Names on a wall…

20,456.

Just a number.

A fairly big number.

It’s slightly more than the price of a new Ford Mondeo (£18,100). It’s not quite as big as the number of miles around the circumference of the Earth (24,901 miles).

But it’s still a big number. But what is it significant for? Why so important?

It’s the number of names carved onto the walls of the Air Forces Memorial at Runnymede, in Surrey. Each of those names is a member of a Commonwealth Air Force who flew or fought in Northern Europe, and who has no know grave. They are the Missing of the Royal Air Forces that took the war to Germany, between 1939 and 1945.

It’s hard to imagine that number of people. It’s the population of a small town. It’s more than the average attendance of a Championship football match. Just imagine. If you went to watch Forest play Birmingham, you’d have been in a crowd of 20,556. All of them gone. Missing. No grave. No tomb. No where to be laid at rest.

It’s staggering. It’s sobering.

Built in the 1950′s it lists 20,456 names. Each name an airman or airwoman. Each name a person without a grave. Each name a person with a story, a life, and a death.

These sorts of numbers are staggering. Hard to get your head around. Difficult to comprehend. And when you visit, and you SHOULD visit, you’ll find a beautiful and calm memorial near to Egham in Surrey, built onto the side of a hill over looking London, just near to the flight path of Heathrow.

And despite the noise of the aircraft taking off and landing at the countries busiest airport, there you’ll find an oasis of calm in a mad and rushed world; a sense of timelessness.  Built like a monastic cloister, with a central tower – reminiscent of an Air Traffic Control tower – there stands panel after panel after panel. Each listed with names. Name after name after name.  I am not going to pick out a name, or a story.  Each is as important as the other, no one stands out. No one should stand out.  Irrespective of rank, gender, role or organisation each should be remembered as one who gave his or her life in the ultimate human folly – war.

And below each panel is a small stone seat.  But often the seat has a picture, or a small posy of flowers, or a candle.  These maybe the names of the missing, but they are not the names of the forgotten.  This is a living memorial.  It is where the people – men and women – flyers and ground crew – of the Commonwealth Air Forces who have no grave are remembered by their families, often by generations who never knew or met them.

It is quite simply a beautiful place and it is a fitting memorial to the Missing.  A journey to pay homage to the men and women listed here is essential for all of us.  We should visit.  We should honour them, and as ever we should all remember them. All 20,456 of them.

Each name a story, each story a life, a death.

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The next blog in this series, coming soon, will be the first hand account of a Bomber Command Veteran Air Gunner. Keep checking back, or even better, subscribe to this blog to get new posts delivered to your email inbox.

History…

I found my Afghan notebook last night. Just sorting through a box and there it was. A nondescript black soft backed Moleskin notebook.

I have always loved notebooks and being into my stationary porn (you know, walking round Staples errr touching books) I loved having it out there with me. I resolved NOT to keep a dairy of my time out there, this blog was enough of that, but instead, being a ‘bear of very small brain’, I resolved to write EVERYTHING I did down. That way I would always be able to refer back to events as time moved on out there.

My job in Afghan was basically a Project Manager, providing advice, support, accessing funding and expertise for the locals, reconstructing, rebuilding, stabilising the country, so it was important that I kept a track of things going on. The Moleskin was perfect. It fitted into my trouser pocket easily and weighed nothing in my daysack. It went everywhere with me. I lived in fear and dread of losing it…

But I never did, and I religiously wrote down all sorts of things in there. Names, places, figures, lists. All in note form, but strangely enough, last night just opening it again and looking at stuff from a year ago I was able to pick out events quite easily.

Obviously I looked back to see what I did exactly one year ago. It was one of the more interesting days…

- Met with elder Haji Abdul Ali Khan to look at scales of payment for damages to his compound when used as a Check Point. Agreed to identify number of rooms damaged, windows and doors damaged and walls broken down. (HAAK’s compound is not listed on the database for occupation and no records exist for the occupation. Need to establish when and who occupied and if there is any evidence of BritFor occupation. Will require deliberate Op by 24B Multiple to set up security cordon and carry out survey.)

- Notes for today’s Shura. Inform elders that only one project per village will be allowed at one time. Elders as a council need to decide on priority for projects. Strano 1/3 wells proposed, Norzo propose new Sluice Gate for irrigation ditches, Barakazai investigate road reinforcement idea. Locals need to learn to prioritise what they need over what they want.

Projects need to become more community focused. In particular Sluice Gates and Irrigation projects are not looked upon so favourably. Propose that the Shura starts to think about community meeting places to refurbish and improve. Funding for low level projects will be more difficult to find.

Locals need to be reminded that bringing electricity to each compound is a long way off at this stage and that the idea of a large bridge over the Helmand will not be built in out lifetime. Similarly funding for huge projects is just not there.

