Sweating the Metal

by Alex Duncan

  However, we still need to get them back to the safety and assistance of the hospital at Camp Bastion, which means flying along the Sangin Valley again. We’ve been lucky once; can we ride our luck a second time? Speed and low altitude are our best defences, so I wring all available power from the cab as I route us over the Russian trenches on the west side of the wadi – not only is it the most direct track back to Bastion, but it also has the benefit of being the most difficult point for the enemy to get a bearing on us from.

  As soon as we’re over open desert, I ask the medics if they’re happy for me to climb, and get the reassuring message that both casualties are stable and time isn’t an issue. I pull in the power and the cab responds to my input on the collective, taking us up to altitude. We arrive back at the sanctuary of Nightingale HLS at Bastion without incident.

  As it transpires, Dale Gostick and the other two Royal Marines we lifted were returning to base on the last operational day of their tour. Six months of fighting, six months of risk and fear and depravation, six months of worry for their families, and on the last day one dies and two incur life-changing injuries. It makes no sense, but the thought comes anyway: so near and yet so far.

  I can’t help thinking about the impact these injuries have on the guys that are out on the front line, fighting on our behalf. Imagine you’re a Royal Marine. You’re fitter than a butcher’s dog, at the absolute peak of human endurance and fitness. These guys can run up mountains without breaking a sweat, they undertake triathlons for fun, and their bodies are testament to all that man is capable of. They’re like machines; the complete antithesis of the average aircrew with our soft bodies, pampered existence at KAF and two-month tours.

  The guys at the front take their fitness for granted. Just like the two in the back of my cab who got up this morning and probably went through the same routine that they’ve done every morning in theatre. Suddenly, in less time than it takes to read this sentence, their lives are ripped apart and changed forever. Having to learn to walk on one, maybe two, prosthetic legs; the long road back to fitness after months in Selly Oak and Headley Court; wasted muscle, torn bodies, all the upheaval and heartbreak. How do you come back from that? Your athlete’s body is now broken and wracked with pain. And then there’s the guilt of surviving when your best mate and oppo has died.

  It’s funny how some things strike you more than others, but all of us were particularly concerned about the two Marines, so I wandered over to the hospital after dinner to seek an update on their condition. What really lifted me was the knowledge that both patients were as high as kites on morphine, and not only conscious, but had spent most of the evening flirting with the nurses and taking the piss out of one another’s injuries. I felt buoyed up on the walk back to the IRT tent.

  That sortie marked my last kinetic op on the Det, although it was also the third op since I was shot down that involved my aircraft taking fire. After that, my nickname of Frenchie was temporarily replaced by the equally apposite ‘Bullet Magnet.’

  35

  SERENDIPITY

  My feet rested on my body armour as I sat opposite JP in the crew tent. We’d been chatting for some time, but to be honest, I didn’t hear much after he said what basically amounted to, ‘Ah, Mr Duncan; for you, the war is over.’ On the conclusion of our last sortie on that day, May 28th, my crew and I would fly back to KAF to await our flight home. But before we left, he had one more surprise up his sleeve: our final mission would be an air test.

  Air tests are a routine part of life when you’re at KAF – we take airframes that have had major work done on them and fly them out over the Red Desert to give them a full work up, basically ensuring that all major systems are functioning as they should and that there are no minor gripes that could impact on a sortie once the aircraft is signed back in to fly the line.

  Of course when I signed for the airframe that we were to test, I was more than a little surprised to discover that it was ZD575, the one we’d been shot down in, on its first test before return to service. After I’d unceremoniously landed her at FOB Edinburgh, a few engineers had flown forward from KAF to perform emergency repairs on her in situ. Once they ensured she was safe to fly, the aircraft was flown back to KAF for the major work and repairs to be undertaken. I’d been given the honour of taking her up and signing her off.

  As expected, the sortie went without a hitch – the airframe looked as good as new, the hydraulics were faultless and she handled sublimely. Responsive as ever, she flew as smooth as a baby’s bottom and performed with alacrity. After completing the various tests so that I could sign her off with confidence, I said to the crew, ‘Right, that’s the air test finished. Let’s go and have some fun!’

