Back in the UK in the autumn of 2005, regimental life continued its unstoppable rhythm in Plymouth. Like I said before, one of the deep privileges of serving in 29 Commando was the characters you shared your experiences with. One of the men in the regiment who had a big influence on me at this time was Justin Barber, who had served in almost every officer position in 29 Commando. He was now second-in-command (2IC) of the regiment. He was, in every sense, Mr 29; indeed, his father’s ashes had been spread on the battlements of the Citadel.
Justin was feared, and rightly so. Six foot three and nineteen stone, with a grin as wide as his face and hands like a bear, we developed an affectionate if slightly discomforting relationship. I got to know him better after a particularly stupid escapade with my driver on the M5, coming back from a regimental exercise during which one of our soldiers had been killed in a road accident. We were cruising well beyond the speed limit in our Land Rover Wolf reconnaissance vehicle when we unexpectedly overtook the CO and Justin, as we passed Exeter. Realizing my fate was sealed as soon as they saw me, but hoping to avoid execution, I gave them both a courteous wave as we sped past. I knew I was deeply in the shit the moment I saw Justin’s face. I was in command of the vehicle, and vehicle safety and adherence to speed limits had been reinforced after the accident only a week before. It was monumentally stupid.
Predictably, a few moments later, my mobile phone rang. It was my battery captain, and he didn’t sound best pleased.
‘Mercer?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘You need to report to Justin’s office immediately on your return,’ he said. ‘And take your gumshield.’
The line went dead with an ominous click.
I arrived at the Citadel and, after taking a few deep breaths, set off to find Justin. He was outside the officers’ mess, surveying the seventeenth-century guns that are placed all around the parade ground as a mark of our heritage. They had all been slightly moved off their placements while we were away, after a ‘do’ in the sergeants’ mess. Justin was not happy; he took his heritage very seriously.
I approached him as smartly as I could and threw up a salute. I called him ‘2IC’, not Justin. He was ordinarily fairly relaxed and we were on first name terms; I did not feel now was the time to trade on that. He turned slowly towards me as I stood rigidly to attention. I felt this Exocet of a fist strike my upper chest and my right shoulder simultaneously, knocking me back a few steps. He could see I was devastated at having been so stupid and letting him down.
‘I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in you,’ he said. ‘How fucking stupid are you?’
‘Very.’
‘By sunset I want every single one of these guns back on their placements. If I see you asking someone to help you or using a vehicle, I’ll fucking destroy you. You’re lucky – times have changed in the Army; sometimes I wish it was not so.’
Even back then I knew that sometimes you can fuck up; sometimes you simply can’t. Racing down the motorway, when one soldier has already been killed in a road traffic accident on the same exercise, exposed an immaturity I was still trying to shake off at the time. I spent that afternoon and evening straining under the weight of these massive seventeenth-century guns, trying to lever them back onto their placements. I can still feel the pain in my back to this day. I got them on, and with blistered hands and a humiliated ego I put the incident behind me. Another valuable life lesson learnt in the Citadel.
8
The following Easter of 2006, the battlegroup of 3rd Battalion, Parachute Regiment was deployed to Helmand province, southern Afghanistan. Instead of the uneventful tour they were promised by ministers and MI6, 3 PARA walked into a hornets’ nest, immediately coming under sustained attack from the Taliban. They’d been caught out by a lack of reliable intelligence (after Iraq, even I could see this was now becoming a theme). Jim Philippson’s time at 29 Commando had come to an end, and he was now with 3 PARA, helping to train the Afghan National Army (ANA). I wasn’t particularly ‘plugged-in’ strategically, but in the back of my mind was the thought that, in a few months, I might be going too.
Meanwhile, Jimmy Goddard wanted a challenge, and decided that he was going to attempt the first arm-powered ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro, Africa’s highest peak, in June 2006. He asked me to be in his support team, which was going to consist of myself, Goose, Jimmy’s dad and his physio, and a team of native porters, to ensure we didn’t get lost.
The climb was another happy period. The team would rise with the sun and eat a small breakfast, before packing up our tents and associated equipment and getting on our way. Lunch would be a twenty-minute break, before we were on the move again. It was a slow slog through the lower reaches of the mountain, and a hot slog at that. Day after day Jimmy powered away on his arm-bike, with Goose and I laying track for him from some metal rails we built before we left. The metal rails were not heavy, but were cumbersome to carry. The heat was sticky and clung to you; warm air trapped by the African canopy. But this was a small issue in comparison to the demands placed on Jimmy, so we were loath to do the one thing that always makes it easier – moan.
It was during our expedition to Kilimanjaro that the conflict in Afghanistan first touched our lives in a very personal and devastating way. One sunny evening on the north-western foothills of Kilimanjaro, we finally broke the tree line and set up camp for a particularly picturesque dinner. The view was stunning. The sweaty, humid jungle, with its thick canopy and muddy tracks was below us, replaced by an open, almost barren stone wilderness that allowed us the perspective on how far we had climbed. We tucked into a hearty dinner of a nondescript stew and vegetables, made extremely tasty by the combined effects of altitude and fatigue. Dinner had just finished, and I was recording our diary over the satellite phone with Jimmy’s brother Paul, who was filling in our online blog (by now, Jimmy had a considerable following). Paul said he had something important to tell me, for which I should be out of earshot of the rest of the group.