- Compound 44 damaged by Huskey. Mohammed Rsoule claims 22,000Afghani damages. Will require close inspection, however worst case figures available for damage described is:

Wall 3m at 1,500
Door at 3,000
Door frame additional 1,000

Total available for damages 5,500afa. 23A admits his Huskey driver hit the wall, but the damage is minimal. Will have words with Smudge about his driving through the village. Thank God he didn’t hit the Mosque on the other side of the road.

- ANA commander from CP Shin reports his second well is now unserviceable. Invest possible repair from Hekmat Wali Construction. ‘Terp to phone Gul.

- Compound 5 identified as Ghani’s house. Has been know to be a teacher at some stage.

- District Council member failed to show at Shura again. Claimed to ‘terp on phone that security ‘wasn’t good enough’. Shura held at CP Shin. Talking bollocks.

The Shura (a meeting or consultation) that I made the notes for didn’t go to well. I basically had to tell the local elders that the central funding had been reduced. This was because there was an up-coming major Op to capture Loy Mandeh from Taliban control in the offing. This would mean the money that there was available from the central funds would have to be shared out amongst more people and places.

Obviously, I couldn’t tell them that there was going to be an Op – security and all that – so it was difficult to get the elders to understand that they would have less projects in their villages. This meant less development and less construction. This meant that people still had to get their drinking water from filthy irrigation ditches, that their fields were not irrigated efficiently, and that they would have to try and work as a community more for their own development.

The reason for my job out there was to reduce the locals dependence on foreign aid and foreign advice. They simply had no idea how governance worked. They had no experience of operating as a community and how to prioritise projects and ideas. The aim was to get the locals to think about how THEY could improve their own communities by themselves. We were there for help and advice, and to try to get them to see what they needed, rather than what they wanted.

When I first arrived in the villages, I asked at a Shura what the locals thought was important for the development of the area. They all asked for generators to provide electricity to the compounds, for a new road to be built, for a huge wall to be built next to the River Helmand and for a big bridge to be built over it.

All good ideas for development and progress. But not exactly what they needed right then. What they really needed was the roads they had to be made safe and resurfaced. They needed to be able to access medical care for their families. They needed to have access to safe, clean water.

And they needed to start thinking about their own community and how they governed themselves. They needed facilities for government and governance. A place to meet. A place for the community to use as a small market. They needed a small school and maybe support for the three women who operated as midwives and the one man who acted as a doctor (although in reality he just sold medicines that he bout in the Bazaar in Lashkah Gar).

I spent a long time with the 20 or so elders trying to get this point across to them. They were proposing huge projects that had no chance of being approved. Me and my ‘terp sat with them for over an hour arguing and explaining and repeating…some of them saw my point, but a few refused to see it. When I told them that just one project per village would be allowed at a time, several elders got quite angry. Eventually I had had enough We were going round and round and getting nowhere. I told my ‘terp to say that the Shura was over and that everyone needed to calm down.

A few of the more sensible elders agreed and nodded. But I got up and walked towards the door, I shook hands with the senior elder there and went around the room shaking hands saying goodbye until next time, and went to leave.

One man was still angry, he started to shout and began to move towards me. I told the ‘terp to say we wouldn’t be speaking about the projects any more today and that the Shura was over. I would be happy to speak in a day or so, but not today.

This didn’t placate the man. He was still very angry, another man appeared on his shoulder, shouting. He shouted again and stood in my way. My terp got very nervous. I got very nervous. The man pushed me and as I tried to walk past him he pulled on my left arm to stop me from leaving. My right hand went to the handle of my pistol, nestling in my pocket. I used one of the few words of Afghan that I knew ‘DREZH’ – ‘STOP!’ In English I shouted for everyone to calm down, but I don’t think my terp translated that, he was too shocked by what had happened.

One of the other elders, a man I really respected, an ex-afghan police commander, a really shrewd and clever man, named Daroo saw my hand move. He himself moved quickly. He pulled the man away. He looked him in the face and said something quickly to him and then quickly turned to me. I was standing at the door. My Terp was just behind me. I still had my hand on my pistol, but it was still in my pocket.

He spoke and my terp told me that Daroo was very sorry for what had just happened. He said that some of the people there didn’t understand that they had to move on themselves. Daroo said that it was time for the people of Afghan to start to look after their own affairs, but it was difficult for some because they didn’t know how to. The other man moved towards me slowly and held out his hand in apology. He told me that he was sorry for what had happened.

And I told him that I was sorry too. But I understood why he had gotten so angry. And I told him that the reason that he had got angry was a good one. Because it meant that he cared for the people off the village that he represented. He wanted the best for them and he wanted the country to develop and grow and become a better place to live. I told him that the only way to do this properly was to work with us and to work with the Government of Afghanistan. He should use his passion to fight for his villagers, and that they had a good elder who obviously cared for them.

