Authors: Chantelle Taylor

Battleworn (29 page)

Our system, or lack of one, had failed. The incident left Cpl Stu Pearson (3 PARA), LCpl Stu Hale (3 PARA), and Fus. Andy Barlow (Royal Regiment of Fusiliers [RRF]) with lower limb amputations. Cpl Mark Wright was posthumously awarded the George Cross (GC) for his outstanding bravery and leadership during the incident. Stu Pearson was decorated with the Queen’s Gallantry Medal (QGM). Andy Barlow and Paul Hartley were both awarded the George Medal (GM). All members of the patrol told of how Mark wouldn’t let them fall asleep during their four-hour wait for rescue. This alone had much to do with the fact that any of them survived at all.

Significantly, the patrol never would have gone near the minefield that day had they been given an up-to-date map of the area. This data was available but not provided. As I walked then Commanding Officer Lt Col Stuart Tootal down the long, dark corridor of the tented hospital to formerly identify Mark, I felt awkward. Offering a cup of tea seemed appropriate. He accepted politely as most senior officers would. Identifying all of his fallen with humility and respect, his was an unenviable task.

Although I continued to serve through 2009, the experience of Stu and the others left me doubtful that I could endure much more of the bullshit coming out of the mouths of politicians who were involved in decision making at the top. When brigadiers and commanding officers destined for great things start resigning, that tells me that things aren’t as they should be.

I never thought that I would muster the courage to move on, but my intuition told me that it was time to go. The army helped shape me, and having experienced so much during the eleven years that I served, I wondered if any other career could satisfy me, mentally or physically.

Following Phil’s funeral on my last day of military service, I set about formulating my plans for the future. The world of private security appeals to me the most; it seems the perfect bridge between leaving the forces and becoming a civilian again. I use as much of my resettlement time as possible to qualify in areas that are less familiar to me. Luckily, my trade as a combat medic is in great demand. I undertake training to become a close protection operative, soon securing employment with an American company operating out of Afghanistan. Thus, in September 2009, just a year after returning home, I find myself preparing to make my way back to Afghanistan, the country that has flooded the UK and Europe with its biggest export: heroin.

Using my final weeks wisely, I spend as much time with loved ones as possible. Losing Phil, someone so close, has again reminded me never to take friends or family for granted. I know that seeing them again before Christmas is highly unlikely.

The day of my departure arrives quickly, and once again, I leave my familiar world. At London’s Heathrow, I say goodbye to my fiancé at the security gate, knowing that this is the beginning of the end for us. Ryan wants a simple life, and I want to escape the normality that I so obviously struggle to deal with. Like most couples, we pressed on whilst our relationship was in trouble, perhaps for a year or so. But my decision to return to Afghanistan has ended any hope of saving what we had. Although extremely hard, it would turn out to be the best decision for both of us.

Afghanistan, a country written off by the rest of the world, is a place where I feel comfortable. Eventually, being there will help me heal the psychological wounds that I have continually blocked out.

Making a short stopover in the United Arab Emirates, I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of the city of Dubai. Their impressive infrastructure momentarily disguises a world of over indulgence and double standards.

My transfer to Kabul is swift, and before I know it, we touch down at Kabul International Airport (KAIA). As the hydraulic doors lift, the familiar smell of diesel and death hit me like a freight train.

It feels different being here without the instant respect that my British army uniform gave me; gone, too, was the rank that I had earned in that uniform. The ANP providing security at the airport view me with suspicion, and it is a look that I do not appreciate.

I’m travelling with two other medics, both former military. Taff is former Royal Navy, and Robbie served as a combat medic with the Australian army. As we get in line to collect our baggage, they are as apprehensive as I am.

I created this situation for myself. Conscious that I don’t have a weapon, my palms are sweaty. Getting eyes on the personal security detail moving us to our new home further highlights what is now my inner turmoil. The ground brief and actions on contact and casualties I receive from a dangerously overweight personal security detail (PSD) lead is a world away from the start I envisioned. To make matters worse, I acknowledge that I have no medical kit. Desperate to call my regiment, I wonder what they would think if they knew that I was out here cutting about with no weapon to protect myself.

We set off driving through the dusty roads of Kabul, and all the signs of the destruction left behind after numerous roadside bombs scar the landscape and the faces of the local populace. It has always amazed me how the Afghan people continue to go about their daily business.

