It's been emotional

So here I am, watching the hours and minutes tick away before I leave for home.

I can’t quite describe the emotions and feelings I’ve experienced over the last two-and-a-half weeks.

I think it will take at least as long again to digest.

Say what you like about the armed forces and what they are doing here in Afghanistan, I’ve formed my own opinion.

Witnessing them in action actually fighting insurgents, greeting Afghan nationals on the ground in their villages, and seeing the planning which goes into each and every action, I feel proud of their achievements to date.

Ultimately our guys are trying to make a difference. They’re trying to instil some security and stability in a country which has experienced more than its fair share of turmoil over the decades.

The locals are grateful for the effort, truly grateful.

When I spoke to them through an interpreter I actually made a point of saying “tell me in your own words with no pressure to tow the line”.

The response was unanimous. They are happy we are here. They are happy we are at the very least, trying to make a difference.

While some nationalities may take a different approach to the situation, the British are kind, courteous and sensitive. At least that is what I have found.

If they enter a compound they ask to do so. They don’t demand.

And when they leave they take all their rubbish with them, or indeed burn it.

If they see a child looking worried or concerned, they offer chocolate or something to make them smile.

It’s reassuring to see.

Whatever the global reasons for being here, our guys are doing us proud.

And that leads me on to my Oscar-style list of thank yous.

So many people have bent over backwards to look after me here and make me feel welcome.

Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Stickland, the Commanding Officer of Bickleigh-based 42 Commando, has my utmost respect for the way he leads his men.

He must have taken a gamble facilitating me here – and on operations – but he was helpful and understanding with everything I wanted to achieve.

Lieutenant Alex Burlingham, 42 Cdo’s press officer, has also run around like a blue ass fly on my behalf. I would not have been able to produce the copy here had it not been for his assistance and help.

The press office team here in general in Kandahar have also helped the trip to run smoothly.

And all the lads at 42 also deserve a mention of thanks for their support, banter and friendship.

I only hope I can come back at a later date and see each and every one safe and well.

Take care of yourselves lads, and keep your heads down.

Ready to come home

I’m ready to come home now. How these guys do it day on day out for six months I simply do not know.

After the operation I felt like I was in a coma. The walking dead.

I didn’t blog on Thursday or Friday because I simply don’t know what I did.

I miss lots of things about home and I’ve been here for just two-and-a-half weeks.

I know it sounds strange but I miss silly things like roads. Seriously over here they don’t have tarmac roads like we do. They have dust tracks.

The occasional piece of tarmac is around the airfield and that’s pretty much off limits to civilians.

I miss colour. When all you see is the same golden colour sand you can’t help but yearn for lush green fields or trees.

I miss playing my guitar. And I also miss having a mobile phone that connects to a network. Being without communication is so strange in this day and age.

Most of all I miss my girlfriend, Suzie. Christ knows what went through her head with me being out of touch during the operation – and of course what she’s read since.

Seriously I don’t know how servicemen and women disappear for six or seven months at a time.

It would tear my soul apart. Yes, they are well looked after here but it’s not the same. They have some of the comforts of home without surely the most comfortable thing of all – loved ones.

I also seem to have caught the sniff that is doing the rounds over here. It’s hard to tell, with all the dust in the air, whether the sore throat is from that or indeed an oncoming cold.

I’ll go with the latter given how my head is feeling.

So… I’m now tying up loose ends before heading home.

I think it will take several weeks for the dust (not literally) to settle and for me to take in everything that has happened.

Another comedy moment happened last night around dinner time when Gaz Faulkner (42 Cdo’s photographer) and I were looking at images to send back to The Herald.

An air raid-style alarm sounded across camp signalling an imminent rocket attack.

Within a flash all the other people in the office dived for cover under their desks leaving Gaz and I looking at each other.

It seems with all we’ve been through in the last week with all the ‘contact’ you can’t help but get complacent about a mere untargeted rocket attack.

We just erupted into laughter and the all clear sounded a short while later.

