADS cooled quickly enough, it could be done in as little as twenty minutes, but between thirty and forty
was more usual. With the APU running, to all intents and purposes the Apache was ready to go. We could sort out any problems and get the TADS and PNVS ice cold so it could see properly. All we needed to do then was switch on the main engines and pull power-a two-minute job.
Stretching back across the cockpit I lifted a small clear cover and pushed the recessed button beneath it. The APU was startled into life. Within a few seconds the acronym on the button glowed green, and it was soon screaming away at full power.
I flipped my helmet onto my head, making sure my ears weren’t folded, and then buttoned the chinstrap tight. A bent ear now would drive me to distraction later.
I grimaced as the internal harness pushed down on the weeping egg on the top of my head.
I dragged my life-support jacket from my seat and pulled it on. It felt cumbersome and tight as I zipped it up, and became even more uncomfortable when I slipped a triangular armoured plate into the sheath on the front.
The ‘chicken plate’ was designed to shield the vital organs within the chest cavity from bullets and shrapnel. As I pulled up the outer zip holding it in place, it pressed heavily on my bladder, making me even more uncomfortable and irritable than before.
It fitted so tightly that it was impossible to take an extra-deep breath. But if it were slacker it would become a snag hazard if I had to be dragged from the cockpit in an emergency. I tried to look on the bright side: it would stop my organs spilling out if I were shot. The pressure would stem the flow of blood and keep me conscious for a few more valuable seconds.
The heat was getting to me good style; I could actually smell it. The cockpit stank like a workshop. The wiring, glues, resins, metals and a whole host of other materials came under immense temperatures in the glass cocoon.
I took hold of the grab handles above the seat and pulled myself inside, arching my back so I didn’t catch the magazine jutting from my stubby carbine clipped to the right side of the seat.
I adjusted the position of the pistol strapped to my right thigh and began to clip on the five-point harness that would save my life in the event of a crash. You couldn’t help but feel a moment of omnipotence in the rear seat of an Apache on operations-master of a £46 million boy’s toy with everything you needed at your fingertips, elevated above your surroundings, looking down on everyone working their arses off to get you into the air.
1313 hours
‘Bastard!’ I let go of the cyclic stick and winced.
I made a mental note for the second time in as many weeks: do not touch black objects in the Apache until you’ve put on your fucking gloves. To add insult to injury I’d smacked my funny-bone on the carbine magazine as I pulled away. Taff grinned like a maniac and held up his hand. He sported a cracker of a blister on his palm that made mine look pathetic.
I strapped my black brain to my left thigh and opened it to read the A5 mission information sheet. The brain also contained vital operating information. Not everything could be committed to memory.
I grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, ready to scribble vital grids in the heat of battle.
The web between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand had whitened; I could already see the beginnings of a blister. I wondered what temperature the cyclic must have been after baking in the midday sun.
The heat in the cockpit was still insufferable. Every breath seared my nasal passages. It was the hottest part of the day; the sun sat directly above me and beat down through the cockpit glass, turning it into a pressure cooker.
Within a matter of seconds, the inside of my helmet was saturated with sweat; it gathered in rivulets beneath my browpad and ran into my eyes and down my nose before cascading onto the front of my survival jacket.
My eyes stung like hell, but there was no point in wiping it away. It would instantly replenish itself, and my hands were too busy sweeping around the cockpit, getting this highly complex flying computer up and running and ready for takeoff.
Taff firmly closed the cockpit door and I switched the air conditioning to fifteen degrees. It was a constant battle to bring the ambient temperature down a single degree. There was a lot of metal radiating a great deal of heat.
1315 hours
Patrols Platoon come under fire as they attempt to set off once more. 3 Flight continue in support. No sooner have they started firing than Patrols Platoon break clear and begin their move to safety again.
We spent the next fifteen minutes getting all the systems up and running. We didn’t need to speak to each other. Our hands were a blur as they moved around the plethora of switches, buttons, levers and controls.
On this occasion our Apache had started swiftly and with no snags, but Nick and Jon were having severe comms problems. They could only get a single inter-aircraft radio working, which fell well short of our normal four.
In the mission critical equipment section of today’s briefing we’d stated that a minimum of two radios were required for IRT/HRF, but it wasn’t like they could just conjure up a spare. We only had four Apaches in-theatre, two of which were already out on the mission.