I looked over at Daroo who was nodding in agreement. ‘Shaa’ he said – an Afghan word which sort of means, ‘yes, indeed, true’. I thanked him for his intervention and for his wise words too. I told everyone, not to be disheartened by what had just happened, and that it was a good thing. I wanted them to care about their communities. Because if they cared about them then they would want to build, develop and improve them.

None of this went into the notebook. But I remember it vividly. I remember my terp after saying he was not happy about what had happened, and that it had been a good job that Daroo had been there.

But not as glad and happy that I was. And I am glad that people like Daroo are there in Afghan, because for all the stories in the news about insurgents and ‘Green on Blue’ and the implications by the media that the locals don’t want us there in their country, there are people out there who do. People like Daroo who want to work with us to help develop a country that has had so little for so long.

And on the day I left the CP to begin my journey home, Daroo and a few of the elders from the village came to see me and say goodbye. And I noticed that the last one who shook my hand was the man who had tried to pull me back into the Shura. ‘Manana’ he said, ‘Deera manana’. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

I sometimes miss Afghanistan. Much more than the dry facts in my notebook describe.

Lost and Found…another cautionary tale…

The summer is coming! The summer is coming! Well almost, as I write this it’s pouring down yet again, but despite the hosepipe ban and drought orders, we can try and look forward to a summer of long, sunny days, with BBQ’s and beer gardens and days out…

And a lot of people will be visiting an air show, or maybe two, this summer. Now I am not a massive fan of air shows, party because I have spent far too many air shows WORKING them, but also because I am not a massive fan of aircraft (this previous blog refers).

But people like them, and I do like seeing the historic aircraft flying and on static display, and they are nice days out for people who I’ve taking nice pictures and for the family AND they often raise lots of money for service charities, so they are worthwhile events, and there are lots of big ones this year that look to be great days out.

But. This story comes from when I was working the RAF Cosford air show a few years ago. Our job then was to run the information tent, which also doubled up as the complaints tent, the lost and found tent and the lost children’s tent. This meant we were very busy, dealing with all sorts of odd problems that large numbers of the general public generate. Cars with flat batteries, where is the nearest cashpoint, where is my friend Barry (really!), lost children, forgotten where cars have been parked, lost keys, found keys, found cameras., found children…hectic, but generally good fun.

Some occurrences were genuinely funny, even though they WEREN’T. But it does illustrate that you need to keep your wits about you at an air show…

The air display was well and truly underway, and the Red Arrows had just finished. Into the Information Tent walks a very nice, but very posh chap.

‘I say, do your chaps deal with the Lost and Found?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I reply, ‘how can I help you?’

He looked a bit confused and said, ‘Has anyone handed in a jacket?’

I knew for a fact that no one had, so I got out a form for him to report his loss.

‘Can you describe your jacket, sir?’

‘Yes, it was a jolly nice one,’ he said with a posh plummy accent, the sort you’d hear in a London Club. He was in his early 40′s and you could imagine him to be an ex-pubic schoolboy, works somewhere in the city, doing something which involved a lot of money. ‘A leather one, dontcherknow, sheepskin lining, big collar, lots of flying patches. Only just got the bugger, cost a bomb, thought it’d look jolly nice here, you know. Sort of a flying jacket.’

‘Oh right sir,’ I said as I started to write the description on the form. ‘if you give me your details, if it’s found, we can get it back to you. Where we’re you when you last saw it?’

‘Well, funny thing, haha, the old Red Arrows had just started and everyone was looking up at them, jolly good show, those boys put on, and I remarked to the chappy standing next to me, ‘Jolly good show those boys put on’ and we got to chatting. He said to me that he liked my jacket, and he was thinking of getting one and asked me if he could try it on.

‘So of course I said of course, and let him try it on. We stood and watched the old Reds for a bit longer and then I turned to him to say something, and, well, bugger me, he’d gone! Couldn’t find him anywhere. Must have gotten himself lost in the crowd…was still wearing my jacket…’

I sat in front of him, pen in hand. Mouth slightly agape. Not sure exactly what to do or say. I gave myself an imperceptible shudder to bring myself back to the situation in front of me.

‘Sir, can I introduce you to Cpl Williams, he’s with the RAF Police, I think you might need to talk to him…’

Boxes…

Parcels. We all like getting parcels. They give us a buzz, they remind us that people are thinking of us, or are sending us something important.

But when you are deployed to a war zone, when you are thousands of miles from home, they mean even more.

And if they are sent with love, care, thought…then the effect that a simple box filled with some goodies has is immeasurable. And it’s all in the anticipation. It’s all in the having the box in your hands, on your bed in front of you…the morale boosting moment is just before you open it…it’s lovely yo have the stuff inside, but it’s not in having the stuff. It’s not in having treats and goodies sent from home, it’s in the actual box itself.

Someone at home, thought enough of you to go to the effort of choosing and buying some goodies, packing them, taking them to the Post Office and send them out to you. They went to all that effort. The content isn’t what a box is all about…

But I do often get asked what to put in a box.

