Transpiring from all the drone, P-3C Orion and satellite imagery was a remarkable unfolding of activity that could be followed, traced and interpreted. Heightened activity out of Basra had identified the source and the lair of the terrorist groups that had taken the patrol boat. They had been captured on camera in large numbers deploying from an address in Basra immediately following our riverside engagement. They had obviously been informed of our engagement with members of their group and deployed immediately in support and to retrieve the explosives, before then retreating back to Basra. This was the most important intel we could have possibly hoped for and all just by accident, an engine failure on a dhow, our chance encounter with them, pulling the entire terrorist group out of hiding, revealing their home base. It was an extraordinary fuck-up on their part – to risk heading out to recover that cargo gave away everything. Over the next few days we watched in amazement the traffic going in and out of that building, both in real time and from historical recordings which confirmed undoubtedly we had found terrorist HQ. An air strike was arranged and just a few days later was executed by US fighter jets. In one strike overnight two US F-15E Strike Eagles, using laser-guided munitions, destroyed a building where 200 paramilitary members were confirmed to be in hiding, including everyone on Keith’s list. British ground forces were able to confirm on site all that the Steering Group had hoped for. All that remained now was to locate Asad in Beirut.
Keith and I remained on base for a week or so. I think we were both trying to come to terms with the last few months and the engagement on the river. Nothing seemed normal anymore and the whole series of events started to surface more and more in our thoughts and how we behaved and interacted, not only between ourselves but with everyone who came across our paths. We withdrew away from everyone on the base into a self-imposed isolation, which served us well as we tried to process all the anger and frustration we each carried and shared so heavily now. We were closer than ever as friends and only felt able to face each day if we were together the entire time. There was no room for outsiders in this isolated mourning we had created, which pissed people off. We got drunk often and were becoming an unwelcome upset in the mess, the dining area and amongst all ranks. It went on for a little while longer until we managed to get a ride on a helo out to the Essex in the Gulf. I don’t think the base could have tolerated us for too much longer. We had outstayed our welcome and there was no longer any room at the inn for past warriors or washed-up, burnt-out members of an organisation no one really knew or cared about. All that was visible to those young eyes that looked upon us was two angry British servicemen who didn’t want to engage in any way with the base activities except to get drunk and close the door to all who knocked on it.
We got on that helicopter with all our baggage, emotional and psychological, the remains of an elite team heading home, knowing the closer we got to home the further away from it we would be.
The Steering Group
Chapter 14
Brotherhood
Leaving the American base and our trail of emotional debris behind was a good move because we both needed to get back amongst the people who could go some way to understanding us and actually deal with our fucked-up mindset. Being around people who haven’t experienced a traumatic experience just made me more resentful and upset. It’s like telling a cancer patient you understand how they feel when actually how the fuck could you possibly ever understand anything about cancer unless you’ve endured it and survived, or at least lost a family member to the disease? I naively thought cancer was a disease for ‘other’ people until both my parents died from it, but before that loss in my life I couldn’t have even come close to getting to grips with the sheer enormity of pain, loss and suffering that that disease unleashes on its victims and families.
We were soon on the approach to the support ship. Looking out through the sun-hazed window, I could see all the oil slicks and all the debris of war in the otherwise beautiful blue waters of the Gulf, a small reminder that all was not well in the world and man’s greed was taking its toll on all living things. Helicopter flights over water still fascinate me, it’s the searching for the tiny dot on the radar, the speck on the horizon, searching for a platform on which to land. Every time I had to fly out to a ship or platform it always felt as though the helicopter was too big to land on the tiny flight deck that substituted for an airport landing site. But land we did and it felt great to see all things British once more. We got out of the helo and went into the hangar to be greeted by the ship’s staff, eager to carry our shit and escort us through the ship to our accommodations. They all sort of knew who we were, and by the look of Keith and I they could have been forgiven for thinking the very worst of us. Walking down the passageways was a comforting experience, everything clean and polished, crew members rushing past, smiling and saying good morning and such shit, radios on in offices, the smell of the galley and the engine spaces combining to give that perfume only a ship could give. It felt safe. It felt good to be back aboard.