In any case right about now I feel ready to fall over. Night night.

Taking on the Taliban

Sorry for the delay in getting this up online. You see due to operational security I couldn’t let on exactly what was coming up.

I don’t mean to sound funny, but when people’s lives are at risk it’s worth holding off mentioning anything controversial.

For the last six days I have been on a deliberate attack operation with the lads of 42 Commando storming into uncharted territory South West of Kandahar.

In deploying with them I became the first regional journalist to join them on an operation.

And while it was painful and emotional at times, which you will read, it was – as the marines say “hoofing”.

So while I’m now in the safe confines of Kandahar Air Base, I will look back at my diary notes to give you a glimpse of life on the very front of the frontline of this war in Afghanistan.

The prospect of taking on the Taliban in their own backyard was something the lads were seriously excited about.

Without meaning to make them out to be bloody thirsty, the marines have been complaining about a “lack of action” ever since I arrived in theatre.

In all fairness they’re trained to do a job and being stuck on camp is not something they enjoy. After all the months of training the last thing they want to do is travel all the way to Afghanistan and continue that training.

For me the prospect was exciting but nonetheless frightening.

Clearly fret with danger heading into the unknown, the hours before deployment dragged only reinforcing my fears.

By 1pm I had already packed my kit up.

By 1.30pm my kit had been unpacked by 42’s press officer, Lieutenant Alex Burlingham, who was adamant that it should be done his way to make essential pieces of kit easier to reach in the field.

We went through everything rearranging bits and pieces, and ditching a lot of the items I had packed.

The jovial mood in the camp was clearly reflected in a passing marine’s comments.

“guns and water,” he said

“That’s all you need mate,” laughing as he walked off.

My attention was then immediately brought back to the task in hand.

“Hopefully it won’t come to this but…” the unit press officer said as he passed me a bandage and emergency first aid kit.

Gulp.

With that I rolled a cigarette and told him to crack on with his admin duties while I contemplated any eventualities.

I wondered around camp until I found a piece of home in 42 Commando’s base at Camp Roberts - The Three Crowns.

Keen to instil some home comforts on camp, the lads have made a raised a sign above the tv room in tribute to the Barbican pub.

I snuck inside to find a space to write this blog and found myself watching Soccer AM on a widescreen television. This place continues to surprise me.

And the clock ticks away towards our operational deployment.

