Authors: Chantelle Taylor
Stripping down, I take off my soaking wet body armour. A dejected-looking OC stands in the doorway. ‘Sgt T, can I have a word?’ he says.
‘No worries, sir, I will just be a second.’
Nervous, I have seen this look before, and I know bad news is about to follow. Automatically bracing myself for news of a family member, I dread what he is about to say.
‘It’s Ham,’ Maj. Clark says.
I feel a mixture of confusion and relief as I follow the boss outside, realising my family is okay. Maj. Clark guides me around the side of the ops room so that we’re out of earshot of the young Jocks.
‘Ham’s received some bad news from home,’ the boss explains. ‘His wife is very ill.’
He further explains that Ham is needed at home, and things are moving fast. With any type of immediate family sickness, the military are very effective and will pull out all the stops to get the affected soldier home. I find Ham sitting near the back wall outside the aid post. We are great friends, and I put my arms on his shoulders, pressing down tightly. Ham is like a brother to me, and I feel choked for him. It’s the worst feeling in the world when you can’t help a loved one, and it’s hard to watch a friend suffer through it. This is especially true with Ham, who is usually a constant source of amusement.
Ham has a long journey ahead, and his situation brings to mind my own long trip home from Cyprus, where I had been on exercise when I received a phone call about my brother’s condition. When I got back to the UK, it was just in time to turn David’s life support machine off.
Ham will be flying from Nad-e Ali to Camp Bastion, Bastion to Kandahar, and then on to Kabul. His flight from Kabul is the longest stretch, and the one that he will suffer on. If there was a doctor here in Nad-e Ali, they would have taken care of it. I place one tablet in a small clear pill dispensing bag and give it to Ham, explaining that it will help him sleep on the longest leg of his journey. I write a small prescriptive note so Ham can use the pill if required. It’s not normal practice, but these aren’t normal circumstances.
For the hundredth time, I head back into the medical room. I look around at our mediocre set-up, unsure about how we have gotten through the last seven weeks.
Suddenly the OC reappears in the doorway. ‘Sgt T, timings have been brought forward on account of Ham’s situation, so you, LCpl Young, and the 2IC will be leaving Nad-e Ali in a few hours.’
At that very moment, my pulse quickens, bringing back my sweaty palms. I am completely freaked out at the thought of leaving. We have a sequence here; good or bad, it has worked. I feel awkward at the thought of going back to Lash, and I don’t understand why we have to leave
now.
‘We should pack, Jen,’ I say, breaking the silence.
Jen nods. She travels light, and out of all our team, her personal administration is by far the best. Everything has its place, and she doesn’t care much for niceties.
It’s not going to be easy leaving Abbie and Sean here, but we can’t stay in Nad-e Ali forever. After a half hour or so, our packing is complete. Packs are moved outside the aid post onto the small pathway leading to the front gate. With the little time that we have, we make our way around the base to say goodbye to the Jocks on the wall.
I catch a glimpse of young Ptes Ferris and Cameron two junior Jocks whom I have known since their days as young recruits. Cam was a recruit in my platoon, and Ferris was part of another training company. His name was known across the training regiment for all the wrong reasons of course. I hand out any spare kit, and the gun position at the front gate gets my beloved speakers so they can enjoy music during the quiet times of the day. As the four of us prepare to make our way out to the HLZ for the last time, the threat on our birds comes to the forefront of my mind.
Maj. Clark is outside already. ‘Sgt T, thanks for everything you have done. See you back at Lash soon.’
I get a hug from Davey. He laughs, acknowledging that, with me gone, he will man the 51 alone.
B Company commander shakes all of our hands before we set off. I always find this part a bit embarrassing; we Brits don’t deal with accepting or giving praise very well. Doing your job well is the very least you can do.
Twilight shifts to night-time. Grabbing my weapon, I notice Ali Cat lying beside it. Picking up the little man for the last time is harder than I imagined.
‘Anti-cat Taylor is going soft,’ Abbie announces.
Looking back now, I realise that getting attached is something that I struggle with. I put much of my inability to want to get emotionally involved down to not dealing with David’s death properly. No one thinks that what they dread most will ever happen to them – and we all go along thinking that the things that wind up hurting us the most will never happen, but, more often than not, they do. I recollect feeling guilty for wishing that it was someone else’s brother who had died. It’s so much easier to console others than it is to console yourself. It took a long time to recognise my grief. The books say recognition is the toughest part, so with a little help from Ali Cat, progress has been made.
