Painting the Sand

by Kim Hughes GC

  After a couple of years driving around the training areas of the UK I began training for an operational tour in Northern Ireland. I didn’t know it at the time but the next six months would become some of the most important in my life.

  While most of my mates were despatched on driving courses to support the various units going across the water, I was told I would be supporting a Bomb Disposal Unit and I had to learn how to drive a Tactica, a vehicle used by the Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) teams. At the time I thought I had been given a raw deal because I was going to be on my own stationed in a patrol base called Girdwood in West Belfast – the heart of the Provisional IRA.

  Back in the 1990s Belfast was a city with a personality disorder. One half was relatively normal, just like any other city in the UK, with a thriving centre, chic, expensive restaurants, designer shops and trendy bars and clubs. But cross over into the west and you entered a different world. West Belfast was a Catholic stronghold where the IRA ruled with an iron fist. The Troubles might be over but the murders, punishment shootings and bomb attacks hadn’t stopped. Armed British soldiers still patrolled the streets and were largely regarded by the Catholic community as the enemy.

  With my training completed I was attached to an Army bomb disposal team with the call sign ‘Bobcat’, which consisted of the ATO, his No.2, an Electronic Counter Measures (ECM) Operator, two drivers and four infantry escorts who accompanied us wherever we went in a Snatch Armoured Land Rover. My job was to drive the No.2’s vehicle, which contained all of his equipment and various EOD robots, called wheelbarrows.

  Initially, in the early days of the tour, I would deploy to an operation without much idea of what was going on. I simply saw my job as driving the vehicle. A usual shout would consist of someone reporting a suspicious vehicle or package to the police, who would task us, Bobcat, to deal with it. I’d drive one of the vehicles to the scene at which point the ATO and the No.2 would take control of the situation. While the bomb disposal team set about their task I would look on in fascination and felt slightly disappointed that I couldn’t be more involved.

  About two weeks into the tour Bobcat was deployed near the Divis Flats, a grotty West Belfast council estate, dominated by a tower block and 1960s housing. The estate had become synonymous with the Troubles and was about as pro-IRA and as anti-British as you could get and had been a graveyard for soldiers since 1969, when the Troubles began. A possible pipe bomb had been reported and given the location was treated with a little bit more caution. As I sat in the driver’s seat watching a crowd gathering on the other side of the police cordon, the ATO – Staff Sergeant Andy Gee – emerged from the back of his vehicle dressed in his full bomb disposal suit and headed towards the suspect device.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ I asked the No.2 as I climbed from the vehicle.

  ‘He’s going to have a look at the bomb. The bomb suit should protect him if something goes wrong, providing he isn’t too close.’

  Andy returned about half an hour later, took off his helmet and as far as I was concerned had become the hero of the hour. Everyone appeared to be hanging on his every word, he was the centre of attention and looked unbelievably cool.

  For the first time in my Army career I had encountered something I found truly fascinating. Up until that point life had been OK. I had learned how to drive, been on a few foreign exercises but I felt as though I was drifting aimlessly with the tide. But bomb disposal was different. It was as if a series of light bulbs had gone off in my head. I could be a soldier and play around with explosives.

  As the tour progressed I began to ask Andy more questions about what he was doing and why he was doing it. He was very encouraging and keen to promote the trade and then one day turned to me and said: ‘Why don’t you give it a go? Transfer and become an Ammunition Technician. It’s the best job in the world. Why be a driver when you can go into bomb disposal? It’s a difficult trade to get into, there’s a lot of competition but if you want it, go for it. What have you got to lose?’

  Night after night I would go back to my room in Girdwood, lie on my bed and think about what Andy had said. I watched my mates going out on various driving details doing some right shit jobs and when they weren’t driving they would be put on some meaningless task, guarding the gate, often at night and being treated as a general dogsbody. I wanted more out of the Army than that. But the self-doubt and lack of self-belief that had dogged my school years soon returned and I thought I’d never be selected. But as the weeks went by it began to dawn on me that I wanted to change direction and go into bomb disposal.

