Selected for promotion and recommended to commission as an officer from the ranks, I come top of my promotion board in an airborne unit. For any medic, this is a huge achievement, and aside from my regimental sergeant major, I have attained status as the most-qualified medic tactically within my regiment. In a strange way, this makes me feel safe; I’m in a world where I will be looked after.
I spend my final months in the unit training personnel for upcoming operations. Sent to Germany along with a small group, I deliver intensive battlefield training to a medical unit there, but they weren’t overly keen taking instruction. Units are competitive, and taking advice based on our experience seems to be unwelcome in some quarters. Just as I frowned upon infantry courses run in Germany and not ITC Brecon, they frown upon the likes of me taking charge of their range practices. As I noted earlier, basic soldiering is key, and if you don’t know the fundamentals at this stage of the game, I sure as shit don’t have the time to teach back week one, day one.
CHAPTER 10
SAYING GOODBYE
AN INFORMAL GATHERING OF UNIT PERSONNEL IN THE SQUADRON hangar is the scene for all goodbyes, presentations, and speeches. Without much thought, I roll in, almost forgetting that this time it’s my farewell. Not overly keen on any fuss being made, I smile through the speeches given by friends and my sergeant major. (Even now, looking back, I can’t recall any of the words spoken.) I receive a brown box, a framed picture, and a black issued day sack (small backpack) covered in flowers. I am an avid black day sack hater, and have been ever since the day I first spotted one sitting awkwardly on the back of one of our junior soldiers.
The black day sack is a hideous, non-value-adding piece of kit, as is the individual carrying it. There’s a pocket made from some form of netted material on the front of the bag, so recruits in training can place a piece of white paper inside with their name on it. Basic training is the only time that the inoperable piece of kit should ever be seen. Experienced soldiers have no business carrying it.
During the countless exercises that I have put my medical squadron through. We have become soldiers who carry med packs, not medics who carry weapons. I feel proud of the tactical discipline instilled in the squadron, but, more importantly, happy that all of our forward-operating medics came home safe to their families after our last tour of Helmand Province. Looking around at the smiling faces of the young medics in front of me, I reckon that the black day sack may have just become my legacy.
The framed picture is a smaller version of a huge print that sits proudly in the training wing of 16 Air Assault Brigade: it’s a photo of me and another soldier assisting an Afghan casualty in Lashkar Gah in 2008. Not bothering to open the box, I am sure it’s the usual gift of a carved figure of a field medic. Heading back to the sergeants’ mess, I continue to pack up the remainder of my things. Shipping my life back to Devon is proving to be a sizeable undertaking. Laughing at the flowery black day sack I place it, along with the framed picture, into one of my huge cardboard boxes.
Sitting on the side of my bed, I open the small brown box to see if the statue has changed in any way since my last one. Unfolding the bubble wrap, I can feel that the gift is not the figure of a soldier at all. Pulling away the wrap to fully reveal the object, I see that it’s a beautiful silver statue of Pegasus, the winged horse of Greek mythology. Goose bumps cover my arms as I hold the figure in my hands. Choked, I place my hand over my mouth to stop myself from breaking down. Relieved to be alone, I look through teary eyes at the mythical steed, feeling overwhelmed. This ancient equine was on the insignia of 5 Airborne Brigade. Steeped in history, the paratroopers of that era stitched the old maroon-backed insignia into the inside of the collar on their smocks.
It’s unheard of for a non-parachute-trained combat medic to receive the Pegasus; the significance of the gesture goes beyond any student of merit, distinction, or promotional board. No one ever tells you about the impact that you have on a situation – unless it’s bad of course, like the black day sack. I never expected the airborne brethren to go so far outside of their historical traditions to ensure that I knew my place within their brigade. In short, it blows me away. Beaming, I continue packing. Leaving the statue to one side, I glance its way every couple of minutes.
Carving out a successful career in what is traditionally a man’s world is never going to be easy, and like many before me, I am a proactive woman proving my worth through action and not words. Ever moving forward, I stopped asking for permission a long time ago.