After all, even if the content isn’t the most important thing, it’s still nice to send something out that will be used and will be useful and will be welcomed.

So IF YOU HAVE A FRIEND AND RELATIVE WHO IS DEPLOYED TO AFGHAN (and only if you know someone out there – I know that some people want to send parcels out to ‘A Soldier’ or ‘A Marine’ but these aren’t really recommended, as they can clog up the system particularly at a busy time of year like Christmas – if you want to help ‘someone’ out there then you can google charities that have deals with the MOD who send welfare parcels out there) what should you put in a parcel to be sent to them?

Well obviously the best person to ask would be that person themselves. Often they might want something in particular, but be unwilling to ask, thinking they are being a bit greedy, but it does well to ask them…you should have their address, so send them an ebluey to say that you are going to send a parcel and ask if they have any requests. It’s also a good idea to ask them what they DON’T want.

But if you want it to be a surprise…if you want that moral boosting moment to be even better, to get something that you weren’t expecting…then the sender should have a look at the archived BFPO WEBSITE at what shouldn’t be sent out, and HERE for the Frequently Asked Questions about sizes and such.

But what generic things are good ideas to put inside?

Well I can only really speak for myself, but I can also say what wasn’t used out there and what always seemed to end up in the Welfare Box of Spares in the Welfare Tent…

Stuff I liked:

Pringles, nuts, crisps, trail mix, dried fruit in pouches (like mango or apricots), flapjacks, cereal bars. These are the basics to put in. Always welcomed. these can be eaten back in base, and can be stuck into the daysack or pouch and carried on patrol. They also make nice ‘gissits’ to give to the local kids – some of the Afghan children’s parents were (rightly) complaining at the amount of chocolate that was being given out.

Super Noodles, Pot Noodles, savoury rice pouches. Good to send out, especially if the recipient is on rations all the time in a forward Check Point. But to have a check to make sure that they aren’t only for cooking in microwaves. There are a distinct lack of microwaves in patrol bases and check points….

Baby wipes, Zip lock bags, a nice shower gel, moistened toilet paper packets. There is no shortage of shower gels, deodorants, razors, shaving gels, tissues…but a really nice small bottle of something smelly to take to the shower is really, really welcomed. A small bottle of a blokey Moulton Brown shower gel would go down really well! And if you are poo-ing into a bag in a CP, then the value of some of that fancy moistened toilet paper can’t be understated!

Maoams, sherbet dips, sherbet fountains, swizzle lollipops. Blocks of jelly jellied sweeties, like the ubiquitous Hariboos melt into one big blob in a bag in the heat of the Afghan summer, but Maoams…they are the future…

Coffee sachets. Not just a couple of Nescafé sachets you swiped for the office canteen – but some of those posh packets that you get in Starbucks, or even nicer, some of those instant cappuccinos that are popular now. Even some fruit teas would be welcomed.

Things not to bother with: (This might sound ungrateful, it’s not meant to be – its just better for your hard earned cash to be spent on something useful and not just shrugged off and chucked in the ‘Welfare Box’.

Shower gels, toothbrushes, toothpastes, deodorants, rolls of tissues. This sort of stuff is either very personal or else will be sent by close family. Don’t bother sending it out, it’ll really, very likely, just get tossed. At one stage I had four bottles of shower gel stocked up. I ended up donating them to the local Afghan interpreters when I left.

Hariboos, chocolate bars, cereal bars with yogurt or chocolate bases. These just melt. Don’t bother. They’ll just go in the bin. Sadly.

Cup-a-soups. Most people just don’t fancy having a soup in the heat of the Afghan summer, they are a good idea to send in the winter, but but don’t bother in the summer.

Like I said, this list isn’t exhaustible. It’s based on my personal preferences, and what I saw always ending up in the Welfare Box or even in the bin. The things not to bother sending isn’t about being ungrateful, even if it sounds it – I just don’t want you to waste your money on something that will be wasted. And please remember only send a box to a named person THAT YOU KNOW…please don’t send unsolicited boxes out there…if you want to help and support the troops there then there are charities that have special links with the MoD that you can donate too. There’s a link from this page on the British Army website.

The items listed are meant as an idea of what to send to someone who is deployed to a Forward Operating Patrol Base or Check Point. If you have any ideas of other stuff to send out then why not leave them as a comment below?

B…I’m an Armourer…

VERY short blog post. This is just too funny not to share…

Today I have been doing my annual ‘Common Core Skills’ training day. It’s the day we brush up on our military skills. Annual weapons training, into the ‘Gas Chamb’ Respirator Confidence Facility to make sure we can remember how do deal with a Chemical environment, a load of annual briefings, all rounded off by a Combat First Aid session.

Bar the briefings, they are mostly practical, hands-on lessons, where you watch a demonstration, hear what to do and then give it a go practical ‘go’ after.