  About halfway through the Northern Ireland tour I was sent on my Military Proficiency Course, a sort of assessment that every soldier needed to pass to get promoted to lance corporal. The course took place in Palace Barracks, a red-brick Victorian Army base just outside Belfast, where we were taught the basic skills required to be a junior noncommissioned officer (NCO). I was one of about thirty soldiers, all drawn from units across Northern Ireland and presided over by senior NCOs, called directing staff, known to us as the ‘DS’, who would judge us on our suitability as JNCOs. Most of the guys wanted to do well and pass because it meant more money and was the first step on the promotion ladder. As well as learning drill commands and being lectured on how the Army functions at the NCO level, we were also required to give a ten-minute lesson on something interesting. I was a bit stumped so decided to go and see the guys at the bomb disposal unit inside Palace Barracks and asked the ATO if he could help.

  ‘Why don’t you show them how to make a demolition charge and how to blow something up like a hand grenade?’ he said. ‘It’s pretty easy. I’ll show you, then go off and practise it and then show me and you’ll be set.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ I couldn’t believe it. Even at that stage I knew it was a great idea. He showed me how to prepare the explosives, the det-cord, the detonator and the electronic initiator that makes it all go bang. I borrowed a load of inert items from the EOD team and practised relentlessly until it was time for each of us to give our lesson.

  One guy gave a lesson on how to polish boots, another on how to make a cup of tea and someone even gave one on how to tie a tie. It was supposed to be an assessment of your ability to plan and execute a lesson – the subject matter was secondary. Then I gave my talk and the DS loved it and I was awarded top student on the course. It was a seminal moment in my Army career. At first I couldn’t believe that I could be the best at anything but then I thought ‘Why not?’ It was at that moment I realised I was no longer the fat kid with the girl’s name. The Army had changed me as a person or at least allowed me to grow in a way that Civvy Street never would. I now had an opportunity to do something different and I was determined to seize it with both hands. I returned to Girdwood that afternoon keen to transfer trade and become an Ammunition Technician. On my first day back I sought out a good mate, Lance Corporal Trevor Woods, a really chilled-out guy, and told him that I was thinking of transferring.

  ‘Listen, mate, if you wanna transfer then go for it, if not don’t. But people will take the piss, they will say that you couldn’t hack being a driver and they’ll call you a deserter, all that shite. The seniors will try and stop you, so if you go for it be prepared for that.’

  As always Trev’s advice was sound.

  The tour ended and we faded away on leave to different parts of the UK. I counted down the days until I could return to Catterick and on the first morning back I requested permission to transfer to become an Ammunition Technician. For the most part everyone was pretty enthusiastic and the only real hurdle was the seemingly endless amount of paperwork that needed to be completed.

  The Royal Logistic Corps accepted my request. I was to undertake training as an Ammunition Technician – providing I passed the selection process.

  5

  Bomb School

  Before anyone was going to let me near a bomb the Army needed to ensure that I had the mental capability to deal with the pressures of bomb dis
posal and that meant a visit to a psychologist. The psychometric evaluation took place in early February 2000 in a small classroom at Princess Royal Barracks, Deepcut, where I spent a day and a half answering questions about my childhood, family life and what made me happy or sad.

  After the questionnaires, several on-screen computer tests followed that required me to identify shapes, patterns and sequences. Once the tests were over I was ushered into a small room where a smiling female psychiatrist in her late twenties was sitting behind a desk waiting to grill me. Spread across her desk were my completed questionnaires with red circles and arrows pointing to my answers.

  ‘Do you have any concerns you’d like to share?’ she said smiling.

  ‘Like what exactly?’ I responded, shifting in my chair and trying not to sound rude.

  ‘Any family issues? What was your relationship like with your stepfather?’