Scanning around and looking for any dangers, I check windows for gunmen, alleyways for potential threats, motorcycles getting too close. It’s then that I realise that Kabul is very different from the Afghanistan that I am familiar with. Thinking about the last time that I moved by road here, I feel suddenly overwhelmed by regret, wondering if my decision to return will somehow bite me in the arse. Taking a deep breath, I get a grip of myself. Yes, I am no longer military, but that is no excuse to start acting like a sack of shit.

I come up with a workable plan, identifying that there are plenty of weapons in the vehicle. In the event of the worst, I would probably get the overweight commander’s M4 American assault rifle, as there is no way on earth that he could get out of the vehicle quickly enough to be effective. It’s still early September, and the heat of Kabul is not as uncomfortable as the heat of Helmand Province was in late July 2008. Laughing to myself about my mini panic attack just moments before, I calm down, reminded of Nad-e Ali and B Company.

On arrival at our new home, we are met by our senior medical officer, Tom, a former US special ops medic (or 18D), a man I would come to respect very much. Posted to an outstation in the east of the country, Jalalabad would remain my home for the following eighteen months. I received a medical curriculum from which I devised a workable training plan. After teaching three junior doctors who would assist me, the four of us trained the Afghan border police combat medics.

My medics were being pushed out to fight on the eastern front, high up in the hills that border Pakistan. It was a huge undertaking for us all: translations had to be accurate and swift, and we only had a short time allocated for each medical cadre.

Some might say that I am addicted to the path of most resistance. Initially not taken seriously on account of my sex, I set about getting as physically fit and strong as possible. I went back to Kabul to complete the Department of State (DOS) protective security detail course before returning to Jalalabad.

On my first day back, a naval corpsman called Fig meets me. He will take on the role as my 2IC when teaching the Afghans. Fig is attached to the US Marines assigned to our FOB. Together, we instil physical and mental discipline into all of our students. We run them ragged around our compound daily, in searing heat and full fighting order, ensuring that they understand the importance of the medical packs that they carry on their backs.

‘Hey, Channy, where are you taking them today?’ Fig laughs as he negotiates the six-foot wall, with all of his kit on his back.

When he is done with our guys, I put my medical pack on my back, indicating to the Afghans that they should follow me. I do this by using a genuine smile and hand signals. Afghans are hard, resilient people who live rough for all of their relatively short lives. They respond positively when effectively guided.

Responsible for the medical care of our isolated FOB, I soon become the lead trauma medic for a site of up to a thousand personnel (when fully manned). Jalalabad is a beautiful place, and a healing one for me. Going back to basics has been restorative, and I’ve started to heal the mental scarring that I never even realised existed.

In addition, I am giving something back to the Afghans. I am not housed in their school or using their well water, but I have learnt to enjoy their culture. Working alongside the Americans is an experience that I will later recall fondly. Surrounded by generous, forgiving, and, above all, loyal people, there is always fun to be had. During the Fourth of July celebrations, my suggestion of running around the FOB in a redcoat has everyone roaring with laughter. Spending many hours watching Kenny Powers with my Marine Corps muckers allows me to hold on to my military past for a bit longer.

Every Afghan I have taught will shake my hand firmly before leaving our FOB. I have found this humbling. I understand all too well that they head to places that many of them would never return from. They respect that I was in Helmand, often asking me what it was like. I will never understand how they truly saw me, but they did become my brothers by choice, and I know that they will never forget me.

I have chosen this life less ordinary. It may not be politically correct, and at times I wish that I had selected something a little easier. I demand a great deal from myself, and it will take a lot to fulfill my dreams and shape my destiny. Always learning, never waning, I am a proactive woman. I will continue to break down barriers so that future generations have the right to choose.

Once again, I prepare to leave Afghanistan, this time to embark on the very different avenue of diplomatic protection. As I depart, I heed the advice that up until now has always served me best: I will never become a product of my environment; my environment will always be a product of me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chantelle Taylor joined the Royal Army Medical Corps in 1998, at age 22. Years later, after numerous deployments she was recommended to take the Queens commission from the ranks.

Ambitious and headstrong, Taylor opted to leave the service in 2009 and returned to Afghanistan for the third time. Employed as an instructor in combat medicine for the US department of state, the young Brit mentored Afghan doctors and police who were assigned to the East of the country, along the precarious borders with Pakistan.

Moving into Diplomatic security Chantelle spent a further three years in Baghdad, Iraq, as the primary protection officer for a high profile Ambassador.

Currently working as a senior security advisor and consultant in tactical medicine, the former soldier is writing her second novel, venturing into fiction with the hope of one day penning for film.

In Ardius Fidelis