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 the 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 o
ut 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.
‘Sir, if it’s about Friday night, I must say that I have no recollection whatsoever of what I said or did after 23:00hrs, so if I’ve been rude, I am really sorry. I probably said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have said. It’s no excuse, and anything I say now is going to sound like I’m trying to justify it, so all I’m going to say is sorry.’
The words are pouring out like water from a dam; I’m delivering them at machine-gun pace. As I look for a hair shirt to don or a whip for some self-flagellation, he holds his hand up like a police officer halting traffic.
‘Frenchie, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but you might want to stop there before you incriminate yourself.’
His face is a picture of seriousness. I’m still digesting what’s he’s just said and then he deals the hammer blow. The words come from his mouth with meaning and sincerity, but as crisp and flowing as if he’s reading from an Autocue.
‘Frenchie, it is my great honour and pleasure to inform you that you have been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for your actions in the skies over Afghanistan.’
As soon as he finishes, the seriousness is gone; his mouth widens into a big beaming smile.
I’m poleaxed. Dumbstruck. My chin actually drops, my mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ – and I thought that only happened in the movies. There’s a chair behind me. I literally drop into it as my legs buckle under me. That came completely out of left field. I don’t know what to say.
He sits beside me and he’s grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat now. He’s delighted and proud because this is the first DFC for 27 Squadron since they reformed with the Ch
inook. He told me that Group Captain Mason, the Station Commander, would be coming to see me and that although it was his job to tell me of the award, he’d very kindly given that privilege to Dom.
Ten minutes later, Group Captain Mason arrived, congratulated me and told me how delighted he was that the Chinook Force at RAF Odiham had been recognised thanks to the efforts of me and my crew in Afghanistan. Once everything had calmed down and I’d taken it all in, I asked Dom Toriati if there were any others and he told me, ‘Yes, there’s another one.’ I was delighted because I was pretty certain it would be for Morris. It was obvious – if I’d got one for what I’d done, Morris must be odds on to get one too.
Sadly it wasn’t the case, and for all that I’d been riding high when I was told of the award, that really brought me down to earth again. I was gutted for him. Obviously you wonder in the run-up to the operational awards whether you’ll be in line for anything, and Morris had been geeing me up, telling me that he thought I’d get one and I him; I really believed he would. I’m ashamed to say I avoided him in the immediate aftermath of my finding out. Aside from the fact that I’d been sworn to absolute secrecy for twenty-four hours by the Station Commander and the boss, I just didn’t want to have to tell him.
I was truly gutted, but that’s the lottery of the whole thing. And it is a lottery. So many people deserve awards, but the way it’s done is so political – who gets what, when and why. I was recognised for two of the missions I flew in my 2008 Det – the one in ZD575 when we were shot down, and for Op Oqab Sturga six days later. I feel enormously proud and privileged to have been awarded the DFC for those ops, but I couldn’t have done them alone. My crews on the two missions – Alex, Bob, Coops, Andy and Griz – were as much a part of what happened as I was; so to me, the award is for them too.
Sweating the Metal Page 27