  I wanted to say that he was a child-beater but instead I offered: ‘Not bad, I suppose. We have had our differences but it’s pretty good really.’

  And so the next few hours passed, she probing, me defending but trying to appear as helpful and as open as possible.

  I must have succeeded because a few days later I received my joining instructions and by the end of the month I was starting the first day of the week-long Ammunition Technician Selection course at Marlborough Barracks in Kineton, Warwickshire. As well as being a training centre, the Kineton base also serves as an ammunition depot, one of the largest in Europe, where everything from .22 rounds to guided missiles are stored.

  The training centre was split into two separate elements, bottom school and top school. Bottom school teaches potential Ammunition Technicians (ATs) and Ammunition Technical Officers (ATOs) their trade skills. The difference between the two is ATs are soldiers and ATOs are Commisioned Officers. They are both experts in explosives, bomb disposal and ammunition storage, an unglamorous but vitally important job.

  The top school, also known as the Felix Centre, is where bomb disposal is taught. All elements of bomb disposal, from basic Improvised Explosive Device Disposal (IEDD) to the High Threat course, which has to be passed if an AT or ATO wants to serve in Afghanistan, are taught at Kineton. Confusingly, while on operational deployment we are all known as ATOs. Kineton has a training area that can accommodate just about every scenario a bomb disposal operator might encounter. There is a small purpose-built town containing houses, a farm, a hotel and train station, garage forecourt and petrol station, allowing bomb disposal students to be tested in very realistic situations.

  There were thirty students on my AT selection, all nervous and eager to impress, knowing that every move we made, our attitude and ability to deal with whatever was thrown at us, were under constant scrutiny. The assessments included tests in maths, mechanical reasoning and problem solving.

  Almost as soon as the tests began, I felt my confidence begin to ebb away. That nauseating feeling of being the thick kid in class suddenly returned and I became convinced that I would fail. After a day in the classroom we were given homework on weapons and explosives. I studied late into the evening and was confronted by a near impossible test the following morning.

  At the end of the week we assembled in the main lecture theatre and waited for the results. I was convinced that I had failed and was annoyed with myself for believing that I could amount to anything more than an Army driver.

  Those who had failed, or were deemed not to have the skills needed to succeed in the AT trade, had their names read out and were asked to leave. By the end of that morning only ten out of the original thirty students were left, and I was one of them. I felt like I had won the lottery and the sense of relief in not having to return to my old unit as a failure was almost overpowering.

  The actual Ammo Techs course began in May 2000 and any thoughts that I had completed the difficult part by passing the selection phase were soon forgotten. Over the next six months I learned about every piece of ammunition used by the British Army in far greater depth than I thought was possible. It was science on steroids. I had convinced myself that the course was going to be all about bomb disposal but I couldn’t have been more wrong and before long I started wondering whether I had made the right career choice. It wasn’t just that the lessons were unbelievably difficult, I was bored.

  Around halfway through the course I got called in to see the commanding officer. I assumed that I had fucked up in some way and was in for a major bollocking, or worse the instructors realised that I couldn’t cut it and were going to bin me. I left the classroom with my mates looking at me no doubt wondering the same. I walked to the CO’s office with an overpowering sense of dread but he was all smiles and told me that I had been promoted to lance corporal. I breathed a sigh of relief, shook his hand and walked back to the classroom feeling ten feet tall. Despite being promoted, I was still struggling badly and panic began to set in. The prospect of failure and returning to the RLC as a driver was the nightmare scenario but at that stage I honestly thought I had more chance of flying to the moon than becoming an Ammo Tech. Theory lessons seemed to get longer and the exams harder. We’d study a subject to death, such as the characteristics of artillery shells, learning absolutely everything there was to know about them and then a test would follow before we moved on to the next phase. Every night I would go to bed thinking the next day I would be found out and binned. But it didn’t happen and I got to the finals week – the most important phase of the course.

