Danger Close

by Colonel Stuart Tootal

  Leadership in war is a complex business, often necessitating decisions be made on the basis of imperfect information where there is no time for prevarication. It requires judgement and intuition regarding events that are unclear and where the consequences often have life-or-death implications. But leading men in combat and making command decisions are also the essence of what every commander aspires to do; suddenly I wasn’t so sure. As those precious moments slipped by and I agonized about the choices I faced, the military maxim of ‘Beware what you wish for’ crossed my mind. Bugger that, I thought, this is what I get paid for; time to decide. I flicked the switch on my intercom: ‘Land on.’

  Due to the shortage of aircrew gunners at the time, I manned the CH-47’s port M60 machine gun as we ran into the LZ. Traversing it across its arcs, I noticed the pop and smoke of an explosion and saw armed figures suddenly appearing among the undergrowth as we swept over the hedgerows and ditches below us. I beaded the weapon’s sight of the M60 on them, but relaxed my grip on the triggers with relief when I recognized one of the men as a paratrooper from A Company. The aircraft landed with a thump and we ran off the tailgate. I managed to make the customary thumbs up to the tailgate gunner as we left the cab, not sure whether it was for his confidence or mine, and entered a blizzard of swirling sand and uncertainty.

  1

  3 PARA

  Angels with Dirty Faces

  Bloody marvellous, I thought as I walked out of the Chief of the General Staff’s (CGS) marbled office in Whitehall. As well as being head of the Army, General Sir Mike Jackson was also the Colonel Commandant of the Parachute Regiment. Through gravelled tones and cigar smoke, he had informed me that I was going to be the next commanding officer (CO) of the regiment’s 3rd Battalion, better known as 3 PARA. I was elated. To me command of an infantry unit, especially a Para battalion, was the apogee of a soldier’s military career. However, getting selected to command hadn’t been a foregone conclusion. There was some stiff competition for the post and coming originally from a Scottish infantry regiment, I had been something of an outsider. ‘Jacko’ mentioned that my selection was still subject to official approval at an Army appointments board. Just before I left his office he told me not to tell anyone ‘except your good lady wife of course’. Although I had a serious girlfriend, in an Army still founded on the tradition that single officers unmarried in their late thirties are considered to be somewhat suspect, I wasn’t about to tell him that I wasn’t married.

  I had taken a rather convoluted route to command a Para battalion. Born into a family with an air force background, my lineage might have suggested that I should have joined the RAF. My grandfather had been a wartime pilot and was a twenty-six-year-old flight lieutenant when he was killed flying a Halifax bomber over Germany in 1945. My father had also been a military aviator, spending twenty years in the RAF before taking early retirement as a group captain. Although I joined the RAF section of my boarding school’s Combined Cadet Force, I had been brought up on a diet of war comics and Action Man. As a small boy, playing soldiers was what I enjoyed doing most and it bred an affinity for becoming one when I grew up. However, I knew relatively little about the Army and more distant maternal family connections influenced my decision to join a Scottish infantry regiment.

  In 1988 I joined the 1st Battalion the Queen’s Own Highlanders in Germany after completing officer training at Sandhurst. The Cold War was in its death throes and life in the British Army of the Rhine soon became dispiritingly predictable. The majority of the battalion’s time was spent fixing ageing armoured vehicles, most of which had entered service before I was born. Time not spent tinkering on the tank park was taken up with orderly officer duties, where a young subaltern engaged in the unexciting tasks of inspecting guards, checking stores and endlessly cleaning one’s parade dress. This was punctuated by unimaginative and mundane exercises where we spent interminable hours driving across the West German plain in vehicles that wheezed to a halt with impressive regularity. Living in armoured personnel carriers for weeks on end, we rarely dismounted to conduct proper infantry training and became preoccupied with keeping our antiquated equipment on the road. When it did come, light relief to the monotony of soldiering in Germany came in the form of emergency tours to Northern Ireland and the 1991 Gulf War.