According to the rule book, Wildman Five One was the only Apache in Afghanistan capable of launching. Theoretically, the mission should have been aborted. Billy and I were unable to perform alone. We relied on each other for mutual support and to keep a seamless stream of fire. But there were guys out there on the ground depending on us. I’d rubbed up the boss too much lately; thank Christ it wasn’t my decision to make. As mission commander of our pair of Apaches that weight fell squarely on Nick’s perfectly formed shoulders.
His call came through the helmet earpieces.
‘Wildman Five One, this is Wildman Five Zero. As I see it we don’t have a choice.’
‘Nick’s going to abort, buddy,’ I muttered to Billy. ‘He doesn’t have the experience to go against the abort criteria for the benefit of 3 Para.’
‘I agree. He’ll follow protocol.’
Nick had literally just finished his pilot’s course when he joined us on our Apache conversion. He was full of enthusiasm but had zero experience.
Nick came back, ‘I’d rather relay messages between us than leave the lads without cover. In the meantime, we’ll try and fix the comms en route. What do you think?’
Inexperienced he might have been, but he was learning fast. We backed him to the hilt; 3 Para was in a fierce firefight and needed our support.
I replied, ‘Wildman Five Zero, this is Wildman Five One. Roger that, we can talk to the ground troops.’
If their comms couldn’t be fixed by the time we got there, then we’d coordinate the fire from our aircraft, directing Wildman Five Zero by the only radio they had available.
1330 hours
I blinked rapidly to flush my eyes of salt, but aggravated the lump on my head in the process.
I imagined my daughter looking at me and rolling around the place, hardly able to contain her giggles no matter how stern a face I tried to maintain, and my son reciting my overused response to him whenever he hurts himself: ‘Man-up, Dad!’ I smiled, misfortune forgotten.
The radios were teeming with transmissions from what sounded like the entire British Army. I could make out Chris’s voice intermittently, then the same nagging question from Ops: ‘How long is it going to take to get airborne?’
I wanted to yell, ‘As long as it always takes, which is why we should have been here hours ago’, but I managed to button my lip. At any minute now 3 Flight would be breaking station, while 3 Para were about to be deprived of Apache cover. We were pushing every envelope to get off the ground as soon as possible.
By now 3 Flight must have been down to zero combat gas-the quantity of fuel required to fight to the very last minute before returning to base direct. They must have been eating into their reserves to provide cover by now. We called it ‘chicken’, as in ‘chickened out’: the very last possible safe moment to return using a straight line, A to B, flying the glideslope from your original height to land with the very minimum fuel allo
wed.
If they stayed out for another twenty minutes there was a real probability they wouldn’t make it home. Eat into your chicken fuel and you lost your wings for ever if the vapours in the tank didn’t hold out.
I glanced across at the other Apache as our rotor blades started to spin.
What a wonderful sight: Beauty and the Beast all wrapped into one. To my eye, at least, its lean profile was beautiful. Not an inch of fat, not a superfluous nut or bolt. Everything had been designed with everything else in mind, to produce a perfect flying, killing machine. Warheads and cannon barrels bristled menacingly from its sleek, perfectly honed surfaces; just seeing one of these things coming at you was enough to chill most of our enemies to the core.
I called ‘Ready’ to Nick and Jon, and we got a two clicks back, two quick presses on the transmission button to indicate the message had been heard and understood and he was going to comply. We were not truly ready, but if push came to shove we were in a safe enough configuration to lift.
The air conditioning was finally winning its battle against the blistering heat and the temperature slowly dropped. Sweat no longer dribbled down my face.
It was time for the Weapon Op checks. I actioned the gun and felt the thud under my feet as its hydraulics sprang to life.
‘Gun coming right, Taff,’ I warned him before I turned my head. The gun had enough power to jack the Apache completely off its wheels if you looked down with your right eye without the safety in place. If I looked quickly right it could break Taff’s legs.
As I moved the cannon around Taff told me where it was. ‘Fully right…twelve o’clock…fully left.’
As long as it had full movement I could sort out any other possible snags in flight; the rest of the gun checks could wait. The rocket and missile launchers would have to wait until we were airborne too.
My left hand swept round the cockpit checking the switch settings while my right gripped the now much cooler cyclic. I flicked down a rocker button with my right thumb, changing the symbology being projected into my right eye to hover mode.