It was surreal to be back on board, like checking into a five-star hotel. I would be living in luxury after what we had been used to and it all felt as if nothing had happened, as no one knew what we had endured. No one knew what we had been involved with and no one really cared, which was good mostly as I desperately needed to keep a low profile, but at the same time I found the lack of interest annoying. I had a 20-minute hot shower despite the water rationing aboard the ship, fish and fucking chips in the mess cos it was Friday, and then off to my cabin and a pusser’s navy bunk to crash out on. That first night back on board was so very strange, the sounds of the ship keeping me awake and yet taking me on a gentle journey to a sleep I hadn’t been able to enjoy for such a long time – the breeze of the air conditioning being pumped through my little punkah louvre, cooling me as I lay under the crisply ironed sheets fresh back from the Chinese laundry, and my head on top of two pusser’s pillows, all accompanied by the echoing chorus and vibration of the ship all busy at work outside my cabin door. I must have passed out for about 72 hours, no word of a lie.
When I finally managed to drag my ass out of that cabin I spent many evenings with Marcus and Keith, debriefing the entire op, sometimes just in person alone with Marcus, but sometimes with video links back to London and the Pentagon to discuss future ops that would build on the successes of our campaign. But Marcus wanted to just talk through what had happened aboard that patrol boat – long conversations that we needed to have, the justifications, the need, the pain and the regret of everything. Keith and I would often take those conversations to the SNCOs’ bar to drown them and then take ourselves to places I never want to go again at the bottom of a second bottle of whisky. The SNCOs’ bar was much more tolerant of us drinking ourselves into a coma, and between us we drank, cried and talked it all through. Sometimes we were joined by some really fucking decent guys who were the senior engineers aboard who liked nothing more than to get smashed with Keith and me. The mess president turned a blind eye so long as we were gone before he had breakfast in the morning. We would play drinking games, often ending up with stupid injuries like carpet burns on our faces, burnt lips from ignited cocktails and occasionally a black eye when the play-fighting turned real. The brotherhood between Keith and I was indescribable, and we would go on as brothers until the day I left the service. He still serves to this day.
But no matter how hard we played in that mess there are wounds you cannot see that will never be healed because there will always be a scab that gets scratched off occasionally, revealing the rawness that festers underneath. Now, there is nothing I can say about Cheesy, Smudge or Owen, it’s just a no-go area. What can anyone say about lost friends, comrades or brothers, my brothers in arms? I loved them all. It’s a tragedy of irreparable loss, but a loss that will remain with me forever, lingering in my mind together with the smells and the chaos of that day. All the plans that were made between us are now lost to the past and to that encounter on the river. There is no
future with them now, the brotherhood lost, except to see their faces at night when dreams don’t linger but give way to endless episodes of paranoia and fear – the fear of never being forgiven for what happened and what we did or didn’t do. Thoughts that come in the small hours of the morning that we must be on a counter list, a kill list from a country’s intelligence cell or some other scumbag organisation we pissed off or all but wiped out, leaving me to be always looking out the window, always looking behind to see who is in my shadow, always afraid of new people who proclaim their innocent interest in me as a person.
The Essex arrived in Dubai for an SMP (self maintenance period). I got off the ship and rushed over to the Madinat Jumeirah hotel complex on the beach in Dubai. Anna had flown out to meet me. It was very touch and go if the ship would ever be able to dock in the current political and complex climate of the Middle East, or if I would be allowed any R&R. There had been some very serious correspondence between the Steering Group and Marcus about keeping Keith and me on board, out of sight, but both Marcus and Brown knew how important a few days with family would be. Anna and I just kept hoping that we could be reunited, one week it being all on, the next calling it all off, only to call again to say get on the plane. But here I was finally in Dubai, Anna already at the hotel waiting for me.
