Spoken from the Front Read online

  Still your hero soldiers on until lunch, a relatively impressive affair with a range of choices from curry to burger and chips to salad and pasta and all that gumph.

  Then it's back to it in the afternoon. I hope you're all deeply impressed with the bravery being demonstrated on a daily basis.

  The afternoon is normally punctuated by a short snooze back in the tent. Ah, yes, the tent, my home for the next two and a bit months. The interior is a relatively Spartan affair but most occupants have brought a little bit of individuality to their corner with duvets, bits of carpet and hanging cupboards. My own slice of individuality is mess, and lots of it. This mess comprises of a stash of empty water bottles (real Nestlé Pakistani tap water), the odd wrapper from an issue bar of 'Italian' milk chocolate (cocoa not included) and the contents of the Xmas box we got from the Govt and you the people of Britain for the bravery we are demonstrating in being out here. Thanks for the flashing red nose and Santa hat. They'll come in useful.

  What has perked up things no end is the recent addition of our own mini cinema. We've only just got it but it consists of a super-duper new projector with which we watch DVDs on the wall. Great. You can pick up cheap bootleg copies of DVDs dead easy out here. The Saturday market at Kandahar airfield is a good place to buy them.

  This is in itself an experience. Kandahar is a massive base, mainly resembling a building site, which has around 10,000 troops from a mix of nationalities, and wherever the Yanks go so goes commerce. So, there is a big football-pitch-sized dusty playing field surrounded by a wooden boardwalk, cleverly entitled 'the boardwalk', and around this boardwalk is a host of shops selling anything from North Face camping-style clothes and Afghans selling hats, blankets and rugs, but there is also a Burger King, Pizza Hut, Subway and Canadian donut chain Tim Horton's. Not to be outdone the Canadians have rigged up a mock ice-rink so they can play dry ice hockey.

  To add to this demonstration of rampant commercialism, on Saturdays there is an Afghan market selling everything from knocked-off DVDs, including copies of Rocky Balboa, which isn't even out at the cinema yet, to dirt cheap carpets and pashminas, fake watches of all shapes and sizes, jewellery stalls selling huge lumps of lapis lazuli, mummified tarantulas the size of your hand in delightful display boxes, a man selling old weapons from swords to old muskets and bloody great machete-type knives. There were also enough ancient coins on display to keep an archaeologist happy for a year. Place your orders now.

  I could have quite easily spent the whole trip shopping.

  I visited Kandahar on my way to a whistle-stop visit to Kabul. After a deeply unappealing delay at the large, tented refrigerator, which doubles up as the waiting lounge at Kandahar, followed by an hour in the back of a Hercules, which is actually much better than it sounds, we arrived at 5.30 a.m. to a bloody freezing Kabul airport, with snow piled up by the side of the runways, to spend two hours in a freezing cold tent before travelling to ISAF [International Security Assistance Force] HQ. This was redeemed by the fact we then drove for ten minutes through Kabul to ISAF HQ so I had my first sighting of actual Afghanistan people in their natural habitat rather than washing my smalls. This largely meant people wandering across a dual carriageway, and shepherds with herds of straggly goats by the side of the road. Lots of goats.

  I hope I am painting an accurate picture of a life on operations with the military. And I haven't even started on the dependency I have developed for my daily fix of issue custard and the fact that my hands have begun to crumble because you have to wash them thoroughly before every meal and after each lav break with alcohol-based products for fear of spreading dysentery and vomiting.

  Must go now. Meeting the Afghan Minister of Information.

  May Allah be praised. Or at the very least not insulted by the infidel while I am within range.

  11 January 2007

  McNab: Nato forces in Afghanistan claimed to have thwarted a major border incursion from Pakistan by killing 150 Taliban in a night-time operation. It was said that, the previous day, two columns, totalling 200 insurgents, crossed into the Afghan border province of Paktika. This was believed to be ahead of a spring offensive against Western forces. After crossing the border, the two groups were attacked by American planes, which dropped 1,000-and 500-pound bombs on the Taliban. The move all but annihilated the insurgents, according to the Afghan National Army, which found the dead bodies. Pakistan claimed it had also bombed and destroyed Taliban trucks on its side of the border.

  15 January 2007

  Captain Dave Rigg, MC, The Royal Engineers

  The rescue plan to save the wounded Marine had been worked out. It didn't involve me. I had done my bit so I decided to get out of the way and have a 'Hamlet' moment. It had been a long night and an even longer dawn. By now, it was a beautiful day: the sun was out, the sky was blue, it was about 15°C. All was calm and tranquil where we were: it was strange to think that just five kilometres away there was a huge amount of chaos and destruction, bombs were being dropped and people were being killed. But this was Helmand province, Afghanistan: we were used to trying to get our heads round things that didn't make sense.

  Having enjoyed some fresh air, I went back into the tented command post. But the mood of relative quiet that I had left had changed: things were once again becoming excited and intense but I didn't know why. The CO [Lieutenant Colonel Rob Macgowan] was on his JTAC's [joint terminal air controller's] radio, which meant he must be talking to one of the pilots. Then, the battle group ops officer said to him: 'Sir, if you need a volunteer, I'll do it.' I thought: Do what? Something strange and slightly disconcerting was going on, but I couldn't work out what it was.