  Through a mixture of bluff, hard work and a lot, and I mean a lot, of help from my fellow students, I passed. I was an Ammo Tech. I was on an enormous high for about three hours until we received our postings. An instructor read out a name, then the unit and place where we were being posted.

  ‘Lance Corporal Hughes – Fallingbostel – congratulations,’ said my instructor without a hint of irony.

  ‘Fallingbostel – cool. Where’s that?’

  ‘Germany,’ he responded with a smile.

  ‘You have got to be taking the piss,’ I said not so silently to myself.

  My heart sank and I felt totally crushed. My thoughts immediately turned to my girlfriend and whether our relationship would last. We’d been seeing each other for a couple of years, travelling across the UK to visit each other, but Germany was another country.

  Once the bad news had sunk in I phoned my new troop warrant officer to introduce myself and tell him that I would be joining his troop after some leave.

  ‘Hello, sir, I’m Lance Corporal Hughes. I’ve just qualified as an Ammo Tech and I’ll be joining your troop.’

  ‘Yep, nice one. Looking forward to meeting you. Any questions at this stage?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can you give me an idea of how much bomb disposal we’ll be doing?’

  My question was greeted with raucous laughter.

  ‘Well, is that a lot or what, sir?’ I added, slightly irritated.

  ‘No, mate, we hardly do any. In fact, correction, you’ll be doing nothing. The Germans take care of everything outside the wire and nothing ever happens inside,’ he added as if I should be pleased by this.

  I was devastated. I’d spent seven months training my arse off for a job I wasn’t going to do.

  Despite my disappointment, Germany wasn’t that bad. Although the Cold War was over, there was still a lot of ammunition that needed looking after and I managed to do a lot of really useful EOD training. The days passed quickly and a year or so later I returned to the UK in 2001 to complete my No.2’s course.

  By the time the course ended Al-Qaeda had destroyed the World Trade Center in New York and British and American forces were on the ground in Afghanistan. The world was changing and although a war was beginning in Afghanistan I was sent to Bosnia where another lengthy conflict was coming to an end. I was based in a place called Šipivo and the tour largely consisted of six months of parties, women and booze. Every now and then I’d get a call to blow up the odd unexploded shell but the real eye-opener for me was how the rest of th
e Army viewed those lucky enough to work in EOD.

  I was now in the cool gang, doing a job 99 per cent of people would walk away from. Everyone wanted to be our friends. We were the ones throwing fancy-dress parties when everyone else was bored shitless. For the first time in my life I felt part of something and my confidence soared. It was and remains one of the best periods of my Army life.

  But like all good things it came to an end and six months later I returned to Fallingbostel, back to the drudgery of Germany post-Cold War where nothing happened. It was a great posting if you wanted to hone your adventure training skills or become fluent in German – but for an aspiring bomb disposal expert, Germany wasn’t the place to be. The terrorist threat was zero. Most of my time was spent conducting ammunition accident investigations on Honer ranges, a vast area of land where every type of weapon system from artillery to tanks to missiles were fired. Mix soldiers, ammunition and a weapon system together and somewhere along the line there will be a problem and it was the job of the ATs to establish what went wrong.

  I was getting all the ticks in all the right boxes. I saw myself as a career soldier, fully committed to the Army but I never lost sight of my desire to become a High Threat operator. I completed another tour in Northern Ireland and got married to my long-term girlfriend. Life looked good even though war was coming and Iraq was the target.

  The build up to the war in Iraq started to take on a momentum of its own in early 2002. There were no official orders as such, just a sense that the Army was preparing for something big. Units began carrying out their own contingency plans and training so when eventually the orders to prepare for war came through no one was going to be left cold. As D-Day for the invasion approached, it became clear that I wouldn’t be involved – at least not in the early part of the war. Like many others, I was pretty pissed off mainly because most of us wrongly thought the war would be over in a year or two at the very most.