Painting the Sand

by Kim Hughes GC

  The team gathered in one corner. ‘Right we need to reformulate the plan,’ I said, still slightly amazed that we were all still alive. ‘We’ve still got a job to do. Somehow we’ve got to get across that river and disarm the device. Everyone start thinking – I don’t care how stupid you think the plan is, let’s hear it. Let’s work out the solution.’

  After about ten minutes of deep thinking and running through a series of increasingly mad plans, I had a light-bulb moment. ‘I’ll ditch my body armour and helmet and swim across the river on my own,’ I told the guys who were now looking at me with deep suspicion. ‘I’ll keep my pistol and tie a metal detector to my back. I’ll only need my firing device and det-cord to take control of this. The soldiers on the roof should be able to provide enough covering fire if needed. Once across, I will search my way up the bank and over to the string, set up my firing device, search my way back, fire the device and then swim back across the river. I just need to avoid drowning, getting shot or blown up by the Taliban. In theory it should work, with a bit of luck.’

  But even as I was speaking I realised it sounded as if I had a death wish.

  Lewis looked at me and said, ‘What are you talking about, you lunatic?’

  Given the obvious dangers of the task, I needed to refer the mission back to the EOD headquarters to get the SAT’s authorisation. Using the satphone rather than the radio I got through immediately and a young private soldier answered: ‘Sorry, Staff, everyone’s at lunch.’

  I looked at my watch. It was 1230 hrs. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘OK. No worries. Send a runner to the cookhouse and get the SAT back in the Ops Room. Tell him that I need to speak to him urgently and I will call back in ten minutes.’

  As I waited for the Ops Room to respond, I ran over some points of the plan again, really voicing my concerns.

  ‘I need to take control of the device away from Terry before I defuse the bomb, hence the need to swim across the river,’ I said to the team. ‘Although if the Taliban can’t see the bridge I could just go straight to the IED and deal with it. Saves getting wet.’ The latter option seemed to be gaining a bit more traction that the earlier plan.

  ‘I can sort that for you,’ one of the infantry corporals said smiling. I looked at him slightly confused.

  ‘I can get you close to the bridge without being seen,’ he said again. ‘I’m the Mortar Fire Controller [MFC]. You tell me where you want it and I’ll drop smoke. The enemy won’t have any idea what’s going on.’

  The MFC and I climbed onto the roof of the compound and took cover behind a small wall. A sniper scanned the area where the Taliban were located and gave us the nod to sit up enough so we could look across the battlefield. I pointed to a field between the large compound believed to be occupied by the Taliban and the bridge.

  ‘Can you fill that field with white phos?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, no problem. The mortar team back at FOB Keenan already have our grid reference. All I need to do is adjust it on to the target. I can put it anywhere you want.’

  ‘So you could screen off Terry’s line of sight and I could move forward on this side of the bank to the device, place a needle and move back.’

  The corporal gave a nod of approval.

  ‘Right, that’s our second option,’ I said.

  We dropped back down inside the compound and Major Plant appeared, wanting to know how the problem was going to be fixed.

  ‘Right, sir, there are two options to this. One I swim over the river, cut the string and swim back . . .’

  The major began shaking his head. ‘Staff, I admire your enthusiasm but the last thing I need now is a dead ATO.’

  ‘Or,’ I added quickly, ‘the MFC screens off the bridge using white phos. I move forward and place a weapon on the device. The enemy will still have control of the IED but he won’t know I’m on target.’

  It was clear that the OC preferred the second option and before he could change his mind I turned to the MFC. ‘Right you need to get your team squared away. Get all your grid references sorted and anything else you need. I want to get moving on this. How long do you need?’

  ‘Give me ten minutes and we should be good to go,’ he said.

  While I waited, I called Sandy, explained the situation and briefed him on both plans. After about a second’s thought Sandy simply said, ‘Option two,’ and the call ended.