Stand Two

“STAND Two” a voice says in my ear as I awake abruptly from a surprisingly decent night’s sleep.
“What,” I replied.
“Stand Two,” the commando said again.
“What the hell does that mean?!” I asked.
“Be prepared for attack,” he replied with a hint of seriousness now in his voice.
Oh dear lord, don’t they ever give up…?
It’s 5.45am and the sun is soon about to show its face.
Apparently in times of war the most likely times of coming under attack are at dawn and dusk. So there we are, largely shivering, looking through glazed eyes and waiting for the enemy to show his face.
Which he doesn’t.
“Stand down,” an officer informs us a short while later.
I return to my makeshift bedroom and clear my belongings ready for the day ahead. Fortunately the evil, scary, nasty-looking camel spiders didn’t come out to play last night. That’s despite Gaz wanting to poke one with a stick to see what it would do. Bugger.
We cook up breakfast which bizarrely this morning consists of tuna pasta. It seems I mixed up my rations and ate breakfast last night. Still, the meal is good and I think I’m becoming quite a dab hand at this war camping malarkey.
As I finish off the Commanding Officer wanders over and asks if I want to spend time with members of K company today who have made a number of finds.
I agree and before I know it, I’m in a formation heading to a different compound. Once again I can’t help but feel out of my comfort zone.
As we yomped along the side of a crop plot my attention is drawn to the colour green which is beside us. Beside me, stretching for as far as the eye can see, is a field of marijuana. I grab hold of the head of one of the plants, which must easily stand 5ft tall, rub it and smell it.
Bloody hell it is.
“We’re not here to deal with that,” a marine said to me.
Fair one.
By 10am I’m taking part in more clearance patrols with members of K company.
Word comes over the radios “two suicide bombers of motorbikes seen in your area.”
Here we go again…
As mentioned before it’s so difficult to establish who exactly the enemy is. As we wander around various village compounds we stumble across an Afghan wedding in full flow. Within seconds we are surrounded by dozens of children and adults who are keen to talk to us. The children, it seems are more interested in having my pen for some strange reason.
While interaction with a large group of locals is obviously good for gaining intelligence information on Taliban movements, it leaves the commandos wide open to an attack.
I find myself acting as a look out while this takes place. On several occasions I have to shout at some young men to “stay back” while the meeting takes place.
One of the elderly members of the Afghan wedding party actually asks the marines to search his home for fear that if the Taliban discover that they did not search his property, they would believe he was helping us.
Usually this would result in the man being hanged – or indeed his children.
We move on and form up with various other elements of 42 Cdo providing fire support across a crop field.
The order is given to find high ground in which to look out across the plains.
Much to my displeasure we move forward taking up a position on top of an Afghan burial mound.
The position is a prime one and it is believed insurgents used the post as a firing point on our lads a few days ago.
There is also the very real possibility that insurgents have buried weapons at the site believing we would not enter the scared ground.
Rather than dig up graves, the marines scam them using metal detectors. No weapons are found and we soon move off to another compound.
As dusk falls some of the 42 Cdo lads light up fat cigars celebrating the end of a successful operation.
Once again we sleep under the stars. I’m exhausted. I’m just not used to the amount of stress and anxiety involved with such an operation.
But, I must say, it has been an absolutely awesome experience and one which I will never forget.
I have felt very privileged to be involved with the guys at this level and really begin to understand some of what they do.
Some might label the marines as being bloody thirsty but they’re simply not. They want the best for people and, as much as they will draw weapons when they have to, they are as keen to engage with communities and make them feel safe and secure.
We’re being taken out of the area by Chinook tomorrow morning early doors. Can’t say I’m unhappy at the prospect. Having worn the same clothes for the last five days without a shower I am in desperate need of some TLC.