  Patrolling the streets of the province’s divided sectarian community in West Belfast in 1989 was my first exposure to operational soldiering. In the late 1980s soldiers and policemen were still being killed by the IRA and the ever present danger of terrorist attack provided an exciting edge after the drudgery of Germany. Shootings and bombings occurred on an intermittent basis and for the first time I noticed how the soldiers I commanded looked to young officers to make decisions in conjunction with sound advice from the more experienced non-commissioned officers (NCOs). It was a junior commander’s war and I relished every moment of it.

  Deployment to the Gulf a year later was a stark contrast to conducting internal security duties in Northern Ireland. I was commanding the battalion’s platoon of armoured reconnaissance vehicles, and we were attached to the headquarters of the 1st (UK) Armoured Division. I remember waiting to cross the Saudi Arabian border into Iraq and the ground shaking as heavy US B-52 bombers pulverized enemy positions ahead of us. During the 100 hours of battle that followed to liberate Kuwait, we witnessed the carnage of war at first hand. The burnt-out hulks of Iraqi tanks and human remains littered the desert. The culmination of the division’s rapid advance brought us to the main Kuwait City to Basra road. Aptly named the Highway of Death, allied airpower had got there before us. They had caught the remnants of the Iraqi Army as it attempted to retreat north. Hundreds of scorched and smashed vehicles were strung out along the crater-marked road as far as the eye could see. The engines of some of the undamaged vehicles were still running and it was an apocalyptic scene; the greasy smoke of burning oil fields cast a black cloud above us and the stench of death was everywhere. As we viewed the widespread devastation and did what we could to treat some of the survivors, I was struck by the fact that there is no glory in war when one surveys its aftermath.

  Operations in Northern Ireland and the Gulf were but brief interludes. All too quickly they were once again replaced by conventional peacetime soldiering in places such as Germany and desk-bound staff appointments in the UK. I became increasingly conscious of the need to find more demanding pursuits if I was to stay in the Army. Commitments in the Balkans would no doubt have taken me out of Germany, but operations in places like Bosnia had settled into routine peace-keeping duties that were of little appeal. When I was afforded the opportunity to be seconded to command a rifle company in the Parachute Regiment as an alternative to returning to serve more time in Germany, I jumped at the chance.

  The Parachute Regiment’s status as an elite unit allows it to select and train only the toughest of candidates. With the exception of that conducted by the SAS, the Paras’ selection training is recognized as being the hardest in the British Army. But the key to the success of the regiment is the calibre of the men who make up its ranks. The Paras are the only regiment in the British Army that requires its recruits to undergo a rigorous selection course; known as P Company, it is the benchmark entry standard into the elite and sets them apart. The gruelling assessment course consists of two parts. The build-up phase is designed to improve a trainee’s fitness and endurance, while the test phase gauges the individual’s determination, team spirit, aggressiveness and behaviour under stress. It assesses whether an individual has the self-discipline and motivation required to serve with Airborne Forces. The tests are physically and mentally demanding. They stretch each candidate to the limit and decide whether an aspiring Parachute Regiment recruit is good enough to wear the distinctive maroon beret.

  Nothing in a Para’s training is done without a purpose and each event of Test Week is designed to simulate a particular battle activity and the hardships associated with airborne operations. Having inserted into an area by parachut
e, Paras are rarely expected to have much in the way of vehicle support. They must fight on their feet and tab to an objective carrying all their equipment with them. Thus the emphasis of P Company is placed on tabbing, the crucial ability to traverse the rough terrain of a battlefield on foot, at speed and while carrying a heavy pack and weapon. As well as conducting timed battle marches over hilly country at muscle-aching pace, the aspiring recruit must also pass an aerial assault course, known as the Trainasium, where misplaced footing could lead to the prospect of a fall and serious injury. Other tests include completing an arduous 1.8-mile cross-country course attached to a log the size of a telegraph pole by a length of rope to simulate a team resupply of heavy ammunition. ‘Coming off the log’ is a cardinal sin and is likely to lead to failure. Another event is called milling, a form of boxing where each candidate is expected to unleash sixty seconds of controlled aggression on his opponent by landing as many blows on him as possible. Sixteen-ounce boxing gloves and head guards are worn, but relentless attack is the objective. The Parachute Regiment is the only conventional unit in the Army that practises milling and most recruits finish covered in blood. When I did it aged twenty-nine I was no exception.