  Gradually things started to add up. When I had taken my break, there had been an agreed plan on how to rescue the injured Marine – Lance Corporal Mathew Ford – but this was now changing in front of my eyes. Lance Corporal Ford had been wounded during a dawn fire-fight when Zulu Company attacked a Taliban-held fort close to the river Helmand, ten kilometres south of the town of Garmsir. The assault of Jugroom Fort had been delayed, which meant it had lost its element of surprise and had not taken place in the darkness as originally intended. Eight Vikings [tracked armoured fighting vehicles] had stormed across the river, but as soon as they got to the fort side they came under a hail of gunfire, small arms and RPGs.

  The stream of casualty reports coming through on the radio told us that things had gone horribly wrong. Eventually the decision was made to withdraw but, in the chaos, Lance Corporal Ford was left lying wounded against the outside wall of the fort. It was only after the withdrawal was complete that he was spotted from the sky – first by an unmanned aerial vehicle and then by one of the pilots of the Apache helicopters. He was lying wounded but, apparently, he was still alive. Lance Corporal Ford had to be rescued or he would fall into the hands of the Taliban. Before I had taken my tenminute break, the plan had been for four of the Vikings – supported by two Apaches, A10 aircraft and artillery fire – to go back over the river and retrieve him.

  Then someone told me that the Apache pilots had recommended they go in as a pair, with two blokes hanging on the sides of each helicopter. They would fly into position, the four blokes would jump off, grab Lance Corporal Ford, and then everyone would fly off again. It seemed an extraordinary, almost unbelievable, plan. For one thing, I had no idea you could put passengers on an Apache. Where were they going to be? Hanging underneath it? Sitting on the side of it? No one knew at this stage how this would pan out. But the Apache pilots had formulated the plan and they seemed quite confident. Without much delay, the CO decided that this was the way to go. He asked for four volunteers. It was then that it dawned on me, and probably everyone else, that not only were they going to go ahead with the plan but that they wanted us, the manpower in the command post, to carry it out.

  Without really thinking about it, a handful of people, including myself, volunteered. It was pretty instinctive, really. Then the CO went through the volunteers. He said to one: 'No,
you've got to control the reconnaissance force, you've got to do this, you've got that job. Yes, Dave, you will go.' Oh, shit, I thought. It was one thing volunteering, but quite another being selected.

  Another Marine, Marine Gary Robertson – Robbo to his friends – who had just turned up, raised his hand and he was chosen too. Then the RSM of the battle group came in, WO1 [Warrant Officer Class 1] Colin Hearn. He'd been dealing with the casualties. He walked in as four volunteers were asked for. 'Yes, RSM, yes, good, you'll go too,' said the CO. The RSM nodded dutifully, oblivious to what he had just become part of.

  That gave us three 'volunteers'. Then the 2IC of Zulu Company, which had attacked the fort, was keen for one of his men to join. He found one of his signallers, who'd just woken up and was making himself a cup of tea. When asked, Marine Chris Fraser-Perry, immediately volunteered – but he didn't know what for. So this confused bunch of volunteers gathered around me outside the tent and it was left to me to explain what they were being asked to do. I had been part of the planning for the attack on Jugroom Fort from the start and so was familiar with the lie of the land, which gave me an advantage. But I had also watched [on computer screens in the command post] enemy reinforcements streaming in from the south and suspected that the Taliban were regrouping in anticipation of our return. Going back in was a bold shout: I reckoned our chances of success were about fifty:fifty. It didn't matter; we had to do something to get Lance Corporal Ford back.

  I looked at the three men in front of me. Despite being a bit bewildered, they were all raring to go. Everyone wanted to help, but it was the four of us who had been selected to do the job. We didn't want to let anyone down. I said: 'Okay, do you know what we're going to do?'

  'No, sir,' came the reply from all three men.

  'Right. Well, we're going to get on to two Apaches and we're going to fly to where Lance Corporal Ford is, we're going to collect him and then we're going to fly out.' I tried to disguise my concern, attempting to sound confident and in control.

  Judging from the expressions facing me, my fellow volunteers were equally worried. Everyone looked pretty stunned. The silence was awkward so I carried on: 'Right, I'll pair up with Chris. RSM, you take Robbo. Grab your weapon and body armour: the faster we are, the greater the chances of our success here. We've got to get in and out really quick. We'll have loads of supporting fire-power, but we must avoid getting caught in a fire-fight. We just need to go in, get him, and get out.'

  Without any hesitation or further questions, the boys ran off to get their stuff. Pretty soon, the two Apaches came swooping over the top and landed behind us. The ops officer stepped out of the tent. 'Right, here they are, everyone. Go, go, go: we haven't got much time! The helos are low on fuel.' So without really thinking about it or compiling any kind of plan, we were sent into action. I had my SA80 with six magazines of ammunition, a smoke grenade, a frag grenade, my Osprey body armour and a helmet. And everyone else had similar kit.