  Eight minutes later mortars began crashing on their target, sending out a thick curtain of white smoke as the phosphorus reacted with the air and burned furiously. The smokescreen was good but I felt it needed to be closer to the bridge to have a real effect so I told the MFC to drop the mortars closer, but not so close that I was at risk of being fragged by a piece of bursting mortar round.

  The mortars came raining down again, in salvos of three or four bombs, but they were landing either too close or too far away from where I wanted them.

  Major Plant, who was getting increasingly frustrated, gave the MFC a roasting. ‘Get a grip. Get those mortars on fucking target and do your job. You’ve only got one job to do, now do it properly,’ he told the corporal.

  It was the first time I had really seen the major angry but it worked. Within a few minutes the smoke had completely screened off the opposite side of the bank. I set off clearing a path towards the bridge with Dave following close behind.

  The battery pack and the firing switch, which consisted of two metal washers with bare wires twisted around each one, had been pulled out of the ground at the first attempt at detonation leaving the IED in a highly unstable state. Worst still, the two contacts, which would cause the bomb to explode if they came together, were a gnat’s chuff away from touching each other. I took a deep breath, my eyes fixed on the contacts, and carefully inched my way forward. The wind caught the string and it blew in the breeze. My heart missed a beat and I waited for the explosion, which fortunately never came. I was now at the mercy of the elements and, for a brief moment, considered turning back. But if it wasn’t me, someone else would have to deal with the device.

  I placed my needle and flying scalpel against one of the exposed wires before withdrawing quick-time back to Dave and then into the safety of the compound, where the rest of the team were waiting. Every five minutes or so a mortar would land with a thump across the other side of the river ensuring that the smokescreen remained in place.

  After firing the needle, Dave and I checked our equipment before heading back to the bridge. I taped up the cut wires and pulled the battery pack and firing switch out of the ground using the hook and line.

  On the third approach I found the main charge packed inside the 105mm artillery shell, which had probably been fired by a British unit a few years earlier. I used my trowel and paintbrush to dig and sweep away the dirt so that I had enough room to tie a loop around the casing.

  Every now and then I looked up to ensure the smokescreen was still effective. Over in the compound I could see some of the soldiers looking anxious, almost as if they were waiting for the Taliban to start shooting through the smoke. With the loop secure I returned to the compound, trailing the line so that it didn’t snag on any rocks or stones.

  As I approached the compound I saw Major Plant standing in the doorway. ‘Sir, can you just explain to me where you were standing when you saw the ground move.’

  He pointed to a piece of scrubby ground about ten metres away from the Hesco block at the foot of the bridge and just as he finished speaking I gave the line a tug and the artillery shell popped out of the ground, virtually in the same spot where the two officers had been standing. His face dropped and he was momentarily speechless. He turned and looked at the Danish searchers who had supposedly cleared the area with a face that said ‘You wankers.’

  The main charge was destroyed in a controlled explosion while anything forensically useful was placed in plastic bags. With the device now cleared I approached the two majors as they chatted.

  ‘Sirs, had the bomb exploded, I doubt we�
�d be having this conversation.’ They realised how close they had come to a very messy death. As a souvenir I gave each of them a piece of wire with a metal washer attached – the two halves of the firing switch. ‘You can keep those as good luck charms,’ I added.

  The rest of the day was punctuated with sporadic firefights causing some of my team to grab their helmets and take cover while urging me to do the same. ‘I’m all right,’ I’d tell them. ‘Terry isn’t going to get me today.’

  Some members of my team joined the infantry on the roof, ready to take on the Taliban. Lewis was like a man possessed – as if he was in his very own Call of Duty game – letting rip with his SA80 big time. Down below Dave was filling magazines of ammunition and throwing them up to Tiggs on the roof, who handed them to Lewis who in turn was passing empty ones back down.

  I turned to Dave. ‘Why don’t you get up there and smash them too?’

