'OK . . .' I say, less than convinced I'll be able to do it, 'I'll give it a go.'
7 December
I join 924 Troop in a four-ton lorry and drive up to the beginning of the endurance run – a six-mile course over rough, undulating moorland.
'Listen up, lads,' shouts Jon Stratford. 'The endurance run is a sort of cross-country run – through hell! Today is just to get you used to it and some of the obstacles that you'll confront on the way. The overall length of the course is six miles and you will have to complete it in under seventy-two minutes. You will run in syndicates of three running at one-minute intervals and you must stay together until you get to an obstacle called the "sheep dip" – then it is every man for himself against the clock. Right, line up in the following groups
I am in the first syndicate with James Williams and Mark Blight.
'Three, two, one ... go!'
We set off at speed down a steep, rocky slope. PTIs and members of the training team are distributed down the entire course to show us the way and, in places, demonstrate how to get through, over or under various obstacles. It is undoubtedly a hard and demanding course which takes us through thick vegetation (mostly sharp and unforgiving gorse), steep-sided gulleys, fast-flowing streams as well as up and over an undulating series of hills. We have to wade through a small lake called Peter's Pool – up to our waists in freezing water – and that is all before we reach the 'sheep dip'. This consists of two flooded concrete trenches linked by a completely submerged six-foot tunnel and it is through this tunnel of foul water we all have to pass – but not completely unaided. We work as a team and take it in turns to go through the tunnel – one man pushing the 'submergee' at one end and the other pulling him from the other end. The tunnel is not wide so it's a tight squeeze and therefore important not to panic halfway through. Otherwise the worst part of the sheep dip is the freezing water. Once through we cease to run as a team and continue driven by individual effort.
There follows a series of long, dark but only partially flooded tunnels, which we have to crawl through, as well as a long stretch of mud holes of various depths. It's impossible to know just how deep any of the holes might be, so you jump in half expecting it to come up to your knees only to find you're suddenly up to your neck. Eventually, once through the obstacle section of the course, it's a matter of a four-mile run for home (home being the commando camp itself) over a combination of rough country tracks and road. For me, this is bread and butter so I open up on the roads and manage to achieve a good running rhythm – and a good time: sixty-eight minutes, well under the limit of seventy-two minutes, although, I quickly remind myself, this time we were not carrying full weight and that will make a difference. Nevertheless, after my nightmare on the Bottom Field, I needed something to boost my confidence.
8 December
Bertie's family take their place in the stands for his batch's pass-out ceremony. There are hundreds of people attending, families and friends of all the YOs, but because it's raining the event has been moved from the parade square at Lympstone to the enormous drill shed next to it. Nonetheless, the atmosphere is charged with pride, excitement and high emotion.
The Royal Marines Band strikes up and impresses everybody with an exhibition of precision marching and stirring music. When they've finished the batch of some thirty-eight YOs, arranged in three ranks, march proudly in to perform their final duty as trainees. They come to a halt in front of the stands and, on the order of the adjutant, turn smartly to the left to face the crowd and the inspecting officer, Major General Garry Robison. Bertie stands proudly to attention midway along the rear rank. I can see his brother Harry madly taking photographs, his mother Lou dabbing at her eyes, and his father Mark sitting quietly but sporting the broadest of smiles.
After the inspection Major General Robison addresses the fledgling officers, telling them that they are entering the corps at an exciting time when it faces great challenges in Afghanistan.
'In the last fifteen months you have learned much, not least about one another and yourselves. And you now stand ready to test your leadership and your professional skills in the front line of the corps. My message to you is a simple one – have the self-confidence and the moral courage to put into practice what you have learned, while maintaining a humility that accepts you still have much to learn and considerable experience to gain.'
The young officers stand statue-still in their rapt attention to what the major general is saying, just as the families and friends behind him keep a fascinated silence.