  We'd all volunteered, but my main worry was that the lads hadn't been briefed well enough. They didn't know where exactly Lance Corporal Ford was, what precisely we were going to do and, at this stage, I didn't know how we were going to sit on the helicopters. So I was pretty nervous about the whole thing. I asked the CO what the plan was and he told me that the pilots would brief me.

  I jogged off towards the two Apaches and the pilots both slipped open their canopies. One of them was leaning out and greeted me as I ran up to him. He gave me the thumbs-up, as though to say: 'Shall we go?'

  I thought: Is he mad? Did he expect me to swing my leg over the rocket pod, and off we'd go, do the job and come back and it's as simple as that? As it turned out, he did. But the pilot registered my concern. He shouted a load of instructions at me, gesticulated, pointed at the fuselage, handed me this green strop [to tie Lance Corporal Ford to the side of the helicopter once he had been rescued] but I couldn't hear a word because the helicopter engine and the rotors were still turning. However, I soon got the gist of what he wanted us to do and realized that, with time running out, it was up to us to make it work.

  With the other boys, I moved away from the helos. We drew a little sketch in the sand and briefed the others on what to expect: 'Right, here's the large outer wall. Ford's there. You boys form the reserve and cover us. We'll go and get him.' Then one of the pilots joined us and said a few reassuring words. Needless to say, they fell on deaf ears.

  Feigning confident optimism, we ran in two pairs to our respective helos and jumped on board. I was on the right, Chris Fraser-Perry on the left, and before we knew it the helos were taking off. We just sat there. The fuselage of the Apache has got a horizontal platform that juts out just below the cockpit – later I was told that it was the fuel tank – and I could get a bum cheek on that. We sat one each side of each Apache. I had my right foot on the Hellfire missile rails and there was a grab-hold on the side of the cockpit that the pilots use to climb in.

  It was ridiculous. I almost laughed. The helicopter took off, hovered momentarily, then accelerated over the HQ. I looked down at my colleagues who were waving and photographing us from the ground. I even waved back. I didn't expect to see them again. Here we were, sat on the side of a helicopter gunship, about to fly into a heavily armed Taliban fortress defended by an estimated 200 men. The sheer audacity of it was hard to believe. I forced myself to stop thinking about the possible morbid consequences and instead focused on what had to be done ...

  We flew off and the plan changed immediately because our helo, instead of being the first as intended, became the second in the pair. Both helos flew low over the desert, hit the river just south of Jugroom Fort, then followed it. We were only doing about fifty knots, quite low – about 100 feet. You could see everything below as clear as day, camels and shepherds going about their business, and here we were sat on these helicopters about to fly into a heavily armed Taliban fortress. It felt just unreal.

  I also realized, just after taking off, that I hadn't fired my weapon since arriving in Afghanistan on 24 August. I thought: Oh, shit. I'd been cleaning it and doing the usual routine, but I thought: What if it's jammed or not working? So I had a couple of test fires from the wing of the Apache. I don't think many people could say they've fired their personal weapon from the wing of the Apache.

  But it alarmed the pilots. They must have heard the gun going off from right outside their cockpit. They looked around shocked, wondering what the hell was going on. They saw me and I must have looked a bit like a naughty schoolboy sat there having just fired my weapon. They probably thought I'd had a negligent discharge – when you fire your weapon by accident. I hadn't. I was just test firing it and fortunately it worked.

  As we approached the fort, I could see all the dust and smoke, trees burning, buildings bombed to bits, craters. It was just an awesome image of destruction and chaos. The bombing from our air support had stopped just before we got there, but the air was still thick with clouds of dust and smoke. The first helo went straight in and disappeared into the smoke. We hung back and paused. I remember feeling very vulnerable. I sat on the side looking down and seeing this copse of burnt trees but there were still muzzle flashes coming out of them, so there was still live enemy down there.

  I was doing my best to blend into this helo so they wouldn't know there was someone sat on the side of it. But basically I'm sat there looking at the gunfire below and thinking: Fuck, I'm completely vulnerable here. I wish he'd just move forward to get this over and done with. And he did. As the smoke cleared, it became obvious that the first helo had overflown the perimeter wall – and had actually landed inside the compound, which was not the plan.

  But the two lads on either side of the wing hadn't seen the wall, so they didn't know they were inside – not outside – the compound. They'd been told to run forward to the wall, but what they were actually doing was running forward to the inner wall, and into the lions' den. They were being fired at from point-blank range from little firing holes cut into this in
ner wall. And, not surprisingly, they were utterly confused. They kept going but in doing so they ventured further into the fort. By now, there were two other Apaches supporting us. One was overhead of the first helo, providing covering fire for the two guys on the ground. The Apache was so close that the empty cases from the 30mm cannon were falling around our lads as they were running around the compound. By now, the other Apache had joined in the fight and their thumping cannons were deafening.

  One of the pilots in the Apache that had landed realized the mistake. He jumped out to go and get the two Marines who were now in danger of coming face to face with hordes of Taliban. They were utterly confused after being shot at – and, with the Apache providing intimate fire support right above their heads, the situation was pretty intense.