So there we are. Watching the demonstration of how to put someone – a casualty – into the recovery position, emphasising the new dimension that Body Armour brings to that usually simple task. Two ‘volunteers’ were ‘selected’ from the class to demonstrate. Two Armourers.

So with one of them on the floor playing the casualty, the other eventually rolls him over and onto his front/side in the recovery position. And the instructor, an RAF Regiment Cpl, goes on to say that with the casualty in that position, the airway is maintained, and it is easy to take the pulse of the injured lad – particularly the carotid pulse.

‘Ok, so take his pulse,’ he told the armourer on his knees.

‘Errrrrrrrr.’

‘You know how to check his pulse, yeah?’ quizzed the ‘Rock’.

The lad, who was maybe 19-20 years old still looked less than certain.

‘Ok, you use your fingers to find the Carotid Artery here’ pressing his hand on the other lads neck, ‘And then you count the beats for a minute. We are a bit short of time here this afternoon, so just do it for 30 seconds and double it.’

The lad reached onto his friends neck and started counting.

‘Woah!’ stopped the instructor. ‘How do you know you are going to be doing it for 30 seconds? Do you have a watch?’

‘No,’ said the first-aider-to-be, with all the sincerity that he could muster ‘But I was just going to count to thirty…’

You have to move out…

‘Fetch it!’ And I threw the ball.

The dog sat up and watched the trajectory of the ball as it looped through the air and plopped into the irrigation ditch. It took stock, worked out all the angles, took three steps forward and leapt into the water, legs splayed, landing with a huge splash in the dirty, muddy water. It was nearly noon and the temperature out there in Afghanistan was building up. Being early May, it wasn’t yet the high summer, but certainly the heat was rising. I’d run out of water and I was jealous of the dog who was able to jump into the cool of the water and swim about.

Memphis was a specialist ‘high threat’ search dog. His job was to go into the compound we were taking over and search it for any traces of explosives or weaponry. And we were waiting under the shade of some trees, by the wide, but relatively shallow, irrigation ditch for the occupants of the buildings to leave.

What I had just done wasn’t the best part of my job on the deployment. In fact it was the worst part of my job out there. We needed to establish a new checkpoint as part of the Op (Operation) we were on and it was my job to sort out the negotiations for us taking over the compound. It had been specially selected based on its location and the amenities that it offered (such as they were) – notably a large field inside the compound wall that would serve as an easy to secure Helicopter Landing Site. The only problem was that it was occupied by a family.

And so for us to move in, they would have to move out. An operational necessity.

The lines we had to take with the family was that they would be compensated for the inconvenience of having to move out of their home. That we would make every effort to ensure that any damage to the compound buildings would be minimised. That if there was any damage caused by our occupation, we would again, compensate the family. That we would pay rent for our occupation.

I would do a full survey of the building to note down the condition and state of the buildings and any damage evident when we left, well, we would pay for it. Any changes we would make to the doors, windows, roof…we would be responsible for and would pay for.

And always a good one for the family in the long term; that we would be building a well inside the compound that would mean that once we left and they returned they would have access to clean fresh water INSIDE their property and they wouldn’t have to drink water from the dirty ditch at the edge of their field.

But this was a long way down the line and once we had left the property. All hard for the family to take. All out of the blue. Imagine a knock on your door. A ‘spaceman’ in helmet, goggles, gloves, body armour with a rifle stands there and through an interpreter says you have 30 minutes to leave the house.

Through the interpreter I told him that this occupation has been authorised by the President of Afghanistan and the Local Governor. That it was needed by the government and by the UK forces to bring peace and security to the area. That they had no choice but to go. Where they went was not our problem. But they would be compensated…

I felt terrible. The farmer explained he had a wife with a one month old baby. That he had women and children in the compound. Where would they go? What would they do?

I had no choice but to look straight ahead and say ‘I am sorry, but you have to leave…’ and repeated the same lines again. Say the same thing. Make no change. Keep to the same lines. Say the same words. Do not get drawn into a conversation. Apologise, but be firm. Be understanding of his position and the massive change this would be, but keep to the script.

I took my notebook out and asked for his name. For his family details. For where he might go once he left the compound. I told him the amounts of rent and compensation he would be entitled too. That we would build a well for his family.

He asked how long we would be there. What would we do to his buildings and his land. Obviously I couldn’t say. But I told him he would be paid well for the occupation. That he would be helping to bring peace and security to the area. That by his sacrifice others in the surrounding villages wouldn’t have the oppression of the Taliban insurgents.

He sighed. He asked again, ‘Where shall we go…?’ I returned to the script again. Round we went. You have 30 minutes. You must clear your belongings and leave this compound. He should move out now. And my final trump card. I opened my pocket and brought out a wad of cash. This is your compensation. It is an advance of your rent for the next two months. It will help you to find a new place to live.

He wasn’t happy, rightly so, but he was placated. He didn’t want to be seen taking our money outside, so we went inside the compound and I sorted the paperwork. He accepted the cash and in return he ‘signed’ the receipt for it with his fingerprint. I smiled a thin apologetic smile at him, shrugging at the same time. He didn’t smile back.

