We continued to build our defences all day, with the result that, as evening approached without any further sign of the enemy, we began to feel a little bit more secure, though because of what had happened on the way in, and because of what we knew about 10 Platoon’s experience during the last week, you couldn’t exactly relax – not if you really thought about it.
Of course that wasn’t what I told Sumitra when I called home later on that second evening. Because of our new baby, I was first on the list to be able to use the satellite telephone. I told her everything was fine.
I could tell that she didn’t really believe me, but I had to do my best not to worry her. I didn’t mention anything about the contact yesterday. Nor did I say I was certain there were going to be more contacts.
‘It’s really quiet here,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing going on at all. We’re guarding this police station and there’s a bazaar outside. Lots of people shopping. It’s just like home!’
We got twenty minutes of free telephone calls home every week. Every time I spoke to my wife at this time, I had to promise her that I would soon come back for her and our two children.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ll be back soon, then I’ll bring you home to England.’
That pleased her. Of course, you never knew with operations, but we were due in Cyprus in early August. I would be going on leave immediately afterwards so, if all went to plan, I would arrive back at our place in Nepal soon after. They were staying with Sumitra’s mother at the time, but my plan was to take them back to the UK.
‘Do you think the weather will be fine when we get there?’ she asked, changing the subject quickly. ‘I’ve heard it rains a lot in England.’
‘Oh, it should still be quite fine and sunny,’ I said.
Of course, I had no idea. For my own part, I was just glad we had a son now – and so were Sumitra and her parents. Our first child was a girl, Alisa, now almost three years old. The reason for wanting a son so badly is that in our culture, it is the boys who look after the elders. A girl will marry and go out of the family, so if someone has only girl children, there is a chance they will have no one to look after them when they are old.
That was not my reason for wanting a boy, however. I wanted a boy because I wanted him to join the Gurkhas. Of course, I didn’t tell my wife this either, but she knew already, I’m sure.
‘Say hello to your mum and dad for me, and give a big hug to Alisa,’ I said.
Walking back towards the lines after my phone call, I noticed that the Afghan police were all looking quite relaxed. Several of the local policemen were sitting next to a small fire, and one of them was taking something out of his pocket which he put on a small piece of metal. I stopped to watch as he ignited it and inhaled deeply. As he did so, he immediately started sneezing, and I could see water glistening under his eyes. This was obviously some of the opium that the Helmand region is so famous for.
‘Tik hai?’ I asked him. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Tik hai, dost.’ Completely fine, friend.
Actually, he sounded completely drunk.
Later that night, Rex sahib called another O-group. As well as giving news of the progress of other friendly callsigns he brought us up to date with details of the general situation – where the enemy were believed to be and in what strength – and also what air support we could expect. On the subject of the ANP and the local police he told us he was sure there were bound to be some spies among them.
‘So we need to show them we’re ready for action. They should be in no doubt that if they take us on, we’ll hit them back harder than they’ve ever been hit before. Is that clearly understood?’ he said, looking round the room in the glow of our lanterns.
When I went back and briefed the bhais and gurujis, they were all angry to think that there could be enemy right here in the compound with us, so I reminded them that our main role out here was in fact to win hearts and minds.
‘We’re just going to have to show them we’re on the same side. We aren’t looking for trouble after all. We’d be happy not to have to use our weapons at all.’
The bhais nodded in agreement, but I wasn’t sure they were completely convinced. I cannot say that I was either. With 10 Platoon’s experience, plus the reception we met on the way in, it didn’t look likely we were going to get out without some kind of a fight. And really, we were all quite looking forward to it.
In the meantime, things were definitely better in terms of protection up in the sangars. But I had one big anxiety. Earlier in the day, Mathers sahib had told us the OC wanted a .50-cal up in Sangar 3. It was now in place, but we had discovered that its arcs of fire were limited and at short range – anything under about 30 metres – it was going to be useless. Because of the design of the mounting, it was not possible to tilt the gun forward to fire downwards. In most situations this would not matter, but for us it could be disastrous. The enemy could easily get that close just by using the cover of the buildings nearby. All he needed to do was get into the building next door and he could get within 10 metres. Still, having our best weapon in one of the sangars was quite reassuring. It is a fantastic piece of equipment, accurate and very powerful. I had the feeling that, as well as needing the blessings of my lucky charm, we were going to be needing the blessings of the .50-cal too.
6
Goat Curry and a Contact
So the picture by day three was of a platoon plus of Gurkhas now well sorted, with defences much improved and morale high. We had even got a chess league going. Although we probably aren’t brilliant players by international standards, chess is a big favourite among the bhais and gurujis back in barracks, and as soon as we deploy anywhere, someone is bound to get a competition running. In Now Zad, you’d always find at least two people huddled over a board somewhere in the compound.
Easily the best player in our section was my 2 i/c, Lance Corporal Shree. In fact he was one of the two best players in the platoon, and he took it very seriously. It was he who organised the competition and updated all the results on the wall of the accommodation block. Gaaz was also quite a good player, although I could generally beat him and we could both beat Nagen. In my own case, I learned to play in my village by watching two of the teachers at my school who used to play using a bit of painted cardboard.