Sleeping with the enemy

I CAN’T tell you how strange it is to fall asleep at 6.30pm, not knowing if you’re going to wake up, and wake up at 2am ready for a 2km yomp north.
Now I know that 2kms is not a great distance, but when you’re carrying everything you have on your back across rough terrain it’s not a whole bundle of fun.
Twin that with the air of caution associated with everyone believing the insurgents had anticipated our move and planted mines and Improvised Explosive Devices along our route and you’ll have some idea of the fear factor inside me.
We leave the compound at 2.45am and I am made aware that we are being watched by at least four men who are on a nearby compound’s roof.
With only the moonlight to light our path we walk on silent, in a long single-file line.
Every hundred feet or so we stop and crouch taking cover behind whatever there is to allow the commandos to scan the area and assess the remainder of the route.
We walk along dry river beds, ditches and pathways for hours.
By 4.45am we have arrived at our new home in another compound.
As we approach a radio message informs us that there are only women and children at the site – no ‘fighting age’ men.
We wait in a ditch for the all clear and are then told that at least eight men have been hiding within the compound.
Apparently the civilians are very scared. It doesn’t surprise me given how I would feel if 30 heavily armed commandos turn up in the middle of the night asking to make camp.
If that’s not enough the villagers are terrified of even being associated with the British forces for fear of the Taliban harming them after we leave.
Many people refuse to take the money the British offer for affectively borrowing their compound for fear of thinking they would be seen as aiding us. It’s a funny old world isn’t it?
By 7.30am we are in the safer confines of the compound and ready for our next jaunt.
The atmosphere is very twitchy and you can tell the Commanding Officer is not happy at all about invading a compound with so many women.
The Afghans do not like the British looking, talking or even taking pictures of their women. It goes against their traditions.
Numerous clearance patrols go out of the compound to help secure the immediate area. The Apache attack helicopter flies overhead again which provides some feeling of security. However my thoughts are running wild again and I fear the worse.
Sure enough within a few hours various messages are broadcast on the marines’ radios.
“Taliban Commander thought to be situation 2kms away in a compound,” one says.
“Two groups of eight or nine fighting age men hanging around the compound,” another says.
“Suicide bomber believed to be nearby looking for us,” signals another.
Fortunately in the hours that pass, nothing happens and the mood turns more jovial.
With all that’s going on the British servicemen do everything they can to make the compound’s family feel at ease. These children – who have probably never seen a British person, let alone a television or chocolate- revel in delight as marines hand them Yorkie bars from their rations.
Although cautious and nervous at first, the children are quickly won over. The sight of them playing a short while later relaxes the atmosphere of everyone.
With the clearance patrols happy with the immediate area we move on to the compound next door where we make a startling discovery by chance.
As we flock into the site looking for the best sheltered places to sleep, the marines discover bags of heroin, money and a notebook containing lots of names and cash figures.
It seems we’ve stumbled across a heroin processing plant. As I further scan the area I see hundreds of poppy heads on the floor only backing up our thoughts of the place.
In the meantime word has also spread of L company finding 10kgs of heroin and bomb pressure plates in another compound.
Within our compound the owner is questioned and held by the commandos. Bizarrely he seems unphased by everything and continues his prayers.
As night approaches we begin to get comfortable in our surroundings and make good for bed.
There’s only so many times you can sleep in sub zero temperatures under the stars. While admittedly it is beautiful, it’s frikkin freezing!
Tonight looks like we are on to a winner. We set out our sleeping bags in the various rooms contained in the compound making sure not to disturb any of the owner’s belongings.
And then something strikes fear into my heart like nothing else. The keen eye of Gaz Faulkner, 42 Commando’s photographer, spots a number of web cocoons in the timber supports of the roof.
As I look up I notice legs… they’re camel spiders (vicious half spider half scorpion) and they are EVERYWHERE.
They’re sandy and black coloured and are about three inches long.
I immediately grab the Afghan interpreter with us, point up, and say “camel spider?”
He nods, laughs and walks away. That might be the norm in his world but in mine it is certainly not.
Needless to say I didn’t sleep well once again for fear of getting nibbled. And I wasn’t the only one. It seems many of the hardened marines are also scared of spiders. Big pansies…

What dreams may come

I WAKE up at about 5am and I’m glad.
There were no more attacks during the night and I actually managed to get a half decent night’s sleep – despite being dressed in my body armour complete with helmet.
I can’t tell you the dreams I had, but they were full on and not for a family newspaper’s website.
Within minutes of waking I’m told that successful clearance patrols had already taken place in the first 24 hours after arriving in the Zharey district.
42 Commando’s L and K companies found a number of 107mm rockets, possible Improvised Explosive Device factories and bomb making components.
They also found about 3,000 metres of wire, also thought to be for bomb making purposes.
“The local BT engineer is going to be thredders if we’ve blown up his kit,” a marine joked.
“Unlikely,” I replied.
We cook up our breakfast and within half an hour a Sea King helicopter drops off rations and weapons.
It’s bizarre how excited commandos get about the prospect of incoming food.
By 8am two massive explosions had shaken the ground and reminded us once again about where we were and what we were doing.
Everyone immediately grabbed their body armour and weapons again only to be told the explosions were caused by controlled explosions carried out by K company.
With the situation seemingly under control the Commanding Officer of 42 Commando holds a briefing tells everyone that he is “purposefully” moving the enemy towards us to enact a pincer-like movement.
I’m not sure I share his thoughts but hey, he’s the boss after all.
It’s barely 12noon when K Company engage with the Taliban after reports of women and children rushing to leave a compound to our south.
Smoke mortars are fired off about 500 metres away from us to provide a smokescreen for the commandos to make it back to our temporary home in the compound.
With all the excitement going on, it’s slightly bizarre to see the elderly owner of the compound popping in to ask if he could grab some hay to feed his animals.
Back to the action enfolding in front of us and K company kick off a gun battle as they try to make it home.
In the thick of the action small arms fire is targeted at our compound.
By 3pm the order to “stand down” is shouted across the site. K company move into a nearby site and all is well again – well, for the time being.
All this action and excitement makes me feel sleepy and I’m asleep by about 6.30pm straight after eating.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh

THE last few days have been a bit of a blur. They’ve been a whirlwind of activities and, to be honest, I’ve found it pretty hard going.

What I couldn’t say before (due to operational security) was that we were planning to go out on a number of patrols in downtown Kabul.

We are constantly reminded that we cannot discuss – either on phone or email - forthcoming operations in case someone is listening in.

Apparently the calls are routed via other countries in the region and the emails are bounced around to god knows where.

This has proved rather infuriating – no doubt – for my newsdesk, family and girlfriend, Suzie, as they have had no idea where I have been or what I have been doing.

In any case yesterday’s two patrols, in Snatch vehicles and on foot, were fascinating and terrifying in equal measure.

Every single aspect of a patrol is carefully planned and executed in case of any eventuality.

Driving down the street is an operation in itself. The Snatch vehicles swap positions, zig-zag across the roads and slow traffic to allow them to pass.

On several occasions yesterday marines had to fire flares at the oncoming traffic to get them to slow down.

When the marines scream at people to “slow down” and “move out of the way”, you cannot help but feel on edge.

As any marine will tell you, it only takes a second for something to go very wrong. If concentration lapses very bad things happen – and no-one wants that.

It’s all very well being kept in camp surrounded by coalition forces personnel but it is a very different world outside of those four walls.

Leaving the gates you immediately realise the scale of poverty, and how good we really have it in comparison.

Speaking absolutely impartially you also get an idea of how much work is being done in these Afghan communities by the coalition forces.

Civil and Military Co-operation (CIMIC) schemes are in abundance and range from upgrades to roads and drainage systems to improvements to schools and mosques.

And the Afghan people need this help.

Going out on patrol is an eye opener to say the least.

When you see a partially clothed child running around gleefully in the dust fields pulling a brick on a piece of cord as a toy, it makes you think.

How can these people be so very happy with so little? It’s a wonder to behold and one which the British society should grasp.

As soon as you step out of the armoured Snatch vehicles and walk around you are immediately surrounded by children and adults who want only to shake your hand.

Admittedly most want dollars or your pen or notepad, but nonetheless the feeling towards the British is clearly evident.

Every Afghan I spoke to through a translator spoke of their appreciation for the British efforts in terms of providing security. They want nothing more than to live in peace.

But peace sadly comes at a price. Upon returning from our first patrol news broke of the death of two Plymouth-based servicemen.

If someone hadn’t have mentioned it I would have been none the wiser.

The Royal Marines accept the loss but continue with their operations like machines. Yes they have hearts, but there is a time for grieving and now is the time for helping others.

Certainly by the time we returned from the second patrol the mood had changed. The lads were tired and – if I can say it – emotional.

Their heads were bowed slightly, but their minds were focused.