'In the early months and years,' he continues, 'this knowledge and experience will be gained by listening to your subordinates as much as by listening to your superiors. You are joining your units at an exciting and operationally challenging time. As I speak some 82 per cent of the brigade is committed to ongoing operations in Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Those of you about to be deployed – I bid you well and wish you a safe return . . .'
Finally, to the tune of 'Life on the Ocean Wave', the adjutant shouts the final order the young men before him will ever hear as YOs: 'Royal Marines Officers, to your duties – quick march!'
The batch march past their applauding families and friends, about turn and then, to the strains of 'Auld Lang Syne', head for the exit of the drill shed. And that's it. After fifteen months Bertie, along with his fellow YOs, has passed out of training. In just two days he leaves for Afghanistan.
11 December
I arrive before dawn at RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire and make my way to the main building. It is heaving with Royal Marines in desert gear preparing to leave for Camp Bastion in Afghanistan. I eventually find Bertie in the departure hall looking distinctly nervous.
'OK, mate?' I say.
'Yes, I guess,' he says. 'I'm not worried about the bombs and the bullets so much as the men I'll be commanding. They're already battle-hardened but will be looking to me for leadership. I just don't want to let them down.'
'You won't, Bertie. You have the best training in the world behind you and your men will know that.'
Bertie nods and smiles.
'Anyway, have a good flight,' I say, trying to be as upbeat as possible. 'I'll be out in a couple of weeks and will come and find you. Should be there for Christmas!'
'OK, Chris,' he says, shaking my hand firmly. 'See you in Ghaners!'
An hour later I walk outside the airport building just as the day is beginning to dawn. An RAF TriStar jet, crammed with Royal Marines Commandos, screams down the runway in front of me and rises slowly into the sky. Bertie is on his way to the biggest adventure of his young life. I watch as the aircraft gains altitude and eventually disappears into the clouds . . .
6
Afghan-Bound
20 December
12.30
I leave for Afghanistan tomorrow to join Bertie Kerr wherever he is on the front line. I have, therefore, come up to my Soho office in London as there are so many last-minute things to take care of. Bills to be paid, business calls to make, my will to be signed and sent off to my solicitor, and to make sure Laura has everything she needs to run the place while I'm away. I also have some important and very difficult letters to write but ones I pray will never be read by anyone except myself. They will be addressed to my family and closest friends but are only to be given to them if I am killed.
I tell Laura what I'm going to do and, although visibly upset by the idea, she agrees to be responsible for giving them to the right people should it be necessary. Laura is an amazing young woman and a great strength to me. I have specifically requested that, in the event of my death, the MoD do not automatically inform my next of kin – that is my mother and father – but contact Laura. I cannot bear the idea of a uniformed officer or MoD official turning up at my parents' house in Worthing to give them news like that. If it has to be done I want Laura to do it. She already knows my parents and I know that she would treat them very tenderly and lovingly. In fact, the procedure to be followed if I 'catch it up' in Afgha
nistan has already been carefully worked out by the MoD and ITV – a sensible precaution, I know, but more than a little disconcerting as I have not even left London yet! Essentially what will happen is that the Royal Marines in Afghanistan will inform the MoD in London. They will follow a chain of communication that will end up informing Laura and Jim Allen, my executive producer at Granada, and together they will go to see my parents. That is when Laura would deliver one of the letters that I am about to write.
I don't want to write in the office so I nip out to a local cafe in Dean Street. I order a regular latte, sit in a quiet corner and get down to telling the people I love most in the world just how important they have been to me. It's a strange emotional experience because I'm having to pretend to be dead and gone. I am writing as a ghost yet I am still alive. I soon find myself welling up as I consider the pain I will be inflicting on those close to me if I perish. Am I being selfish? Am I doing this just for my own ends? Is this all about me and a self-absorbed need for adventure? These are all questions I cannot answer. I just know I have to go. This is a box I have to tick. Why, I cannot say. Perhaps I'll know once I've done it.