  I flew a couple of wing overs and then a thought occurred to me: I want to take some of Afghanistan home with me; let’s land in the Red Desert.

  ‘Let’s go and see what these dunes are really like,’ I said over the intercom, and I picked out a particularly big one and landed right on top of it. Griz filled a couple of empty water bottles with its fine-grain, iron-rich sand and, with that, we were away. Some of that sand now sits proudly on the mantelpiece at home (now in a fine glass container rather than a grotty old plastic water bottle!)

  There seemed to be some serendipity at work with my starting and finishing the Det in ZD575; in a way, things had come full-circle for me. I must admit, when I shut her down on the deck at FOB Edinburgh – after limping home with a chunk of the rotor missing and the hydraulic system out of action – I wondered when I might see her again. The opportunity of nursing her back into service, fully functional and good as new after her spell with the engineers, was a nice end note to my time in theatre and a safe, non-kinetic mission to wind down with.

  A few minutes before I left the departure lounge at KAF to board the aircraft home the following night, our Squadron boss at 27 Sqn walked in. Wing Commander (now Group Captain) Dom Toriati came over to see me, having just arrived in theatre. After seeking out JP, he walked over to me and reached out to shake my hand. As he did so, he looked me in the eye and said, ‘You lucky, lucky bastard, Frenchie!’ I’m sure what he was actually thinking was: ‘Thank fuck you didn’t lose the squadron an aircraft, because the paperwork would have been a nightmare!’

  Either way, it was a nice moment because I felt a genuine sense of relief on his part, a touching concern that we had all got away unharmed from the attempt to shoot us down. I daresay he had a sleepless night when news of what had happened filtered through to him back at RAF Odiham in the immediate aftermath of the event. All joking aside, the paperwork and headaches that the loss of an aircraft generates would have been astronomical, and however much it shouldn’t, something like that follows you around your whole career. Obviously, because of his role as Squadron boss, Toriati is quite remote from the minutiae of day-to-day life, but it was nice that he showed such concern. I wished him the best of luck as he started his four-month staff tour in theatre, and with that we were on our way home.

  It’s a minor perk (and one of the few divides in theatre between officers and enlisted personnel) but as officers, we board the TriStar first and get the pick of the seats. It’s rather academic to a degree; there are no business-class recliners at the front, just more of the same layout that you find throughout the cabin. I chose to sit at the front and luckily, as it wasn’t a busy flight, I got a row of three seats to myself.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, the sense of relief I felt as the TriStar departed Kandahar was almost palpable. I don’t think I’d appreciated how tightly I’d been wound. As the wheels came up and the aircraft gained altitude, I sat back in my seat and let out a huge but silent sigh as I felt the weight on my shoulders lift and the worry start to fall further and further behind. It was over; we’d done it and we’d all got out. I felt a mass of conflicting emotions; relief principally, but also apprehension – the experience had changed me, but how? How would Ali feel when she saw me? What about Guy? A tiny part of me had got used to th
e existence in Helmand as it always did, and despite my happiness at leaving it behind me, I was going to miss it. She’s a cruel mistress, Helmand; a complete head fuck.

  As soon as we reached altitude and began the long journey home, I gave up on analysing what had gone on – there’d be plenty of time for the reckoning in the months to come. Now, all I wanted was to sleep. I pulled my green maggot from the overhead compartment and snuggled inside, inflating my pillow and pulling a mask over my eyes. I wondered how I’d feel when I got home, but I never got to think it through because it was my last conscious notion as sleep claimed me. I didn’t wake up again until the thump of the undercarriage descending ready for landing at Brize roused me about five minutes out. We were back.

  This close to home, I was thinking that my days of trouble at the end of a Det were behind me. After all, I hadn’t had any problems getting out; the flight had even been on time. In actual fact, because of the intensity of the ops and the attempt to blast us from the sky on the 17th, JP had thoughtfully sent us home a few days early. However, I hadn’t reckoned on the complexity of the female mind!