‘Sure, mate,’ I said, getting up and walking to the edge of the ridge to stare out into the vastness of Africa. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve had a call from Jim Philippson’s brother. It’s bad news I’m afraid,’ said Paul. ‘Jim was killed this morning. I don’t have many details but I understand he was shot.’
‘Jim Philippson?’ I said, my mind reeling, making sure I was hearing the news correctly. The satellite phone line was extremely crackly.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so, Johnny,’ said Paul.
I ended the phone call quickly and took a couple of minutes to collect myself before breaking the news to Jimmy and Goose, who were in tears.
Life as a young officer in a commando regiment was an intoxicating if wild existence at the time. There was no man more suited to this than Jim Philippson. He was a good man. He had his edges, but he was very much a product of the regiment, and proudly so. The stories surrounding him are rightly legendary, from packing only a Superman outfit for a sky-diving holiday in the US, to turning up to an Oscars party in only his pants and a layer of gold paint. Often on nights out on Union Street in Plymouth, as we ascended the hill back to the Citadel, he would insist on a fight with one of us other junior officers to ‘get it out of my system before bed’. It’s thanks to him that there was a complete redesign (at a cost of hundreds of thousands of pounds) of the security arrangements in the Citadel; he was refused entry at the front gate and managed to successfully break into camp. The man was a true commando.
His finest hour was undoubtedly in 2003, onboard HMS Ark Royal on the way to war in Iraq, when the sea air and some contraband alcohol got to his head one warm evening. He struggled to find his way back to his room and ended bursting through the door into the cabin of the Commander, Amphibious Task Group (only the most senior UK official in the war).
‘What the hell!’ shouted Commodore Jamie Miller, who had been preparing for the invasion by watching the film Zulu, and was startled to be co
nfronted by a large and erratic intruder.
‘Who are you and why are you in my cabin?’ Jim demanded.
‘Why are you in mine?’ Miller asked, bravely pushing Jim out into the passageway. ‘Who are you?’
Sobering up slightly under the bright lights, Jim wisely held his tongue. He realised he was in the shit when the Commodore pointed silently at the brass name plate on his door. When asked for his unit, Jim replied that he was with the Brigade Recce Force (he wasn’t).
‘You’re drunk!’ accused the Commodore.
‘If you say so, sir,’ replied Philippson, unconvinced.
Jim was transferred off HMS Ark Royal to an RFA support ship, where he saw out the rest of the journey before landing in Iraq and taking part in the invasion. He was suitably admonished with some sort of ‘official displeasure’ from somebody, but as ever, it bothered him not. A full, official account of this incident hangs on the wall of the officers’ mess in Plymouth, as a tribute to the quintessential commando junior officer.
Somehow, Jim got away with it, and his wonderful career was allowed to continue. But beneath that aggressive and macho exterior was a huge heart and a forgiving soul. He was by my side when I made all those Junior Officer mistakes, and he never repeated them to anyone. He laughed at me when I tried to beat him on a run and nearly passed out from the heat not long after we docked in Virginia; I was totally unaccustomed to the blistering and clinging humidity. He cared deeply for his family, particularly his brother, and was fiercely loyal to his friends. He was very much my older brother in the regiment, and I was deeply affected by his loss.
As I always maintained until I left the services: it’s all good fun until someone gets shot.
On Mount Kilimanjaro, we set off again the next day, with Jim never far from our minds. Jimmy progressed well up to the start of the crater, where the lack of oxygen began making life more challenging. His fatigued body became more susceptible to infections and illnesses, and the ascent became extremely tough on him.
In the years since, I have seldom seen strength to match that displayed by Jimmy. After a night on a fifty degree slope with no sleep, he would simply re-mount his bike and head for the summit. He bared his soul on that mountain, and we found it exactly as we all knew it to be; dedicated, courageous, committed and strong. An exceptional human being.
After two weeks, we arrived at the crater floor, where camping is usually not allowed due to the lack of oxygen, but we were granted permission. Jimmy lay up for two days, but it was clear that he was not going to improve without a proper oxygen supply, and with the summit just 270 feet above us (less than a day’s climb), we had to call it a day.
Jimmy hadn’t failed; he had succeeded beyond all expectations. The summit was irrelevant to me; his resilience and sheer physical effort was something I hadn’t seen before or since, and all as a paraplegic. In a world where you can be deemed a hero for the most insignificant of accomplishments, I found those three weeks in Africa watching Jimmy deeply humbling.
On returning from Africa I went to see Justin Barber immediately, not only to catch up (as our relationship had healed by now), but to find out what my next tasking was likely to be.