Davey leads us out to the HLZ. The straps from my backpack dig deep into my now-scrawny frame (the Helmand diet is the best-kept secret in the world). Wheels are up from Camp Bastion. Kneeling in complete darkness, we listen for the sound of the Chinook, pondering if the Taliban will hit this time. The bird is inbound, and the four of us shelter each other as it swoops in. As always, the heat from the downdraught makes it hard to breathe. One by one, like pensioners, we clamber up with our heavy kit, making our way onto the back of the Chinook.
On last, I am left with nowhere to sit. I kneel with my heavy pack still on my back; rationale says that it’s only going to be a short trip. I grab Jen’s arm as we take off; not sure why, it just felt like the right thing to do. We are all aware that it’s only a matter of time before one of our birds is shot out of the sky. Half an hour later the ramp is lowered on the back: we are at Camp Bastion to drop Ham off. As he goes by, I stick my hand out. He taps it, mouthing, ‘Catch you later, mucker.’
The helicopter lifts again. Grabbing hold of a metal box, I steady myself. My right leg is numb, as I didn’t take into consideration the drop-offs when I positioned myself. Almost there now, and the contents of my stomach leap up and down as the helicopter drops low and fast.
The pilots’ aim is to evade potential rocket attacks. Skimming roofs of compounds on the approach to the MOB at Lashkar Gah is like a roller-coaster ride at night. The door gunner standing to the rear of the airframe lifts his NVG and taps my shoulder. As I look up, he points to his watch and gestures with two fingers, indicating that we will be on the ground in two minutes. I pass the info to Jen, who in turn passes it on to the next man.
Finally, wheels are down on the ground. The aircraft sits behind a high perimeter wall, giving it some degree of protection. The pilots are anxious to lift again, as staying put for any length of time increases the chance of attack tenfold. All pax are ushered off, and my dead leg is slow to react as I manoeuvre myself. The change in engine pitch signifies the lift. Taking cover, I instruct the civilian who joined the flight from Camp Bastion to face away from the bird. A face full of shingle-style pebbles would not have ended the day well. As the shadow of the Chinook disappears into the night sky, I see that our medical team are waiting for us: Doc Richards and Cpl Stevie Housden have waited up, and it’s a relief to see their smiling faces.
My brain is still in PB mode, and I feel overwhelmed by the light and noise in the compound. At night, Argyll was usually in silence unless we were under attack. The sound of generators and the glare from the perimeter lights unsettle me.
Jen and I drop our kit off in the nine-foot-by-nine-foot canvas shelter that we left seven weeks prior. I head to the Internet cabin. It’s late, so the terminals must be free. Jen heads to the shower block. To my delight, the Internet is down. I make my way back to our tent. Climbing through the small flap of canvas at the front, I hear a loud Scottish voice. ‘Hey, hey, mucker.’
Turning, I see a figure moving very quickly towards me from out of the shadow. I realise it’s my man Duffy. He lifts me off the ground, and his smiling face lights up. Young soldiers like Duffy are the ones who make these days away from home worthwhile. He doesn’t fight for political gain or to hunt terror cells, he fights for his friends in the hope that they all make it home. Our so-called PlayStation generation has fought hard in Helmand and continues to do so. And for this moment alone, I am glad to have left Nad-e Ali.
HOMEWARD BOUND
BACK IN LASHKAR GAH, TIRED AND DISHEVELLED, I LOOK DOWN AT MY camp cot for the first time in seven weeks. Not as comfortable as my bed at home, it is still a world away from the thin roll mat I have left behind on the floor of the PB. I am exhausted, so drained that I completely sack off any notion of a shower – the last thing I want to feel is refreshed or awake. Trudging over to the toilet block with my toothbrush in hand, I make short work of an essential strip wash, managing to get back to my bed space within ten minutes. I don’t care about anything other than sleeping.
My body’s natural adrenaline from the daily attacks and copious amounts of casualties kept me going in Nad-e Ali, but now I feel like a zombie, the walking dead. Before Jen has a chance to put the light out, I am flat out and comatose. It’s the deepest sleep that I can remember; not even stirring, I manage to stay out for a straight twelve hours. If I could bottle this exhaustion and sell it as a sleep aid, I would make millions.