The road to Kabul

Whether you’re at home, in your office at work, or on holiday, it’s easy to get comfortable in your surroundings.
Despite the occasional rocket attack, Kandahar air base was beginning to feel safe and homely.
Five days in and I was finding my feet. I was walking round unaccompanied and I wasn’t getting lost.
With 11,000 people on site it’s like a town – a multi national one at that.
So last night, stepping out (or rather flying) of the base for the first time – and out of my comfort zone, felt weird.
Lat night we left for Kabul, a northern city which is notorious for trouble.
Since operations began in Afghanistan, it’s capital city of Kabul seems to have attracted much of the press – bad press at that.
While Kandahar is known as the spiritual home of the Taliban, Kabul almost seems like one of the Taliban’s last stands. Daily reports from UK national press seem to feature death and destruction, doom and gloom.
So believe me when I say, I wasn’t massively keen on paying a visit.
But you know nothing ventured, nothing gained and members of 42 Commando’s J Company are here so it had to be worth a visit.
The flight up north was on a Hercules plane which is an experience in itself.
From the outside the aircraft looks mighty with its huge wing span and propellers. Inside they look like they haven’t been finished.
Wires and mesh hang everywhere and the seats are like ancient camping props.
But the simple fact is that they remain one of the most used and trusted resources in the military.
For take off all passengers are told to wear their body armour (in case anyone on the ground fancies taking a pop shot) and wear ear plugs.
The noise of the propellers and engines is incredible and their roar can be heard from miles around.
Somehow despite the deafening roar, I managed to slip off to sleep.
As my bleary eyes regained focus I realised I was sat directly opposite a captive Afghan. Handcuffed, with a helmet on and blindfolded he didn’t say a word and was led away first as soon as we landed.
I considered asking about him but with the air around him, his security – and that of the lads – it seemed inappropriate.
As we stepped off the Hercules we were immediately shuffled to a muster point where we were given a safety briefing, and details of how we were going to be transported to Camp Souter – 42 Cdo’s base up here.
We were then told that we would have to travel 800 metres outside of the airbase into open territory to get to the camp.
We crammed into the back of a heavily armoured Saxon vehicle, donned our body armour and the lights went out.
Those 800 metres could have been eight miles for all I knew.
Sometimes it’s better not to know how dangerous a situation could become..
Ignorance, it seems, is bliss.
The only glimpse of the night sky was through a gap in the vehicle used by the marine providing top cover.
Needless to say, when we arrived within the safe confines of Camp Souter I was relieved.
God knows how I will feel when we get out on patrol in Kabul with the lads.

Marine talk master class

IN THE chaos that ensued as I packed ready for this trip I seemingly forgot one essential piece of kit – the Royal Marine dictionary.

Spending time with the royals is an education in itself. How or why the mix up and rename words for their own pleasure I don’t know. In fact, I’m not sure anyone knows.

Is it not enough already to abbreviate EVERYTHING?!

I guess it goes along with the whole desire to be individual and different from civilians like me.

I got a master class in marine talk in Norway earlier this year when they were training for this deployment.

And, it seems, they were also training their linguistic skills as well as their weapons capabilities.

So here I am once again unable to decipher whether a). a marine is taking the mickey out of me; b). whether someone is asking me whether I would like a drink or need the loo; or c). if I’m ready to eat or run off somewhere.

Seriously, if you’ve met a marine you’ll know what I mean.

So in preparation for their return to the UK on rest and relaxation, or indeed for the end of their deployment in the spring, here’s some definitions for you:



“Thredders” – tired or irritated.

“Galley” – canteen (even though it’s not on a ship).

“Goffer” – fizzy drink (can of pop) or very big wave that soaks you through.

"Recce" – Reconnaissance (as in 'troop').

"Scran" – food.

"Icers" – cold.

"Redders" – hot.

"Wet" – drink.

"Hoofin" – good or awesome.

"Gucci" – awesome or good.

"Chad" – bad. (or as one marine put it… "picture your dad in drag or indeed “that singer from Nikelback".

"Heads" – toilet.

"Essence" – good looking.

"Slug" – sleeping bag.

"Racing spoon" – spoon.

“Gen” – genuine or truth.

“Roger that” – okay.

Subway or Burger King?

So here I am sat in the middle of southern Afghanistan in the intense heat with one question on my mind… Subway or Burger King?

It will come as a surprise to most I’m sure that the coalition forces’ base at Kandahar boasts many of the comforts of home – and possibly even more.

I spent this morning with members of 42 Commando’s mortar troop on the outskirts of the base practising live firing.

Due to the length of time it took to interview and film the guys we missed lunch at the mess hall.