It takes three hours but eventually I finish the 'death letters' – twenty-three in all. I gather them up and put them all in a huge white envelope which I tape down. On the back I write a facetious message to take the edge off the morbid contents, more for my own benefit than anyone else's: 'Only to he opened in the unlikely event that the Taliban get the better of Tomcat.'
I return to the office and give the envelope to Laura. She puts it into a drawer in her desk, forces a smile and says as chirpily as she can, 'Well, obviously we'll never open that so when you come back we will ritually burn it, OK?'
'OK, Laura. That's a deal.'
I give her a big hug goodbye and head home to pack.
21 December
01.00
I am staying up all night to get everything properly packed and organised. There is so much to think of and military packing is very different from normal packing. It is not just a case of throwing a few clothes into a holdall together with a toothbrush and a razor – my usual method. I am having to fill my bergen with all my military clothing, plus sleeping bag, bivouac and survival gear. But I also have my technical equipment for filming to think of. I'm taking several cameras in case one or more gets damaged – filming in a war zone will involve obvious dangers to life and limb but will also be an exacting environment for filming equipment. In addition, I have to take plenty of batteries, chargers and tapes. I have no idea how easy it will be to recharge batteries or to store tapes in the field so, once on the front line, I'm planning to carry as much as I can in a daysack and the multiple pockets on my webbing.
I have bought myself some black webbing designed for police marksmen – a sort of tough, bulky waistcoat with all manner of pockets and pouches of different sizes, ideal for carrying all my filming paraphernalia. The pouches on my green camouflaged commando webbing are pretty much all of one size and specifically designed to carry ammunition magazines for the SA80 as well as hand grenades, so not ideal for me and what I need to carry. The fact that my police webbing is black rather than camouflaged is also helpful in distinguishing me as a non-combatant just as my dark blue helmet cover is meant to. Having said that, I know from experience in African war zones that anything marking you out as press can sometimes make you even more of a target. Add to this the fact that a camera on the shoulder looks very much like a rocket launcher from a distance . . . Still, I'm not going to worry about that now – the main thing is to get my webbing pouches filled in the most practical way.
As a 'one-man band' it is essential that I am as self-contained, organised and efficient as possible. I need to know exactly where everything is at all times and, if necessary, be able to find anything I want by touch only. Much of the action in Afghanistan is likely to be under cover of night and on the move. That is, after all, the commando way. I try packing the webbing in various ways with everything I would need to survive and to film over a twenty-four-hour period. I have to allow for twenty-four-hour rations, two litres of water, a compass, torch, whistle, knife, a night-vision monocular and a map if relevant. On top of that I want to carry around six lithium camera batteries (each one giving me around five hours of power), backup radio microphones, AA batteries, assorted tools to allow for basic camera repair, camera cleaning equipment and then as many DVCam tapes as I can fit into the space left over – I want to carry at least fifteen forty-minute tapes at a time. Once I am happy with the way I have distributed everything in the webbing, I memorise exactly where everything is and then test myself by trying to locate different items with my eyes shut. When I am satisfied I have everything memorised, I unpack the webbing in order to repack everything in my bergen rucksack ready for travelling.
I finish packing by 5 a.m. and load the hire car I will be driving to RAF Brize Norton. I go back into my flat to change into my new desert fatigues and then have one last look around to check I have left nothing behind before leaving. As I close the front door I pause for a moment and actually hear myself saying, 'Goodbye, flat.' It must be the effect of writing all those death letters and sending off my will, but I am wondering whether I will ever see this place again. I'm very excited to be going to Afghanistan but who knows what awaits me out there? It's a very dangerous place and I'm going out there actively to seek that danger out. Yes, that has always been the plan from the very beginning, but it always seemed such a distant prospect. Now it is upon me. Here I go.
'Goodbye, flat,' I murmur once again.