  ‘Not interested, Kim. If I fire my weapon I’ll have to clean it later. Lewis is gonna be cleaning his rifle for about a week the way he’s going.’

  ‘You lazy fucker,’ I said laughing before closing my eyes and plugging myself into my iPod.

  Later that evening we were back in FOB Keenan with its comfy, pristine tents, warm showers and fresh, delicious food. That was Afghan. One minute you were inches away from death, the next you could be safely relaxing in relative comfort, looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

  Brimstone 42 remained operational in FOB Keenan until 29 September, when we finally received notification from the EOD Task Force headquarters that it would be another three days before we eventually arrived back in Bastion and were finally taken offline.

  24

  Pissing off Politicians

  Brimstone 42 finally arrived back in Camp Bastion on the morning of 4 October 2009. The frustration of being sent back into the fight after being told our war was over was forgotten. The last few days in Keenan had been long and arduous with sleep at a premium. Inevitably the return to Bastion was a bit of an anticlimax. Everyone was tired, not just physically but mentally. And all we wanted was to get out of Afghan and return home.

  After landing just as dawn was breaking, when the air was still cool, the team trooped backed to our tented homes while I headed for the Ops Room unshaven, dirty, stinking after having turned my underwear inside out twice. The Ops Room staff were as usual dressed in pristine, freshly laundered uniforms, clean-shaven and slightly tanned. In general they looked fit and healthy – the contrast between them and us was never so great.

  ‘Staff Hughes. Call sign Brimstone 42. That’s us off the ground,’ I told one of the Ops Room staff whose pasty, untanned skin suggested he was a relatively new arrival.

  ‘Sorry, what was your name?’ he said, eyes fixed on his computer screen.

  ‘It’s “Staff” when you talk to me, dickhead. My name is Staff Sergeant Hughes. Call sign Brimstone 42.’

  Sandy appeared from behind a computer screen: ‘Right, Kim. Good to see you. I need your team to get their shit squared away. You are going to be doing a demo for a VIP visit.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Nice one,’ I thought. Good old Sandy, always one for a wind-up. But he was being serious.

  ‘You are having a laugh.’

  ‘No. I need you shit, showered, shaved and ready in clean kit. We need you to be ready to brief the Defence Secretary, Bob Ainsworth. He landed about an hour ago and he’s interested in what we do here.’

  ‘Sandy, the boys are licked and our kit is in shit state. There must be someone else who can do this. We’ve just walked in off the ground after six months plus an extra eleven days.’

  ‘Actually no,’ Sandy said. ‘There are teams here but they are fresh and ready to deploy. We need a seasoned team who can speak with the experience of a six-month tour under their belt and that’s you.’

  Sandy was in an unenviable position. Brimstone 42 was the obvious choice for the job and I would have done exactly the same if I were him. But that didn’t make it any easier for me. Back at the accommodation, I explained that we were required to put on a Counter-IED demonstration for the Defence Secretary, Bob Ainsworth, along with other members of the unit, on how an IED would be found and cleared. It would be a simple task out on the Bastion training area, I explained, exactly the same sort of demo we’d done dozens of times before during pre-deployment training for new soldiers.

  ‘It’s the same deal,’ I said. ‘No dramas except this time the audience will be the Defence Secretary and a few hangers-on. He might ask a few questions so just be prepared for some fast balls.’

  The British public had grown tired of the war in Afghan. Support for the war, if there was any, was falling by the day. Casualties were mounting, mainly from IEDs, and politicians were getting worried. The visit was the Defence Secretary’s second in a year so I assumed he’d have a reasonable understanding of what had been going down over the last few months.

  The Bastion training area was outside the wire but, supposedly, secure. Soldiers arriving for their six-month tour would spend about a week zeroing their weapons, carrying out exercises, practising drills and, crucially, being briefed on the latest IEDs being used against them. Counter-IED teams would put incoming battalions and regiments through a series of tough exercises, explaining what to do to avoid making fatal mistakes.