  Alison had known about the incident on the 17th almost immediately after it happened because of her job and her connections. In fact, she found a cable with all the details, sent over by a mutual friend at the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, in her office when she got into work the day afterwards. When I eventually rang her, she already had some idea of what had happened and knew I was okay. We’d spoken several times since, but not after JP had told me I’d be coming back three days early, so she didn’t know. I considered ringing her as I was heading from Brize to RAF Odiham. She wasn’t expecting me, so I was sure she’d be delighted. In the end, I decided against it. She’d see me soon enough.

  Unfortunately for me, circumstance and fate intervened. When I got home, my parents were there, having flown over from Paris to await my return, but Ali wasn’t – she was out walking our dog with Paul Farmer’s wife Becs. Paul had come home earlier and had told his wife that we would be home early too. Becs mentioned it to Ali while they were out with the dogs.

  ‘How much are you looking forward to seeing Alex later, then?’ she asked.

  Ali played it cool. ‘Ah, it’ll be great to have him back. I can’t wait. But I want to surprise him, so I’m getting my hair done tomorrow and I’m going to dress up and really give him something to remember!’

  ‘Well you’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?’

  ‘Late?’ Ali asked. ‘I know us girls are known for the time it takes us to get ready, but two days is hardly a rush, is it?’

  ‘Two days? They’re on their way home now. I thought you knew!’

  Apparently Ali’s face was a picture. She dialled my number and when I saw her name flashing on the screen I thought, ‘Shall I answer?’ But then it dawned on me – she’d know I was back from the way it rang. I hit Answer.

  ‘Hi babe,’ I said.

  ‘Hi. When’d you get back?’

  I told her I’d been at the house for about five minutes.

  ‘Fine. See you later,’ she said coldly and hung up.

  Every man will know what I’m talking about when I say that I didn’t really get why she was so irked. And I guess every woman will sympathise with Ali and intrinsically understand her mood.

  She’d had it all mapped out; what she was going to wear, her make-up, her hair. The champagne was on ice, the house was clean and tidy – she’d even arranged for my parents to be out with Guy when I got back so we got an hour or two on our own. She’d planned on looking like a million dollars, and instead I’d caught her unawares. Her hair was unwashed and unkempt, she had no make-up on and she’d been out in the forest walking the dogs. But she always looks gorgeous to me, so I didn’t get what all the fuss was about.

  It wasn’t the welcome that I expected. And it wasn’t five minutes of the cold shoulder either; let’s just say it was a good few hours before I managed to break the ice!

  36

  PRE-EMPTIVE STRIKE

  After my post-detachment leave, which Ali and I spent in the South of France (the perfect antidote to the rigours of life on Det in Afghanistan), I left 27 Squadron and returned to RAF Shawbury to train as a Qualified Helicopter Instructor.

  JP had asked me where I wanted to go earlier in the year and I’d asked him to look into my obtaining a ‘fixed-wing crossover’, allowing me to move to the multi-engine fleet, but it simply wasn’t an option.

  I guess it was because there was a desperate need for Chinook pilots in Afghanistan. Also the recession was beginning to bite, so the airlines weren’t recruiting; this meant there wasn’t the usual exodus of fixed-wing pilots from the RAF into civil aviation that normally creates demand in the service to replace them. So he said, ‘If you’re sure you don’t want promotion at the moment – although I’m certain you’ll change your mind at some stage – the obvious route for you is to become a QHI.’

  The only reason I didn’t want to take promotion then was because I joined the RAF to fly and it’s something I love; for me, aviation is not so much a profession as it is a disease with no cure. The only thing that alleviates the symptoms is flying and, no matter how hard you try, it’s inevitable that with every step up the promotion ladder you do less and less of that.

  But the offer of QHI was on the table so I took it. It made sense, and at least I would know where I was going. It offered a degree of consistency and stability and it would mean, perhaps more importantly for me at that stage, no more tours of Afghanistan. I think it’s fair to say that at the time, with all that had happened on my last Det, I was ready for a break from combat ops.