I head for the A40 out of London and follow it all the way to Oxford and then to Brize Norton. I drive in thick, freezing fog most of the way but make it by seven thirty for a nine thirty flight. Dave Nicholson is waiting for me but is in a bit of a strop because the armourers have sent his SA80 assault weapon to the wrong terminal. The RAF airbase is heaving with Royal Marines all heading out to Afghanistan and all have weapons they are trying to check in, but eventually Dave locates his and we are able to relax. We join a long line of hungry marine commandos queuing at the airport cafe. After twenty minutes we get to the counter but there is little left to consume. I end up with a squashed ham and cheese croissant and Dave, a suspect-looking pasty – our last meal on UK soil.
We go through to the departure lounge – now a heaving sea of marines all in desert fatigues. Still chomping at the remains of my squashed croissant I spot the last person I would ever have expected to see at RAF Brize Norton just four days before Christmas – celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay. He has just come through check-in and promptly walks up to a bunch of guys carrying filming equipment. Gordon greets them with hugs and kisses – evidently a civilian camera crew! 'Bloody hell,' growls Dave. 'Not a good idea in this sort of place. He'll get beaten up in a minute!' I laugh and look around at a few incredulous marines who are starting to nudge each other and point at Gordon, but that is probably more because they have just recognised who it is rather than because he is embracing blokes. In fact, by coincidence I know Gordon slightly. A good friend of mine, Christine Hall, was the director on his series Kitchen Nightmares and introduced me to him at a party once. I go over to him to say hello and find out what on earth he is doing here.
Gordon greets me with a firm handshake – not a kiss – and introduces me to his party. He explains that they are all flying out to Afghanistan where he is going to cook Christmas dinner for the troops in Camp Bastion.
The tannoy announces that we are about to board the TriStar jet to Kandahar. I grab my mobile and quickly make a last call home to say goodbye to my parents. I keep it jolly and make light of everything, as indeed do they. We studiously avoid talking about anything to do with war, Afghanistan or the Royal Marines – in fact, we concentrate on talking about what they're doing for Christmas and their little dog Jenny who is barking loudly in the background. The tannoy makes the final announcement to board.
'Bye then,' I say. 'Have a great Christmas. I'll call you
when I can.'
'Bye, old chap,' says my father. 'Bye-bye, darling,' says my mother.
My upper lip stays resolutely stiff and British. My lower one, however, does not. I hang up, gather myself and grab my hand luggage. I then join Dave and walk out with five hundred Royal Marines to the waiting aircraft – its engines already turning over and humming sweetly.
Inside the RAF TriStar every seat is soon filled, but the former civilian airliner is not uncomfortable. Indeed it is, at first sight, just like any commercial plane that you might use to jet off somewhere for your summer holidays. However, on closer inspection there are some subtle and sinister giveaway signs that this is no longer used to ferry fare-paying civilians. First, there are absolutely no frills: no in-flight magazines in the seat pockets; no extra blankets in the lockers; no personal entertainment systems; no pretty trolley dollies. And the biggest giveaway of all that this aircraft is engaged on military business is the long line of stretchers down the right-hand side of what would once have been the business-class cabin. Right now, of course, these stretchers are empty, and I can only imagine what it must be like on this plane sometimes when it is returning from Afghanistan, where increasing numbers of British troops are being killed or wounded on an almost daily basis.
Dave and I take a couple of seats in the central aisle but then I move to the cockpit so I can film the take-off. Gordon Ramsay is in there as well – invited as a VIP – and we sit together crammed in just behind the pilot's seat. We taxi down the runway but there is clearly some consternation among the crew because the control panel is showing that a cargo door is not properly shut. 'Hmmm, bit of a problem,' says the flight engineer. 'Need to get that sorted out.'
'What would happen if we were in the air with a "bit of a problem" like that?' says Gordon a little nervously.
'Oh, we wouldn't stay in the air basically,' replies the flight engineer matter-of-factly as he leaves the cockpit to go and inspect the offending cargo door.
Commando Page 15