The regiment was deploying to Afghanistan, as expected. I was going too, but not as an artilleryman. I was to take on the task of running an Operational Mentoring and Liaison Team (OMLT) with a kandak (company) of the newly formed Afghan National Army. Specifically, I was to shadow the Afghan company commander through training and fighting, as part of the UK commitment to rebuilding the Afghan Army.
‘You need life insurance,’ giggled Justin as I started to leave his office.
‘What?’ I replied.
‘Here’s the stats of all the OMLT that have been injured this summer.’
I can’t remember the number now, but it was very considerable.
‘You are going to get shot,’ he continued to laugh. ‘Have a good weekend!’
If Jim Philippson was my brother in the regiment, Justin Barber was certainly my father. We maintained our relationship when we both went our separate ways at the end of our time at 29 Commando, and I would go and visit him in High Wycombe where he had a terrible job – something to do with chemical warfare.
I was devastated when I received a call from his brother one evening in 2009, telling me Justin had been out on a run that morning and had suffered a massive, fatal heart attack. His father’s ashes were on the battlements; Justin’s joined them. The man was the regiment, and the regiment was the man. There are very few like him around.
9
The summer of 2006 was a brutal and bloody one for the British Army. For months, 3 PARA Battlegroup fought valiantly to stay in Helmand, waging battle after battle against an enemy determined to drive them out. 3 Commando Brigade started replacing them in August, with an official handover date in mid-September.
Troops from my regiment had deployed in 2001 as part of the initial efforts against the Taliban and Al Qaeda after 9/11, and again in 2005 to provide security cover for the construction of the main British camp, Bastion. As a regiment, we therefore knew Afghanistan was a rough place, but did not expect some of the stories being relayed back in ‘lessons identified’ documents in June and July 2006. Outposts were running out of ammunition, were unable to communicate with each other and had been stealing equipment from other nations to survive. We hoped these were teething problems that we would not have to cope with. It was clear, even from the UK, that something was not right in either our force-laydown, or the intelligence understanding of the problem we were facing in Afghanistan.
As Justin Barber had told me, my small role in this huge operation was to work as part of the OMLTs and mentor an Afghan kandak commander. A kandak is a mirror image of a company of men in the UK Armed Forces; about ninety soldiers split into three platoons and a company headquarters. The kandak commander was the equivalent of the rank of major; I was therefore promoted to captain earlier than I was due, in order to narrow the difference in our ranks and fill my post. I had three Royal Marines to help me train the kandak, who would mentor the company’s three platoon commanders. Between us we had one interpreter. The four of us were essentially injected into the Afghan Army at the beginning of their operational training cycle, to train them in British tactics, techniques and procedures, and to ride along with them on operations. I was doing this job as part of 7 Battery – the sub-unit within 29 Commando that Jimmy Goddard had been posted to before his accident. Here I was serving under a new battery commander – a bizarre individual. He, in turn, was embedded into 45 Commando Group, thus making my CO for the operation the commanding officer of 45 Commando Royal Marines.
The soldiers and officers that we were replacing were clearly dispirited after some extremely high-intensity warfare. This concerned me – British soldiers moan and whinge; they do not get dispirited. They had endured some horrendous experiences. I got on particularly well with a lieutenant from the Light Infantry Regiment – I will call him Tom – who had been doing my new job so far that summer. I was anxious to pick his brains without prying too much, but he gave me a good brief as to what to expect. It was clearly unbridled chaos across the British area of responsibility.
Tom related to me in some detail how it was impossible to tell how the Afghan National Army would react day to day, whether you were training or on operations. He had, on many occasions, been left to fend for himself in contact with the enemy, and I could tell the experiences had had an effect on him.
When you are training in the Army you are only ever part of a team. You could be part of a small group of four as a fire team or fire support team, you could be part of a larger formation such as a platoon of thirty men, a company of ninety, and so on. Nothing prepares you for the moment when you realize that all around you have exited the stage, the enemy are close and aware that you are on your own, and there is no one to be brave for but yourself. In theory, it should never happen. It would happen to me some four years later.
It had happened to Tom on that tour. Winning a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for his efforts that summer, Tom was an extremely bright, robust and salt of the earth bloke. I would bump into him a few years later on a course, and find a changed man. He was withdrawn from that course and I never saw him again. He was put in a place by his country that we should never accept – under-equipped, under-prepared and out on a limb – and he paid a heavy personal price that he did not owe.
Afghan soldiers would be recruited in Kabul, vetted and brought down to us at Camp Shorabak, which was a small camp about a mile from Camp Bastion. Once with us, they would generally follow a fairly crude cycle of two months of training, then two months of operations followed by a month of leave. Seventy per cent of them did not return from leave, and so building up a skill base and capability amongst them was very difficult. Getting the soldiers on parade at 8.30 a.m. each day for some basic lessons in first aid, contact drills or how to search a car, was a major achievement. The training was extremely basic, and given the language barrier it was very difficult to work out how much was actually being assimilated.
Afghanistan was – and regrettably remains now – a place of extreme terror blended with supreme beauty; it must sound strange when I say I found it intoxicating.
We Were Warriors Page 7