  It was a hard course, there’s no question. I’d come from the Chinook where I’d been a training captain, a big fish in a small pond, and suddenly I was back, initially at least, in a Squirrel. I was used to flying this huge, powerful helicopter with its twin rotors and suddenly I was in this tiny little Squirrel, which has the shape of a sperm, is made of plastic, and gets upset in five knots of wind. That element was a complete nightmare; it was just so difficult making the backwards transition. It’s demoralising too, because you know you can fly – you’ve flown countless missions under fire, you’re combat experienced, you’ve performed some really aggressive manoeuvres that come naturally to you – and all of a sudden you’re back to basics in a helicopter that’s the aviation equivalent of a Fisher Price toy and you’re thinking, ‘Fuck, I can’t fly anymore, let alone teach!’ That was a bit of a shock.

  But everyone got through the training and I actually enjoyed it in the end. It was a tri-service course, so it brought Army, Navy and RAF together. We’ve all got the same ethos, and it was great socially too.

  I began my work in December 2008, and by the end of January 2009 I was back at RAF Odiham as a QHI on ‘B’ Flight, 18 Sqn – the Chinook OCF.

  Monday March 2nd looked like being a pretty crap day. I was at my desk in the OCF preparing for the day ahead and I was pretty pissed off because aside from it being a Monday, I’d been given a really shitty job to do. The Flight had gone to RAF Leeming and I’d been told I had to stay behind and sort out some statistics that were going to take me hours. I was not a happy bunny, although – as I was to learn – there was an agenda at work behind my being kept at Odiham. My mood wasn’t improved when Squadron Leader Geary, the Squadron 2i/c, came to see me and said, ‘Frenchie, you need to go and see OC 27 Sqn at 11:00hrs.’

  ‘Er . . . okay. What have I done now?’ I ask, laughing.

  ‘Dunno,’ says Geary, ‘but he wants to see you. 11:00hrs sharp. Be there!’ and with that he was gone. As he shuts the door my brain goes into overdrive trying to work out what on earth the OC could want with me. I’d officially left 27 Sqn on July 14th 2008 when I went off to Shawbury to do the QHI course, and although Dom Toriati was still in charge of the Squadron, he wasn’t my boss anymore. Whatever it was, it didn’t look good. I wrack my brain, and slowly a thought comes to mind that makes my heart sink.

/>   Three days previously, on the Friday night, there’d been a ‘dining-in’ night at the Mess. It was a big one and I’d got properly shit-faced. I still had some issues surrounding what had happened in theatre on my last Det at the time – I was quick to anger and was also having trouble sleeping. I’d sleep, but it felt like I wasn’t resting, so whether I slept ten hours through or one hour I’d still feel like I hadn’t been to bed at all. It was really starting to get me down. I was tired and irritable and probably drinking more than was good for me. So now I’m sat there thinking, What did I say? Did I tell anyone a few home truths?

  All these things are racing around in my mind and I put two and two together and make four. Obviously I’ve offended someone, it’s gone right to the top and I’m in for the mother of all bollockings. I have no idea what I’ve done – how could I? I can barely remember going to bed that night. ‘Oh God, I’ve probably been rude to Dom Toriati or one of his guests and I’m about to get my ass chewed,’ I decide.

  So, 10:50 comes, and by 10:55 I’m standing outside his office – five minutes early so I can prepare myself for the gathering storm. Also I won’t be out of breath, sweating or otherwise uncomfortable as I stand before the boss. I check my watch and at 10:59 and 55 seconds, I knock smartly on his door.

  ‘Come in,’ he says, the sound muffled through the barrier between us. I open the door and march through. He’s on the phone and he looks serious. I’m thinking, ‘Oh shit the bed! This isn’t good.’

  I have a lot of respect for Dom; he’s a great bloke and he’d been a really good boss when I served under him, but my God he could deliver a bollocking! I’m looking at him and I can see he’s winding the phone call up and as he bids farewell to the person on the other end of the line, he begins to stand. That’s when I decide the best form of defence is attack and launch my pre-emptive strike.