I felt terrible. I felt like some sort of sheriff from the Middle Ages or an evil character from a Dickens’ novel throwing people onto the street. I had just made a family homeless. I was the evil oppressor. The farmer opened the door for me and I left with ‘DJ’ my interpreter. The farmer followed through, walking round to the compound nearby, to ask permission from the local elder to borrow his mini-van so he could move his family and belongings out.

But it was a necessary evil. How could we bring security to the community, without being IN the community? We needed a base to show the enemy that we were here to stay. The Afghan culture is also one where people band around to support others.

We’d already spoken to the elder of the village and explained that we needed the compound and that the family would have to move out, and he was happy that we would be there bringing ISAF and the government to his village. He was on hand to offer help and support to the farmer. He proffered his keys straight away and went to console him. The Elder had already told me that there were empty compounds nearby that the family could move into.

It hadn’t made me feel any better.

But we left them to it. We went back to the shade of the trees by the ditch. We replenished our water using the ‘Lifesaver’ bottles. We had a bite to eat. We petted and played with the dog and took pictures of him and of each other standing in the ditch – cooling our feet. We bantered, we joked, we laughed.

Well the others did. I felt terrible. I tried to chat to Memphis’ handler, also an Airman – and RAF Policeman also a little out of his comfort zone here in the ‘oo-lu’, but my heart wasn’t in conversation.

I stuck my head into my note book, copying out the details onto the forms I had in my bag. Trying to work out just how much money the farmer would be getting for our occupation of his buildings, for our use of his land. It was a good sum. Not a huge amount, but would compensate for the disturbance of his family. Provide money for food.

But then I looked across and caught a glimpse of an older child leading what was probably his mother to the minivan. She was in a full light blue Burhka, but was moving very slowly, carrying her precious baby. She got in carefully and sat there as the farmer and the other children loaded up their belongings. Mostly carpets, a few boxes. No real furniture like we would have. Bundles of blankets and what I assumed to be clothes. Pots and pans. The detritus of a poor family in a poor nation scratching a poor living from the land. Not much ‘stuff’ in relation to us.

A dog on a length of rope was pulled out and thrown into the back of the van. It was scruffy, mange-y, light brown. I looked across at Memphis who took a passing interest in the other dog, but who then just laid down and closed its eyes.

I looked at my watch. The 30 minutes were up. And it was clear that the family needed a bit more time. We were all in cover, and we gave the farmer the time he needed. After 45 minutes he came out and glanced across at me. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I thought of home. Of how I’d feel. Of having to clear my belongings so quickly and move out of my house. Of carrying my daughter out to the car. It was one of the lowest moments for me out there in Afghanistan. A moment I am not proud of.

The with a slam of the van door, he drove off. The vehicle overloaded with people and belongings. The carpets and blankets balancing on the roof. Pots, pans and yellow palm oil containers banging against the side of the windows as it wobbled along the dust track that served as a road. He didn’t go far. Just down the road were a cluster of empty compounds. He stopped outside one and began unloading his family there. I guess he must have wondered why WE didn’t take the empty one. I did…but then I remembered pooring over the aeiral map in the Company HQ during the plannign of the Op. This one was ideally situated, just on the edge of the village, with all the ticks in the box for the things that we needed. Plenty of buildings for accommodation for the lads, security, a wall around it, a field inside for an HLS…

‘Right’ said the boss, shaking me out of my own thoughts. ‘Lets get that mutt in the compound so we can get it searched and we can get inside. Then I can take this bloody body armour off.’

Memphis’ ears pricked up and he set off with his handler towards the house. After he had done his work, he came back to us. I looked over to him and was cheered by his waggy tail. He came to us and I tousled the fur round his neck. I stroked his back and he sat right in front of me and offered me his paw.

At least someone was pleased to see me that terrible day.

Watching a Helping Hand…

We can never predict the future, but I am lucky enough to see that even when I have left the RAF I will be in a fairly good position. I will have done over 25 years. I will have built up a fairly good pension. I will have squirrelled away some cash to be able to put down a sizable deposit on a house and then my new wife is in the same position…she will have done nearly 20 years in the Army, and similarly will have a nice lump sum and a pension.

But there are people who are not so lucky. They may not have given so much time to the country, but still have served. Whether that is 4 years in the Second World War, or two years National Service in the 1950′s, or 10 years worth of work in the 1970′s. These people have still given their all, often in horrible places around the world, often in terrible conditions, often away from home, family, loved ones. Often they will have seen some terrible things. Bomber Command Missions. Indian Partition. Suez riots. Malay Insurgents. Northern Ireland bombs.

The nation looks after these people, and they get by. But their life is a struggle. Illnesses, infirmities and just old age takes a toll. Their mobility is reduced, their income is gobbled up by the expenses of modern living. Their worlds shrink.