I remember arriving at this luxury resort, unlike anything I had experienced. Totally surreal, I arrived dirty and tired into a reception area that was nothing short of palatial. I sat down in a huge sofa and was given hot towels to wipe my grubby face and hands which were soon clutching a glass of ice-cold champagne. Fuck, less than 72 hours ago I had been in a war zone, and here in this place people were on fucking holiday as though nothing were happening, as if no one cared for all the fucking shit service men and women were sacrificing just hours away. I was approached by a waiter and told there had been a problem with the booking and my wife wanted to discuss it with me before I could check in properly. My mind wasn’t really focused on any details, just the need to crash out, but I was escorted to an abra (small boat) and whisked away through the hotel canal network to a villa where Anna awaited my arrival. Our original booking in one of the main buildings with a sea view was no longer available but we had been offered an upgrade to a garden villa (with our own butler). Anna thought I would be mad not getting the sea view, but fuck I was more than happy with that upgrade – a private villa away from everyone and a private pool! After where I had been for the past few months a youth hostel would have been amazing enough.
We had a brilliant holiday, emotional at times but amazing in every way a reunion of lovers should be, but I remember just crying in Anna’s arms one evening as we sat in the enormous bathtub in our villa. The realisation struck home of what had happened, what I had just walked away from. It was a crazy delayed reaction maybe, I’m not sure, but I remember just not being able to control my emotions. A James Blunt tune had come on to the radio in the room, and the words just brought it all home. Powerless to hold it in, Anna began to see the first widening cracks in my hardened façade, the render of a false strength falling away revealing the real me, tired, scared and utterly fatigued from the endless demands of the Steering Group to complete their list regardless of the price. Their orders demanding satisfaction as if in payment now for the opportunity that was afforded to me, that eager boy so many years ago. There was never going to be an exit clause this far in to the system, the machine wanted to see a conclusion to its business that it had sought for so long. The scared boy looking to belong was now in debt to the machine and I knew it. I knew the price, the price was my piece of mind or my life; the investment must return its loyalty and return the dividend. I knew then as I know now that there would never be any going back, no redaction of my life’s events; the story had been written and lived out and could never be re-written or edited to make good all that had gone wrong or change any of the outcomes. I had nowhere to take my anger for what had happened on that patrol boat, so I had to bury it and bottle it to be stored away and preserved, still raw and septic, waiting to be set free on the fool who would open the lid sometime in the future.
I wasn’t sure where life would take me from that point on, but what I was sure about was making the most of my time with Anna on that holiday. The here and now was important; fuck tomorrow, it may never come. We ate and drank in all the finest restaurants, including a night at a Gordon Ramsay restaurant in town which was honestly shit compared with some of the other on-site restaurants. But the cherry on the cake was a meal in the Burj Al Arab. We had a golf cart pick us up from the villa and drive us over to the Burj. I’ve got to say it’s all a bit garish inside, overcooked opulence trying to be regal or elegant but failing massively because it’s so modern and lacks the great history of the finest hotels of the world like the Peninsula in Hong Kong or Raffles in Singapore, the Waldorf or even the Savoy in London. I think it could have been done more tastefully but it wasn’t and that left it begging to be acknowledged simply because of its self-proclamation of being a six-star hotel. We headed up to the Skyview Bar, which I have to say was pretty impressive, for a few cocktails. I ordered a French 75 which received a ‘what the fuck’ look from the barman, fucking useless bastard. Now, if this had been the Peninsula, they would have already known what I had wanted, had it ready and replied with my first name.