I think practically everyone in Now Zad was part of the league. Out in Afghanistan the currency in use by all the allies was American dollars, and it cost five to join. Altogether the prize pot was therefore well over a hundred, although one of the younger bhais, thinking this wasn’t enough, drew a huge cartoon cheque showing a million. Most of the games were played outside the accommodation block, usually with an audience of a few Afghans. We tried to get them to play too, though they never did. But everyone else joined in, even Rex sahib. He was knocked out quite early on, or so I heard – at around the same time as me, in fact. And as well as the games outside, there were games going on in the CT too. In fact I heard later that when the competition got really tense, there were some occasions when the riflemen would carry on even during the most serious contacts.
Another big pastime among Gurkhas is bagh chal, ‘the tiger game’. This is a strategy game a bit like draughts, and is supposed to have been invented by a mythical Indian princess called Mandodari, daughter of the King of the Demons and wife of Ravana, a warrior prince. According to the Hindu Ramayana, Ravana misbehaved by kidnapping and making a mistress of the wife of the god Rama. As a result, Mandodari, who was very religious, was forced to spend a lot of time alone in their palace, and it was then that she created the game. One person plays as goats, the other plays as tigers. There are four tigers and up to twenty goats. The tigers win when they have captured five goats, which they do by jumping over them on the board. The goats win when they have blocked the tigers so they can’t move. One really good thing about the game is that the board itself is very simple. You can of course get highly decorated boards with scenes from the life of Mandodari painted round t
he edge, but you can also draw it out on the ground using just a stick. And unlike chess, you don’t need complicated pieces: just stones or pebbles will do.
It’s a game we play out in Nepal where there’s no time pressure. When I was younger we played a lot at school and at home, and quite often fights would break out afterwards. Two really well matched players will take several hours over each game. You take it in turns to be the tigers or the goats. Some people are particularly good at being one or the other. Gaaz was really clever at playing goats – it was so frustrating to play against him sometimes, though I did mostly beat him in the end. Another good thing about it is that, like chess, you can leave off playing at any stage and go back to it later, so long as the pieces aren’t disturbed. Again, we tried to get the Afghans interested. They sometimes watched, but they never wanted to join in.
By this time, we had begun to realise there was a big divide between the two groups of Afghans. The ANP were much more friendly than the local police, and the interpreter – the torjeman – also seemed like a good guy. It was he who, at our request, went out and bought a goat for our evening meal that day.
Goat curry is something Gurkhas really enjoy, and it is a tradition with us to get hold of a live animal whenever we can. The person who held the record for most sandbags filled had the honour of slaughtering it – with a kukri of course. Those of us not on duty at the time all gathered round, together with some of the Afghans, and watched as the rifleman decapitated it. The hardest part of the operation is getting the goat to stand still, but on this occasion it was no trouble. Everyone stood round in a circle while the bhai steadied it. Standing slightly behind, he brought his blade down in a single stroke, and the head shot forward at least six feet, to a great cheer from the assembled company.
‘Best meal I’ve had in a month,’ said one of the riflemen when the curry was served.
‘Best since I was last home,’ said another.
‘He seems OK, this torjeman,’ said someone else. ‘Let’s hope he can get us some more.’
‘Hey, did you see the look on the Afghans’ faces when the head came off?’ demanded Gaaz. ‘I don’t think they liked it at all. They didn’t cheer, that’s for sure.’
I noticed the same thing. In fact, they all looked rather uncomfortable. Of course, according to their way of thinking, any animal being slaughtered must have its throat cut and be allowed to bleed to death. That seems cruel to us. But they were clearly impressed seeing a kukri in action.
Later that evening, we had a bit of disappointing news. We wouldn’t be going home as soon as we’d hoped.
‘The Three Para Battlegroup is meeting heavier than expected resistance up country, so I’m afraid we’re likely to be here for quite a bit longer than just a week,’ Rex sahib announced during the evening O-group. The thing was, our deployment was really just a stopgap. Now Zad was one of several towns occupied by the battlegroup. Two others were Sangin and Musa Qala. As things turned out, instead of being able to fight the battle for hearts and minds, the Paras found themselves in a series of real battles and had called for reinforcements. Our occupation of Now Zad, which was supposed to be just temporary, would remain until those reinforcements – in the form of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers – could be brought in.
‘I’m in no hurry to get back to Bastion,’ said Gaaz when I told my section the news. ‘At least there’s a chance of seeing some action out here. And the food’s better.’
‘Yeah, give me Now Zad any day,’ said another.
‘Careful what you ask for, guruji bhai haru,’ I countered. ‘We’re very vulnerable out here if things turn nasty.’
All the same, that night I had what was probably the best sleep I would have during the whole of our time in Now Zad. We were now in good shape in terms of our defences, and at least it looked as though we had identified a supplier of good fresh food in the form of Afghan goat. If it wasn’t for the fact that we knew that 10 Platoon had had such a hard time of it just before we got here, plus that contact we had on landing, you’d have said it wasn’t such a bad posting at all. And yet I had an uneasy feeling this could be the calm before the storm.