Dusting off my suit, I prepare for my final day of military service. All is in order, right down to my pressed white shirt. Nevertheless, I am apprehensive about saying goodbye.
My last day of military service arrives: 30 June 2009. It is also the day that my good friend Sgt Phil Train is to be buried.
A small group of us gather at Yates Wine Bar on North Hill in Colchester’s historic city centre. ‘To Phil!’ Glasses chink together, and shouts of ‘cheers’ sound across the bar.
The carpet beneath my feet is sticky. It’s early morning, ordinarily not the time to be drinking Jack Daniels and Coke, but today is different, and the two double shots go down easy. The wine bar is close to St Peter’s, the garrison church where the funeral will take place. Besides, this bar is the only place that’s serving this early. A barmaid looks at our group inquisitively, disappearing through the staff-only door as we become loud. I take a chance to quickly dash upstairs to the toilet, through fear of getting caught short in a half hour or so. On my return, my hand is met by yet another shot of Jack and Coke.
‘Ready?’ Dave Eatock taps my shoulder. As recruit instructors the three of us were firm friends. Origionally 1 (PARA) Dave deployed to Helmand with 2 (PARA).
We make our way out onto the main street. Feeling a little light-headed, I reach for the spearmints in my bag. We walk the short distance down the hill towards St Peter’s, stopping short to say hello to friends who are gathering outside. Walking through the huge wooden doors, I am handed a program listing the sequence of events. The church feels cold despite the bright sunshine outside; the building dates back to 1086.
Taking my seat, I see the familiar faces of friends sitting in the pews to my left. A flash of guilt comes over me for not having kept in touch. Paratroopers start to fill the rows in front, each holding his headdress in his hands. The deep maroon colour of their berets stands out against the backdrop of the dark wood shelving that houses the hymn sheets. A quiet hum of conversation fills the church as the soldiers chat quietly to one another. Several officers arrive, wearing their formal service dress, and ushers show them to their seats at the front of the church, close to Phil’s family. The brigade commander arrives and takes his place alongside the other officers of 16 Air Assault Brigade HQ.
I start to feel the effects of the Jack Daniels and Coke, so it seems that my trip to the toilet is not all that I hoped it would be. For a moment, I drift off, wondering what today means. I feel angry that this is the way it will end for my good friend Phil Train. Phil was a paratrooper who served with 2nd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment (2 PARA). Like me, he was born in Plymouth, where his mother, Phyllis, and his brothers, Jason and David, still live. A quiet man with silver-grey hair and piercing blue eyes, Phil was determined, confident, and at ease with himself.
When we met, I immediately sensed an air of something different about him, something special. Firstly, his kit and equipment always looked better than others’, and he didn’t have an endless stream of pouches on his belt kit. The words ‘if I don’t need it, I don’t carry it’ are never far from my thoughts when I think of him. Phil was attached to the army training depot in Bassingbourn. We had both been selected for a tour of duty as recruit instructors.
The very best in our training company, he gave me what I had so often longed for in the past: someone to learn from. In the early days of my army service, I always lacked female role models, which left me to learn my craft from the blokes. It always appeared to me that m
ost women serving back then didn’t know how to pitch. They either tried too hard and became overbearingly butch, or, through lack of character, they didn’t try hard enough. I soon learnt, though, that a fair few of the guys lacked character as well. Soldiering should come naturally. You can train a skill all day long; what you can’t train is an attitude.
Learning from Phil saved my life. Many of my friends ask what it’s like to be a woman in the military. I believe it’s all about balance, but sometimes it’s easy to get the balance wrong. It took me a long time to realise that. I have been on every level: too much, too little, and, finally, just right. I credit most of my achievements with being brought up properly, albeit in a less-fortunate area. This gave me the drive and determination to succeed. But it was Phil who taught me by example how to finesse my strengths into the balance I needed.