Waking up is quite a different story: a major hangover headache, minus the alcohol. I am completely dehydrated, hungry, and dying for the toilet. With not a multipurpose yellow sharps container in sight, I trek out to the lavatory. I get eyes on myself in the mirror, and what I see is hideous. Looking at the huge dark circles around my usually smiling Irish eyes, I am horrified. My skin is like leather to the touch, and I look completely weather-beaten. I figure that I have lost about twenty-five pounds in weight, and I now resemble the Tom Hanks character in the film
Castaway,
minus the beard. My combats are hanging off my arse, and I won’t deny that this is a welcome sight.
Relaxing at last, I enjoy the tranquillity of the shower block; using a toilet without the worry of a murder hole is all of a sudden a significant event in my life, and for the first time in weeks I feel safe. Nad-e Ali is raw and untamed: it’s a world away from the MOB here in Lash. It takes an absolute age to scrub myself clean, as the grime is embedded all over me. I stay in the shower for over an hour, trying to zone out and get back to reality.
I keep thinking about Abbie and Sean. Ali Cat must wonder where I have gone. He slept on top of my bivvy bag at night, and I liked the sensation of his little paws climbing over me to get comfy. He would try to move stealthily, stalking shadows in the room before tumbling over. It’s hard to believe all that is behind me now.
I head back to the tent. Jen and I each finally get into a clean set of combats. She starts packing as I endeavour to find out information about our flights home. It won’t be long now. The PRT begins to fill up with personnel from 3 Commando Brigade.
Going along the walkways, I barely recognise people as I pass them. Just outside the regimental aid post (RAP), I spot Capt. Wood. He looks as dishevelled as I do. ‘Sleep well, Sgt T?’ he asks. ‘When will you head to Bastion?’
‘Too well, sir,’ I say in response to his first question, adding in response to the second, ‘Just waiting for timings, but we’re out of here tomorrow morning. We’ll move on to Cyprus a couple of days after that.’
‘Come up to the ops room before you leave,’ he says. ‘Monty is briefing the marines, and Flashheart is cutting about.’
‘Thanks, I will,’ I reply. Double knee pads pop into my head as I continue to walk along the stone path to the clinic. Chuckling to myself at the thought of Flashheart and his antics around the base, I make my way into the medical reception. Maj. Richards, our doc, lets me know that we are moving to Camp Bastion after first light tomorrow morning.
With no time to spare, I must start packing. I look forward to starting my trip home, but I have to make the rounds before I go. Firstly, B Company ops room: it’s good to see some of the guys again. News that Ham made it back home in fewer than twenty-four hours is most welcome.
Being away from the PB has left a void in my routine, and I am in danger of becoming one of those ‘mincers’, people who dwell upon where they have been and what they have done. I like life, and I’m in desperate need to get back to it. Nad-e Ali was over for me, and now I just want to get home so I can see my fiancé and family.
A trip to the quartermaster’s department brings me crashing straight back into regimental reality. Handing back kit that I have signed for turns into an epic fail, as watching staff finish off games of solitaire before signing me off raises the issue of my patience – or lack of it. Back to the ops room I go, where I see Flashheart and his red iPod. Solitaire guy is forgotten, and the visual of Flash sends me into a laughing fit. Marines in the ops room look at him in disbelief; they don’t get the joke about the red iPod, either. Regardless, coffee press in hand, we head to the cookhouse for food.
My new sense of purpose makes the day race by. Our first stop will be Camp Bastion, where I can catch up with friends who have been deployed to different bases upcountry. I can also get an update on Abbie and Sean from the main medical ops room. Before saying goodbye, emails are exchanged, all of us hoping that we will see one another again someday.
Finally, I head back to my tent to pack and have one last sleep. Once I’m all packed, my head hits the pillow. I’m out early, ready for another undisturbed night.
Just before first light, Jen and I make our way to the HLZ. It’s busy with people waiting to fly to Camp Bastion, as the bird drops in, kit and equipment are placed on in the centre of the airframe. Personnel file up each side and then buckle in to the seats. The Chinook is airborne, so the first leg of our trip home has started.