The next day began like all the others. The disha patrol, followed by the call to prayer, then an hour until breakfast. But although we were still really keyed up and fully alert, you couldn’t spend the whole time on duty just doing the same thing over and over. That would be impossible. As section commander, the moment I got up into the sangars I was busy checking all the equipment and making sure the bhais and gurujis were doing their job properly. But then of course we started to chat a bit, especially in those early days when there wasn’t anything much going on.
One thing the riflemen were all desperate to know about was my previous experience in Afghanistan. I’d been one of a few of our people chosen for a tour back in 2003. On that occasion our mission was the reconstruction of the northern provinces. Among other things, this involved going round and searching for weapons and ammo dumps. The idea was that, after identifying them, noting their location and doing a survey of all they contained, the information was relayed back to HQ and the dumps would then be taken under allied control. With this as our aim, we had deployed in teams of six men, with two Land Cruisers per team, for several weeks at a time.
‘So you mean you could travel around quite freely?’ demanded Gaaz. ‘You never got shot up, guruji?’
‘Actually no. Our biggest worry was landmines. It was really different in those days. The Taliban were on the run and most of the places we went were in the hands of the warlords of the Northern Alliance.’
‘Warlords! What do you mean?’
‘These were the leaders of the Northern Alliance, which was the main group back in those days. They were on friendly terms with us, so we didn’t have much trouble.’
‘But did you ever meet any of them?’ Gaaz was really excited at the thought of there being warlords. I think he secretly liked the idea of being one himself.
‘There were two I met several times. General Dostum and Atta Muhammad.’
‘Go on, what were they like?’
‘Dostum was a real tough guy. But Atta – he was more like a movie star. You know, sunglasses, good clothes, all that.’
‘Cool.’
‘But it was General Dostum I saw the most. In fact I got to know him quite well. We met five or six times altogether. One time we even stayed in his house.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes, and I’m telling you, it was like a palace!’
Gaaz stared at me as if he couldn’t imagine such a thing as a palace in Afghanistan.
‘You wouldn’t think there could be places like that, but it was just like being in a millionaire’s house anywhere in the West.’
Not that I’d ever been in a millionaire’s house in the West. But I’d seen plenty on TV.
‘It looked like an ordinary compound on the outside. A bit like this one. We’d been driving across the desert for hours without seeing anything, then we came to this place in the middle of nowhere. Just like here, there were a few small houses on the outskirts, flat-roofed and made with mud walls. The centre of town was just a street lined with some tumbledown shops on either side. And then you could see larger compounds with high perimeter walls and gates that opened onto a courtyard with buildings inside. The compound itself looked like any other, and we drove in. The main house looked quite ordinary too. But when you stepped inside, wow!’
The bhais and gurujis looked at me, disbelieving.
‘I’m telling you, it could have been anywhere in the West. I was completely shocked. There were people all around living in terrible conditions, with dust and dirt everywhere, while behind the wall was this incredible luxury! Even the bathrooms. You went into the guest toilet and you were completely surrounded by mirrors. It was really something.’
Of course, in Nepal we also have some very rich people who live lives of unimaginable luxury compared with the poor people of the country. On the other
hand, my impression was that an ordinary Nepalese family lived better than the equivalent Afghan family. No one ever heard of a person dying of starvation in Nepal, whereas I believe that in Afghanistan people do occasionally die from lack of food. I think part of the difference is that Nepalese are harder workers. Certainly as far as the hill people are concerned, we have to rely entirely on agriculture, without any vehicles or machinery, and because of this we have to be completely self-sufficient, so that could be one reason. The Afghans have their agriculture too, but it was hard to understand how they survived, as the only crops I ever saw were watermelons and poppies and some potatoes. Also I had the impression that the Nepalese family system is closer than it is in Afghanistan. People look after each other more.
‘And what about the general?’ one of the other riflemen wanted to know. ‘What was he like?’
I told them about the first time I’d seen him, surrounded by heavily armed bodyguards carrying a huge assortment of weapons from AK-47s through PKMs to RPGs. You immediately knew who was the boss round those parts. He was rather red, but with a very smiley face, and he wore a small black waistcoat to match his bushy black beard. Unlike most of the people you met in Afghanistan, his clothes were clean. In short, he really looked the part, strongly built and tough, even if he was a bit overweight. His manner was also very forceful. I remember him going straight up to Major Bevan, our team leader, and slapping him firmly on the back. He looked and behaved just like a warrior king of olden times.
‘How arrrre you?’ he said, rolling his r’s in a way that we Gurkhas cannot, and emphasising the last word.
I distrusted him at once.
‘And so did our torjeman,’ I said. ‘I could tell he was really scared to meet the general. Very proud to, but also very afraid. I suppose he knew that if it wasn’t for us being there, things would have been very different. He told us afterwards that if the general didn’t like a person, he would hit them. It didn’t matter who they were. He told us that Dostum had killed a lot of people in fights.’
Gurkha Page 8