  Each element of the EOD Task Force had a stand displaying the equipment taken into the field – almost like a barracks ‘open day’. The idea was that Bob Ainsworth could wander around, have a look, ask a question or two and get those all-important publicity shots for the TV and newspapers.

  Down on the training area, I carefully laid out my pristine unused bomb suit and prepared my kit while Lewis tested his robot, even though we’d only ever used it once before it got put back into storage, and the search team rehearsed their bit. The demo was a pain in the arse but we had to be professional. Get this wrong and we’d give the EOD Task Force a bad name.

  As we were getting ready, Sandy appeared. ‘Look, Kim, if you get the opportunity, and he asks you what you need, push the fact that we need light scale equipment. Don’t overdo it but it is an opportunity for us to put down a marker for what we need. Usually works on occasions like this.’ Light scale equipment was identical to the stuff we already used but was composed of titanium and carbon fibre rather than steel. It was a fraction of the weight but much more expensive. The kit we were using was designed to be carried around in an EOD truck, not on the backs of the ATO and his No.2.

  After Sandy, other members of the Task Force were almost queuing up to offer advice on what I should say if asked a question.

  ‘Don’t forget to mention helicopters. We need more of them. Ask him if he’s aware that the armoured vehicles we have aren’t great.’ The list went on and on. And all the grievances were genuine. The Army had been in Helmand for three years but at times it felt as if it was still on the back foot. Britain was part of one of the most powerful military alliances in the history of warfare – the Taliban had AK47s, home-made bombs and flip-flops – and yet NATO certainly wasn’t winning. I was given a five-minute warning and we stood in line, at ease, waiting for Bob Ainsworth to appear.

  Then, almost out of nowhere, Ainsworth and his entourage of senior officers and ministerial aides appeared, followed by a massive pack of newspaper reporters and television news teams and at that point it began to occur to me that this was actually quite a big deal – not for me but for Her Majesty’s Government.

  Sandy reappeared again: ‘Kim, by the way, he’s got the Home Secretary, Alan Johnson, with him as well.’

  As well as the politicians there was the head of the armed forces, and seemingly dozens of military and political aides. In fact I had never seen so many top brass at one single event.

  The engineers began the brief explaining how searches were conducted and the type of devices now being used by the Taliban. They showed him their specialist equipment and gave a breakdown of their skills. Ainsworth and Johnson were given a me
tal detector to play with and had a go at trying to find an IED. By the time they arrived at my stand, they seem quite relaxed and happy, although a little hot.

  I was slightly surprised at how ordinary they looked. Dressed in a sky-blue shirt and sand-coloured chinos and wearing glasses, Ainsworth looked like a bank manager out for a weekend stroll. He sported a small, scruffy moustache and the belly of a man not used to exercise, but he seemed decent enough. He smiled and chatted with the troops and appeared genuinely interested in the work being carried out by EOD teams.

  ‘Hello,’ he said smiling, while shaking my hand. ‘My name’s Bob Ainsworth, I’m the Defence Secretary. Who do we have here?’

  ‘Hello, sir. I’m Staff Sergeant Kim Hughes. I’m an Ammunition Technician and this is my Counter-IED team.’

  I introduced each member of the team who put on false smiles and tried to show some interest. Senior officers would often come to visit the troops, no doubt hoping to boost morale without realising what a massive balls-ache VIP visits are for everyone involved. Troops, bored beyond imagination, would spend hours cleaning the camp, picking up pieces of litter and making sure everything looked clean and in perfect working order. The VIPs would depart relaxed in the knowledge that everything was fine and dandy, when often the reverse was true. It occurred to me that if senior officers, politicians or any other VIPs really wanted to find out what life was like they should arrive without any notice and demand to spend a day and night in a FOB or PB, where half the troops were ill with the shits and where clouds of mosquitoes invaded at dusk and dawn. Only then would they get a true impression of what life was like on operations.