There I was ready to crack open one of the ration packs prepared for our forthcoming operation when Captain Alex Burlingham, 42’s press guy, suggested a visit to the ‘Boardwalk’.

The boardwalk, I’m told built and named by the Americans, boasts any number of eating establishments from home. You name it: Pizza Hut (still Pizza Hut and not Pasta Hut out here), Burger King, Subway… the list is endless.

The story goes that the square shaped wooden structure (roughly the size of a football pitch) was built by the Americans from the wood they’d collected from cargo boxes carrying kit.

Once it had been built they leased the various stalls out to the food giants for those home comforts.

Not only that, the Canadians also came on board with the idea and built a full-on hockey court.

It is surreal to say the least. But still, you can’t blame them when the average US deployment is at least 12 months. That’s a year away from home with little over a few weeks for rest and relaxation.

Yes the coalition forces are at war, but I guess you need some downtime.

Aside from the boardwalk there’s also stores selling cheap goods (everything from Nike Air trainers and knives to iPods, DVDs and sleeping bags), gyms, coffee shops and even a massage parlour.

They say an army marches on its stomach and here it is essential that the troops are well fed.

On the base there are countless mess halls where servicemen and women can eat to their heart’s content.

Soup, fruit, yoghurts, cooked breakfast, roast dinners, and even trifle, are served three times a day every day.

Eating in the huge mess halls (similar to school canteens) is a fascinating experience.

With each visit you can sit beside Brits, Canadians, Aussies, Yanks, Dutch, Spanish, French, or even Afghans.

And the conversations which go with each sitting are bizarre to say the least.

The marines, it seems, like nothing more than to rip shreds out of the Yanks for their deployment lengths.

And if you want some downtime you can watch Sky News or American network television on any one of a number of fixed widescreen tvs.

Due to operational security I’m still not sure exactly what I will be doing with each passing day. There is talk of an operation with 42 Cdo within the coming days, and there is also talk of moving further afield to visit another of the unit’s companies.

It’s all on a need to know basis and I seemingly, do not need to know just yet.

With any luck I will have the chance to update the blog as I go.

I’ll be in touch.


Tristan

Colours of Remembrance, colours of the flag

On the rare occasion when I’m late for work having overslept, it takes me around 20 to 30 minutes to get changed and out the door.

Last night’s two explosions which shook the dust off the inside of my military tent, saw me get changed and out the door literally within seconds.

I was asleep at the time on my makeshift bed at the back of a logistics office and the blasts saw me scramble for cover.

As I raced out of the tent, one arm through my top and belt and shoe laces undone, a couple of marines looked at me in surprise.

As this is a family newspaper’s website I can’t reveal what exactly came out of my mouth, but I can say it would have been enough to turn the dark and dusty sky blue.

It transpired that the two blasts were in fact controlled explosions of insurgent explosives found near the base and carried out outside the base.

Believe me when I say I have never heard a blast like it. The ground shuddered not once but twice and I was seriously shaken.

An earlier announcement over Kandahar base’s tannoy system had made clear controlled explosions would take place in 15 minutes time. This was nearly an hour later and was completely unexpected.

“They do that a lot,” a marine from Plymouth called Kev said.

“Keeps you on your toes.”

“Or awake and out of bed,” I replied.

Apparently insurgents like to place timers on rockets and leave them to fire inside the base. There’s no target and they don’t really know where they’re going but they do make it inside.

Military patrols do look for the insurgents to prevent them firing but it’s impossible to stop them all.

Last night I also discovered why I have been getting some strange glances from service personnel on base.

It seems my grizzly beard, shaven head and non-military issue clothes have given people the impression I am in fact ‘SF’ – or in normal speak ‘Special Forces’.

Twin that with my quiet nature (speak when spoken to for fear of saying something stupid), everyone has been pretty stand-offish for obvious reasons.

When another 42 Commando marine asked me if I was ‘SF’ I nearly cried with laughter – and when he heard I was nothing but a mere reporter for The Herald – he nearly cried with laughter too.