I knew that such people existed. I knew they were out there. But I didn’t have any of their stories made real to me. Until the other day. I was invited by the RAF Benevolent Fund to sit in and see one of their Grants Committee Meetings, looking only at cases dealing with ex-service personel – it wouldn’t be right for me to hear about cases of people still serving. Four people at a table being addressed by members of the RAFBF Welfare Team who wheel in and present story after story of heartbreak, pain and suffering.

A 92 year old former Bomb Aimers wife, who himself had given 22 years starting in 1942, with dementia needing 24 hour live-in care. A 84 year old former SAC who lives in unheated mobile home facing the North Sea. A 55 year old former Cpl, unemployed, ill, living on her own in a house with a broken boiler. A 76 year old ex-SAC whose house had been flooded out and was now living with concrete floors, bare walls and no curtains.

Each one of these stories breaks your heart. All people needing help. All people given help by the RAF Benevolent Fund. Each one of these received a grant, a loan or some sort of help. But I want to bring your attention to that last case there – the SAC whose house was flooded.

Having lived alone for 15 years, his bungalow was inundated by a flood from a leak in a frozen water main. To make matters worse, due to a fault, the water company was unable to turn the water off and the damage was terrible. Carpets, curtains, furniture, wall paper and paint destroyed. Yes, he had insurance, but for some reason they wouldn’t pay out, and without any savings and getting by on just the State Retirement Pension, he was given an emergency crisis loan. The Water Company paid for repairs to the fabric of the building, but not for the furniture and carpets.

Left living in an empty shell of a house, he started to struggle making the payments for the Crisis Loan and started to scrimp on eating and heating his house. He came to the Fund asking for a grant to buy some carpets and curtains. Of course the Fund agreed. He was given just a grant that will not just buy him some new soft furnishings and shut out the cold, but will also give him a bit of dignity back.

It broke my heart listening to his story and I just wanted to help him. He gave 10 years of his life to the RAF and I wanted him to be proud and happy again. I am proud and happy to be in the RAF and I wanted him to share that feeling one more time. Maybe not by putting on a blue uniform and a beret again, but by knowing that the RAF still cares about him, that people who support the RAF still care about him. That YOU and I care about him.

He might live alone, but he is not without a family. The RAF family is there to help and support him, to make sure that he doesn’t fall through the gaps of the modern world, and he fades away, his service and his dedication forgotten. The RAF Benevolent Fund makes payments in excess of £9 Million each year for welfare cases. What I didn’t hear about that day was the millions more spent each year on projects and grants to those still serving in the RAF – work like relationship counselling, money advice services, financial grants and other things like play parks and games areas for children. Only good work comes out of the building.

But this work can only continue with your help and support.

Times are hard, and many people are struggling, but any donation you give to the RAFBF goes directly to helping not just ex-service men and women, but also those who are still serving, who have suffered a major trauma, either as a result of military service or just as a result of the trials that life throws at us.

Some of us are lucky enough to be able to cope with these things. Some of us are not. But for those who have served the country in the RAF who are not able to cope, there is always going to be the Royal Air Force Benevolent Fund there to help them. Please help them to help the members of the RAF family who are in desperate need by clicking here to visit the RAFBF’s donation page.

Beginning of (another) Great Adventure…

Life is an adventure.

I believe this quite firmly.  I think that we can either get on with life or it can just fly past us.

I didn’t always think this way. Once I was quite happy to potter on and let life happen around me.  It wasn’t an adventure, it was a meander. A gentle sway through the world.

And this is ok.  If that is you, then fine! That is what you want – good for you.  But (and this is getting a bit needlessly ‘Trainspotting-esque’ here) I chose not to think that way. I choose to live life to the full.  To do as much as possible.  To get a lot of ‘experiences’ in my bag so that (a) I can bore my grand-children to death about it and (b) hope that it might make me as better and as good a ‘me’ as I can be.

That was why I chose to go to Afghan last year.  It was a year long marathon that took me well outside my comfort zone.  It pushed me to the edge of me physically – and one rainy night on the Training Land just behind Corunna Barracks it pushed me to the edge of me mentally.  I was close to quitting that night. But I got a lot of support from the lads and lasses I was with and I had a sleep and a laugh at the situation I had gotten myself into and realised…THIS was living.  I realised that in the long run I wanted to go to Afghan to prove to help the people over there.  And if that meant it tested me to the limit, so be it.

Me Versus Afghan.  Me Versus IEDs, being shot at, living in the back of beyond with few comforts.  Me seeing things and doing things that would scare my mum (if she’d have been around to see it) and me testing myself against myself to see if I can measure up. Sort of Me  Versus Me.

And I did all that.  I found that at times I didn’t measure up to what I wanted to be, but HEY! Life is an adventure and it takes you to places. That means it’s also a bit of a journey (oh God, this is getting all ‘X-factor’ now!) and we learn things on the way. I am not at the end of my my adventure (life) and so I still have things to learn about myself…so I can do more stuff and learn more about me and embody my maxim that ‘Experience isn’t something you have – it’s something you use’.

