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Then suddenly all was noise and light. The helicopter came in low from the west. As the helicopter discharged it’s cargo of new arrivals I took the rifle into my shoulder and held it ready – the helicopter was a huge target, and on the ground like this, it was at its most vulnerable. The insurgents would do anything to take out a helicopter, but that wasn’t going to happen, not tonight.
The people ran towards the shelter of the compound and the quad bike followed. The pilot applied the power heading back to Bastion, I felt a pang of jealousy towards the crew, who I knew would be from my base back in the UK – RAF Benson. For some bizarre reason I waved goodbye…
Wrong footing “Alex, why are you so wet?” I looked down. I had forgotten that I was soaking. Just ten minutes into the patrol, at the edge of a farmer’s field, we had needed to cross an irrigation ditch. The way over was provided by two pipes arranged one slightly above and to the right of the other.
It was as good as a bridge as you would get in the middle of a field in Afghanistan. I looked at it and then down at my kit. I clipped my rifle to the lanyard and shifted the weight on my back. The nine year old Alex, playing in the fields near his parents home may have loved it, but the 41 year old me, with all this kit on, didn’t like the look of it.
The young squaddie in the patrol in front took a few steps and was across. Easy. Hmmmm. I looked at it again. How do I do this? I took a step forward and realised that my left foot was going to be facing the wrong way, so I shifted it, trying to slide it over the six inch pipe.
Oh yes, it slid! There must have been some mud on the soul of my left boot. My foot slipped off the pipe, kicking my leg out. Gravity took over and I tried to regain my balance. I failed. At any rate I was falling in the wrong direction. The weight in my day sack pulled me backwards... and over. “Ohhhhhf...” But the rest was lost in the splash of me hitting the cold, dirty, smelly water.
I scrabbled forwards, “Take my rifle” I said and unclipped it – handing it up to the young rifleman. Another hand came down and I was half pulled and half clambered out of the ditch, dripping. Soaked from the waist down. I hadn’t gone under totally. My dignity however was not protected.
In fact, it turned out a God-send. Only ten minutes into the three hour patrol and I was nice and cool. Yeah! I smelt bad, but, well, in fields
www.raf-ff.org.uk Envoy Summer 2011 11
with cows and goats, who’d notice one more bad smell? It wasn’t as if we were going to be going anywhere posh! We were just going to a nearby village, chat to the locals and get a feeling for the ‘atmospherics’ there.
An hour later as we sat with a couple of the elders, under the shade of a tree, I couldn’t help but notice that they looked at my wet trousers and furrowed their brows a little. We left the Elders to their own conversation and moved off, the morning heat building. We had a good fifty minutes of yomp to get back to the CP and I was happy to take a break for five minutes as the other call-sign out on the ground with us moved to another position.
Ginger Biscuits
Sitting by the path, I took out my camera. The ripping of the velcro must have been what attracted them. Two children about nine and four. Brothers. Both dressed in brown dish- dashes. They eyed me suspiciously. Not sure if they should come closer. I took advantage of the wait to take my day-sack and helmet off. I reached into the pack and pulled out a foil container with some ration pack biscuits inside. I tore it open and offered the eldest boy one. “Biscuit?” I said.
He came closer and took the ginger biscuit from me. The bravery of his brother brought the younger one closer. “Sta nom?” I asked, in my appalling Pashtu. ‘What’s your name?’ I added, “Ma nom Alex”, tapping my chest. “Ma nom es Mahmood” said the elder of the two.
“What about you?” I said to the little one. “Sta nom?” But he wasn’t so brave and he did what ALL four year olds would do when asked their name. He hid behind his brother. I offered another biscuit, and took a bite of one myself to show them they were safe to eat. They nibbled and the Mahmood’s face made a look of surprise as the taste from the ginger hit his mouth. I wondered if he’d ever tasted anything like that before.
My camera was still resting on my leg, and I
held it up, showing them. “Picture?” I asked. They looked confused. So I took a snap and immediately turned the camera round to show Mahmood his image on the screen. He laughed. His brother peeped and giggled. I held it up again and they stood back. Mahmood crouched by his brother and put an arm round him.
“Cheese!” I said and they
smiled...and I got a lovely picture of two boys. They laughed at the picture I showed them. These were the first two children I had met out here that hadn’t immediately come up to me and asked for ‘choclit’ or ‘kalam’ (pen). It seemed as though they had never actually seen or spent time with a Brit.
Putting away my camera, I got my MP3 recorder out. They looked quizzically at it. I set it to record and asked them their names again. Again only Mahmood replied. Playing back his words his eyes went massively wide. And his brother roared with laughter. I wished that I had some sweets for them. But it was approaching the end of the patrol and other than the ginger biscuits I had nothing. I gave the rest of the packet to them and stood up and putting my gear on, moved off.
The heat was ramping up. I sucked on the drinking tube and drained the last of the three litres of water I had brought out that morning. Great, I thought. No more water. And then suddenly I saw the tower that marked our CP come into view. Another ten minutes and we’d be back in.
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