I copied Phil, and soon I was amazed at how much easier life became when I learnt how to soldier from a soldier. My manner became more assertive, and I started to look at things differently. Medicine is my forte and the area that I am expert in, but other aspects of soldiering are equally important. I had to learn how to employ good medicine in a tactically unstable environment. Phil helped immeasurably. His leadership was crucial to the young paratroopers deployed with him in Helmand during our summer tour of 2008. The 2 PARA suffered heavy losses when fighting increased during the fighting season. The two of us spent many hours exchanging war stories when we passed through Camp Bastion on our way home, chatting at length outside the little coffee shop. I’ve already described this briefly; now, sitting at his funeral, the moments we shared replay in my mind.
The worst thing about today is getting my head around Phil’s senseless death. He survived the notorious Sangin Valley, only to be killed in a motorbike crash at home. In my eyes, a man like Phil should die as a grandfather telling war stories, unless he was KIA. If this warrior had to die young, it should have been on the battlefield.
The sound of the church organ interrupts my private thoughts, its sombre notes drawing my eyes to the left. I see six paratroopers marching slowly, bearing Phil’s coffin to the front of the church. My support weapons teacher noted earlier, Paul Scott (‘Scotty’), is among the pallbearers, along with Cpl Matty Desmond. The pain of losing Phil is etched on their faces. All of us are interlinked somewhere along the line. As they make their way forward, all heads turn to look at the coffin. If their thoughts are anything like mine, images of Phil must be flashing through their minds.
Phil’s young wife, Stacy, stands silently, her head held high. Her dignified manner is a credit to the husband that she is saying goodbye to. Phil’s coffin is lowered onto its support. One by one, people stand to speak about Phil, each describing his honour and bravery. Then someone reads a simple statement. I don’t recall now who spoke the words, but I remember smiling at the truth of them: ‘He was a good bloke.’ This meant more than a medal or an overthought speech. That was it. Phil was a good bloke, and that’s how he should be remembered.
The service then moves on to Colchester Cemetery, a short drive away. The traffic is busy, and local people stand and watch the funeral cortege taking Phil’s coffin through the streets. In addition to being the oldest recorded town in England, Colchester is a garrison town. The small population is extremely supportive of ‘their paratroopers’, as they fondly regard the blokes.
As we drive through the gates of the cemetery, the sky is bright and the grounds are peaceful. We make our way into the crematorium, and Phil’s men once again carry his coffin, bringing it into the small room. Suddenly and without warning, a song starts to play. The words to Mariah Carey’s ‘Hero’ are louder than I would have expected, and the lump in my throat comes loose. I struggle to hold it together, and all the pomp and ceremony offer no comfort. Outside, soldiers from 2 PARA fire a salute to Phil, and the volley is deafening. Trying hard to compose myself, I fumble in my bag, realising that I don’t have any tissues. What an idiot! I stand there, wiping my face on my jacket sleeve like a four-year-old. Throughout all of my time serving, I always prided myself on keeping it together.
As the tears stream down my face, I let myself feel the grief that I usually suppress during such moments. I am a combat medic accustomed to dealing with blood and death and the ‘less glamorous’ side of life. That is far different from facing the death of a loved one or a dear friend.
Phil’s not a picture on the news; his death is not an ‘event’, so to speak. Looking at his lovely wife, I wonder how she will cope, how she will even begin to rebuild a life without him. As soldiers, we come to expect that the worst might and could happen, but I don’t believe that we truly understand the void that we leave behind. Stacy is one of many young wives having to rebuild their lives alone. The same is true for many first-time mothers, long-time spouses, and grieving parents – the list of loved ones left behind is endless.
I never really thanked Phil for all that he had done for me. Seeing him a few days prior to the accident, we joked about his hosting the next barbecue. Never in a million years did I think that I would never see him again. If I had, I surely would have at least said ‘thank you’ – and those simple words would have meant so much more. Knowing Phil, he realised that. I will always put much of what I have achieved as a soldier down to the time I spent learning from him when we were posted as instructors. Carrying that forward is the way that I will honour my friend and mentor.