Nonetheless here we were together and happy, and my cares dropped away as we descended in a super-fast lift to sublevel 4 or something to board a submarine (simulator) and undertake a fake underwater ride to the restaurant. After the ride, the door of the sub opened whereupon we were greeted into the restaurant which was like something out of a Disney movie. Anna and I were escorted over to our table right next to the biggest aquarium outside of Europe, and we sat down to an extravagant meal of seafood discovery whilst watching divers attend to the fish and other sea life through the 30ft-high glass walls. I ordered oysters to start, which came on a bed of dry ice that was overly theatrical to say the least. Ice vapour poured off the plate to surround me at the table as though I were a pop star in a concert or something equally ridiculous. I consumed those oysters in a matter of seconds and they tasted smooth, cold and satisfying yet lightly salted and exciting to the palate. We both ordered a glass of Billecart Salmon Vintage Rosé champagne and then ordered a bottle of it, costing £300, to go with our main course of lobster. I didn’t give a flying fuck! Dinner cost nearly £500, which is madness I know, but in my mind I was lucky to be there. I was celebrating life because just weeks earlier I might have been fucking shot dead on that patrol boat, so what the hell. Life is for living and I was with the only person who made my life worth living, worth continuing for. Anna was and is my life and the vehicle back to a normal quiet existence away from such thoughts and memories as that time on the river.
The holiday/R&R was soon over unfortunately, and we had made sure that we spent all the money we had saved up. I took Anna to Dubai airport to see her safely on her way home. I remember waving her off into the terminal and then just standing there in the heat of the Dubai sun, lost in thoughts, lost in memories of my time in Dubai with Anatoly – all those thoughts now superseded and overwritten by new memories of me and Anna enjoying life in Dubai. It was a paradoxical moment that would have been a dream not too long ago. I was mentally trying to prove to myself that there was hope, a way back, that it was possible to rewrite things. I stood there for maybe half an hour, wet through with sweat, before I finally got a taxi into town and ended up at the seamen’s mission. I was on a mission to get absolutely shitfaced and I succeeded with the help of the Essex crew who were there enjoying the cheap beer, the pool and the freedom to be as drunk as they liked. Work hard, play harder. The lads off the ship were good eggs. Matelots are fucking great drinkers, and once they’re on the pop there’s no stopping them or their stupidity after a skinful. I don’t remember too much after the first few hours and awoke in my cabin aboard the Essex with a fucker of a headache and the realisation the ship was actually underwa
y, homeward bound, back to Blighty, as the lads liked to say.
I was due to get back with the ship maybe two months later after decompressing, but as things turned out I had to fly home early from Barcelona to be with Anna as she had a health scare. It got me home early and I was fucking pleased to leave it all behind. I got home and everything was fine, it was all a false alarm, so I was able to enjoy being at home on leave with Anna. We enjoyed long walks on the beach in Cornwall and hikes on Dartmoor which was so cool as I have always enjoyed the open space Dartmoor offers. I didn’t have much to do with the Steering Group for a while; all the debriefing had been done on the Essex so no need for any of that bullshit to interfere with this leave period which was classed as an extension of decompression. Besides, I don’t think Keith or I were ready for much more than mincing around doing nothing, readjusting to a quieter life. Keith kept in touch with me and we both sort of returned to a life back in the UK that was weird in many ways. There were no reunions, no piss-ups, no brass band or parade, no one gave a fuck or knew what we had been though apart from us.
Life continued as though nothing had been going on in the Middle East. People back home were more worried about the cost of petrol and shit like that. Life was allowed to be strangely normal in England, so I guess I had to pretend and get on with it, live life again, bury it all and try to be ‘normal’, if only for Anna’s sake. Some servicemen can’t do it, and get into trouble down the pub, become alcoholics or just fail at being normal altogether and end up in prison. They’re not bad people, it’s society that wanted them to be bad in the first place and just don’t know how to reverse the training and the experiences they have witnessed, let alone know what to do with them once they’ve done all the dirty work and returned home looking for a bit of support or just some understanding without feeling weak or showing any sort of failure. Just to be accepted and be normal again – it’s hard for everyone, not just servicemen.
The Steering Group Page 48