  I can remember stepping into the arena where my fight took place. The blood of those who had already completed their milling session was spattered across the floor; the referee from the P Company staff was also covered in it. When you are told to fight you attempt to unleash hell on your opponent. You don’t try to box, you just keep hitting him, you don’t give quarter and you don’t take defensive or evasive measures: if you do, you will fail. I fought a Sapper corporal from the backstreets of Manchester; he was several inches taller than me and had been deliberately chosen to fight me. My misfortune in being drawn against him was not only due to my comparative lack of physical stature, but also due to the fact that I was an officer. One of a party selected to fight the officers on the course; my opponent had been revved up by the P Company sergeant major. He had declared that this was their ‘one chance to legally hit an officer’. He told them not to waste it, stating that he wanted to see our blood on the floor.

  My opponent set about doing just that. Given the adrenaline that was pumping through my body, I didn’t expect the first blows to hurt as they landed square on my nose, jaw and the sides of my head. But they did, each one a blinding flash of light and pain. I milled back furiously, my arms rotating like windmills. My nose was bleeding, my right eye was cut and my contact lenses had long since been knocked out. Sixty seconds of unabated, mutual unrestrained aggression seemed like a lifetime; when it was over I was absolutely knackered. I was covered in blood and I had lost, but I had also demonstrated an ability to keep going forward and show that I could take damage. Battered and beaten, I had passed the test, as putting me into a position to face superior odds and carry on while getting hurt was exactly the point. I took some mild satisfaction that I had at least blackened one of my opponent’s eyes.

  If the recruit survives the endless tabs, Trainasium, log race and the milling, he still has to pass an 18 mile endurance march over mountains and a team race carrying a stretcher weighing 160 pounds over a 5 mile cross-country course. The stretcher race is designed to replicate evacuating a casualty under battle conditions and, as in all P Company events, it is conducted at a breakneck pace and no one is expected to walk. Even if candidates get to the end of Test Week, they still have to face being told whether they have performed well enough to earn the right to wear the maroon beret. In the particular case of officers, passing the physical aspects of the tests is not enough. Officers are also assessed on their aggressive leadership ability and those who are not seen to go the extra distance to motivate and lead other candidates will fail. Regardless of rank, the average pass rate for a successful Para recruit is under 40 per cent. Attempts to increase the pass rate by reducing standards have been vigorously resisted and it is a quality line that is fiercely guarded.

  My own experience of P Company taught me that there is no such thing as an average Para recruit. They are all different, which is one of the key strengths of the regiment. However, common character traits of a successful recruit are that they are mentally robust and have a keen determination to succeed. Without these they will not pass. A very fit recruit might fail P Company because he stops when his body is in pain and it is telling him to give up. However, an averagely fit recruit can pass the same course because he has the guts and determination to ignore the pain and keep going with all he has got. P Company not only sets the benchmark entry standard, but it also provides a thread of shared experience that ties all members of the Parachute Regiment together. Regardless of rank or seniority, each paratrooper knows that the comrades he serves alongside have been through it, which generates a status of elite membership based on common self-sacrifice and mutual trust and respect. However, while passing P Company earns the individual the right to wear the maroon beret, it is not an end in itself. Full club membership rests on passing subsequent parachute training.

  A trainee must complete eight static line jumps from a C-130 Hercules aircraft, including one at night. The challenge of passing the basic parachute course is mental rather than physical. Parachuting may be the Paras’ preferred method of battlefield entry, but it is a stressful and fear-inducing activity. Paratroopers must learn to cope with the anxiety of a forthcoming jump. For me it was always a remote nagging sensation that started as we prepared our equipment and walked up the tailgate ramp into the back of a waiting Hercules. It increased as the aircraft took off and began to approach the drop zone (DZ). I would experience an appreciable dread as the Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs) told us to stand up and fit our equipment in the back of the aircraft.