Our group heads back to 2 PARA sergeants’ mess, where Phil’s friends and family have gathered. A huge screen flashes photos of Phil, and soon the drinks start to flow. I see many familiar faces, having been based at Merville Barracks in Colchester, Essex, for the last three years. Colchester is home to many units which form the brigade.
Having made lifelong friends among all units, I know that I will always be welcome here. The combination of the funeral and the end of my military service puts me in a reflective state of mind. I start thinking about my days of service, especially my time in Afghanistan.
In Helmand, I became frustrated by the lack of resources and manpower which left us exposed in 2006. Things did not improve much over time. In 2008, our lack of helicopters forced us to drive around in lightly armoured vehicles, travelling on roads that the Taliban had littered with their crude, destructive roadside bombs. Our government had an almost naive military appreciation that we, task force Helmand, controlled the battle space. In reality, the insurgents had the tactical advantage, and every boot on the ground knew that.
Back in 2006, I recall then Defence Secretary John Reid saying that he hoped not a single round would be fired on that tour. Clearly, he had been reading the wrong reports: it was hugely kinetic, and firefights with insurgents were a daily occurrence.
The first brigade into Helmand, led by Brig. Ed Butler, faced significant challenges. By the end of the tour, it was clear that the brigade’s main fighting force, 3 PARA battle group, had delivered a significant measure of tactical success. 3 PARA achieved this under the command of Lt Col Stuart Tootal, although with very few resources, our brigade suffered heavy casualties. The insurgents identified that they could not fight and win in face-to-face running battles with the West, so by the end of the summer of 2006, attacks on UK forces were significantly reduced.
Intelligence indicated that the enemy had taken a severe beating, seriously depleting their manpower. Coupled with the change in seasons, this indicated that the insurgency might need a new strategy to disrupt and yet not necessarily overcome the strength of Western forces.
In a statement, Brig. Butler’s spokesman at the time told the media: ‘There is evidence that the Taliban’s tactical capability to mount large attacks on the battlefield has been seriously degraded. But they remain a significant threat and the use of improvised explosive devices is a major concern.’
A forewarning for what was yet to come was not acknowledged by the white collar decision makers in Whitehall, and by late 2006, the Taliban had changed their tactics, with more attention given to t
he roadside bomb. They opted for smaller operations in which they planted countless IEDs, and the volume of attacks on coalition forces soared.
When 3 Commando Brigade took over the reins of Helmand Province in October 2006, many soldiers and senior officers hoped that the political aim would be to support the military with additional force. In military jargon, this is known as ‘reinforcing success’ – in simple terms, it means putting more resources into the battle to deny the enemy the chance to regroup or reorganise any form of resurgence. Despite requests from Brig. Butler to deploy more troops and resources, none arrived.
The failure to quickly reinforce the brigade’s success by deploying more helicopters, more troops, and better equipment led to an insurgency stronger than anyone would ever care to admit. The UK government failed its fighting troops and only marginally increased the level of men on the ground. We sent nearly 40,000 into Iraq in 2003 yet could only muster 3,500 for Afghanistan in 2006; this number eventually rose to 10,000, a far cry from the figure that was actually required.
In 2010, four years after my first tour, the Americans deployed more than 25,000 troops to Helmand, lifting the coalition manpower level to more than 35,000, with the UK contribution at around 10,000. History may later suggest that this was the number that was needed when we first entered southern Afghanistan.
Road moves were our biggest danger, especially as there was no national curfew imposed. This easily employed tactic would have removed the cover of night given to insurgents to plant bombs. The lack of additional air assets gave us little chance of reinforcing any success. Helicopters provide commanders with speed and surprise. They are essential in dominating an enemy, especially in areas of difficult terrain, such as southern Afghanistan.
Battleworn: The Memoir of a Combat Medic in Afghanistan Page 20