So that’s it, my covers blown. But it has in fact helped with attracting hometown stories from the lads.

They’re pleased to see some from ‘Guzz’ [Plymouth] as they call it out here. In a world that seems to do nothing but moan about the war in Afghanistan, they’re happy to feel appreciated for what they do.

Today has been a day of reflection for everyone. Earlier a huge Remembrance Day event was staged on a parade ground on the base.

The names of three Royal Marines who died – and who were friends of friends of mine – were read out.

It brings it home to you when you know someone who has been affected by someone’s premature departure.

One thing that stuck in my mind was part of the speech the padre gave during the service.

He pointed out that the three colours which made up the poppies we were all wearing – red, green and black – are in fact the three colours of the Afghanistan flag.

Hmmm…

“Welcome back Mr Nichols”

SAT silent in the darkness, and clad in body armour as we made our final approach into Kandahar the plane’s captain addressed the tired assembled passengers.
“Unfortunately we are unable to land at the moment because of activity on the ground. “We may have to avoid Kandahar and fly into Muscat instead. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
‘Welcome back to Afghanistan’ I thought.
I was here reporting from Afghanistan for The Herald almost exactly two years ago.
Just an hour before we were due to depart Kandahar following a seven-day stint, Taliban insurgents targeted the runway with a rocket.
So what happened last night? Yep, you got it… the buggers decided to do it again.
After circling the airspace over the capital of Kandahar Province for about 30 minutes we finally landed. And you could say I was relieved.
It was only after that I was told a Hercules aircraft was forced to take off again when the rocket nearly hit it as it came to land before us.
It’s times like this that you begin questioning why you were so adamant in the first place about coming back to Afghanistan, not least Kandahar – the spiritual home of the Taliban.
Oh well, all’s fair in love and war so they say.
So yes, for the next three weeks or so I will be living and working alongside Plymouth’s 42 Commando normally based at Bickleigh.
What we will be doing, I’m not sure. Due to operational security I can’t exactly say what we will be doing, only talking about it after the events have taken place.
However, I can assure everyone that it will be “hoofing” – as the Royals say – and pretty tough going by all accounts.
While 42 Cdo’s 590 marines are largely based here in Kandahar they are operating across the province of Kandahar and beyond. And with any luck I will be joining them on operations reporting from life on the very frontline.
For now though I’m based here at Kandahar air field with elements of 42 Cdo, and forces from Canada, the US, and Holland.
The sun-baked base itself is bustling with activity. While last night seemed cold (probably around one or two degrees) today the temperature has seriously cranked to easily 27 or 28 degrees.
Of course the sun has cooked the ground here for months on end and the place resembles a desert with countless tents and structures.
With every passing vehicle a dust storm follows, blinding and choking every unfortunate pedestrian.
The lads seem to hate the sand as much as the enemy; but this is one war they can’t win. They’re praying for rain to allow them to breathe properly. Can’t say I blame them. I’ve been here five minutes and I’m spluttering.
Other than that they all seem in good spirits. Plans change, it seems, by the second but that’s the military isn’t it? They just crack on.
So by day the place is bustling with vehicles. By night, when the majority of the attacks seem to happen, the airbase comes to life with endless loud take offs and landings.
Anyone who has witnessed a Hercules aircraft taking off will tell you just how noisy they are – and they’re not wrong.
Residents of Roborough living close to Plymouth City Airport take note – this is the real deal and these guys have to live next door to it for six months. And you chose to live there!
I got barely a wink of sleep last night but hey, the sleepless nights thinking about this trip at the very least prepared me.
So much has happened already in very little time. I met with the very proud Commanding Officer of 42 Commando this morning who talked me through the set up and various operations.
And of course the Royal Marine banter has started with the lads. Not that I can understand whether it’s an insult or compliment of course – they have their own language.
So yes, here I am once again… a stranger in a foreign land.
I’ll be in touch.

Tristan