  Often being the senior officer aboard, I was expected to jump first. Thoughts of obstacle hazards on the DZ and emergency situations would fill my head as the para doors were opened and I was greeted by the blast of the slipstream. The PJIs would shout to be heard over the roar of the four turbo-prop engines as they checked our kit and hooked up our static lines. At the front of a ‘stick’ of forty-four paratroopers I would be manoeuvred into the open door, one hand across my emergency reserve and one foot forward on the jump step. As my eyes fastened on the dispatch light, my peripheral vision would be filled by the ground rushing past several hundred feet below. Apprehension would suddenly be replaced by a feeling of aggressive determination, the atmosphere of the moment of leading men out of the door, the need to focus on drills and the desire to get the jump done. The dispatch light would flash ‘red on’ to indicate the aircraft was making its final run in to the DZ at 800 feet. Twenty seconds later it would flash `green on’. Instantaneously the PJI would shout ‘Go!’ and I would be out of the door and tumbling in the aircraft’s slipstream.

  As I desperately tried to keep my feet and knees together to avoid causing the rigging lines of my chute to twist, the static line would snap open a billowing canopy of silk which would be followed by a heartening jerk. Sudden relief that I had a properly functioning parachute would be almost immediately replaced by the need to steer away from other jumpers. A collision with any one of them risked provoking the collapse of a chute. Once in clear airspace, heavy equipment containers fastened to waists and legs are released to dangle weightlessly below each jumper on a 10-metre strop. But the elation of an open parachute, avoidance of collision and the momentary joy of floating in the air are all too quickly replaced by the imminent prospect of landing. The ground seems to rush up to meet you at alarming speed. You try to assess your drift, then give up and adopt a tight position and prepare to accept the landing. It arrives a moment later with a sudden crunch capable of knocking the air from your lungs. I always landed like a sack of potatoes, but if I managed to walk off the DZ without significant injury I was content to consider it a successful jump.

  Unlike sports parachuting, military jumping is an unpleasant process. Anxiety concerning potential injury or death is accompanied by having to endure the hot and cramped
conditions in the back of an aircraft. Eighty-eight men together with their equipment are wedged in like sardines, each man’s legs interlocking with those of the paratrooper sitting opposite him. The low-level flight to the DZ might take several hours and airsickness afflicts most as the aircraft flies low level all the way to the target area. The unpleasantness is compounded by having to stand up inside the fuselage in full kit weighing anything up to 140 pounds, for up to forty-five backbreaking minutes as the aircraft twists and turns to make its final approach. To refuse to jump is a court martial offence, but refusals are rare, as those who are likely to do so will have been weeded out during training. Few Paras enjoy the experience of parachuting, but all of them have proved that they are prepared to conquer personal fear and go through the door of uncertainty when required.

  The Paras’ potency also stems from being able to draw on their short but impressive history. What the regiment has achieved in just over sixty years since its formation provides a founding base for the continuing ethos of the Paras. It is inculcated in recruits from the moment their training starts. They are consistently reminded of the fact that they were a force raised in 1940 to operate cut-off behind enemy lines, outnumbered and where the odds would be stacked against them. The fact that the golden thread of the regiment’s past is still so recent gives it a greater significance than that of older regiments, where memories of what was achieved at Waterloo are of little relevance to young soldiers. Many of the veterans of famous Parachute Regiment battles such as Normandy and Arnhem are still living and regularly mingle with today’s paratroopers at pass-off parades and regimental events. Evidence of the importance of the regiment’s past achievements is also reflected in the behaviour of the serving soldiers. Unlike other regiments, the single soldiers adorn their rooms with regimental emblems and montages of past endeavours. In addition, many paratroopers have the regimental cap badge tattooed on the top of their right arm to provide an enduring reminder of who they are both to themselves and to others.