I want to keep pushing myself and keep testing myself. And that is why I have just started another adventure.

I am running the 2012 Virgin London Marathon.  In April. The 22nd. That’s just 107 days away.

Now I am not a very fit guy. I am not a fast guy, but I like to think I have stamina.  I don’t go fast, but I plod and I get there.  And I need something to drive me – to push me on.  So running a marathon is not too crazy an idea for me.  I might not do it fast, and it might hurt me to do it, but I think it is – like going to Afghan was – an achievable aim.  It holds risks (not life-threatening obviously) and challenges, and it needs me to become more focussed, more determined, more dedicated – AND THIS IS A GOOD THING FOR ME.

And I am doing it for a charity too of course.  I am doing it for the Royal Air Force Benevolent Fund – who’s aim is to support the RAF family whenever and wherever it is needed. My family has a bit of history with the RAFBF – my father received help from them in the past when he needed it.  He was still serving at the time and a family tragedy meant that he needed help and support. The RAFBF provided that help and support. So I feel we sort of owe them.

And if I can help them and that help is by running a marathon…then I will! And of course this means that you can too.  When I was in Afghan, blog readers and Twitter followers were very kind, generous and supportive.  From messages of goodwill through to sending me out ‘welfare’ and ‘goodie’ boxes (which I enjoyed eating and sharing around with my fellows at the Check Point) you all helped and supported me out there.

And once again I ask you to help and support me.  You can of course provide me with encouragement and support – and call me out when I don’t want to go for a run on a wet and windy Sunday morning – but you can also support me AND the RAF Benevolent Fund by sponsoring me to complete the run.  You can visit my charity donations web-page here - www.virginmoneygiving.com/RAFairman Please, anything that you can give would be amazing and will go a long way to help those people who are part of the RAF family who require a little help in their time of need.

And of course, as I undertake this adventure – this journey – I will be keeping you informed on here with tales of my training, and if possible stories of how the RAFBF has helped and continues to help those Airmen and Airwomen who need it.

It’s Not What’s Under The Tree…

‘It’s not whats under the tree than matters, it’s who’s around it…’

I heard that on an advert tonight as I was trying to think of a way of starting this blog. And I realised…

The tag line is right. It doesn’t matter what’s under the tree, what goodies, what loot, what gizzits you get. It’s who is there to share them with you.

I have had a hell of a year. It’s said that age brings the years on faster and they seem to go by at greater speed as you get older. Well, if that is true, I must be a hundred years old. This year has spun past me a a rate that I can hardly handle. It’s spun past ME. For other people in my family it crawled. For my girlfriend it dragged and dragged. For my eldest sister, it consisted of pretty much 6 months of constant and continuous worry and anxiety. And all this was my fault.

I was the one who was out in Afghan, or preparing for Afghan, or travelling to Afghan, to thinking about Afghan. And I was the lucky one who was there to have it first hand – in full glorious technicolour, widescreen…IMAX, with Dolby stereo and digitally enhanced surround sound. With smelly vision. IN 3D.

For me it was a blur. It went past so fast it felt like I was spinning and although I write this on the 17^th December, to me, it feels like sometime in, ohhhh, about September – a very cold September I’ll give you, but it just doesn’t feel like the end of the year. It can’t be. The time has just whoosed by me so bloody fast.

One moment I am in a field on Salisbury Plain. The next walking along a dirt track in Afghan. The next I am in a shopping centre in Woking. Bizarre.

March to July to November. The blink of an eye. And it’s odd, because even though it went so fast for me, each event seems seared onto my memory. Of meeting my first Afghan local. A man named Buykhan. He held a bird in his hand – a small Starling sized bird, with it’s wings clipped that he ckept in a cloth cowl over the end of his arm. We chatted through my interpreter and I told him my little daughter would love to see the animal and then every time in the future, up to almost the last day I was there, he kept offering me a bird to bring home.

And then there was a guy named Darro Khan; a quiet reserved elder who I had the greatest respect for. He was a retired Afghan National Police commander, who was now making his living from farming the rich Helmandi soil. He spoke to me about the school we were trying to get built – in the face of what seemed like a roadblock of opposition from the Insurgents (who see schools for what they are – a way of eductaing the people about the world and giving the children options for the future) and from many unscrupulous local contractors (who see it as an opportunity to suck money out of the rich westerners).

Darro stood there and thanked me for what I had tried to do. For continuing the work of my predicessor in keeping th ebuild going, and for passing it onto my replacement who would complete the build. He said that the school was a sign of the fact that Afghan was growing, and was developing and was changing. That people wanted the school and they wanted their children educated. He said that he had grown up in a country at war, and he didn’t want that for the next generation. He wanted peace and the only way to make sure that peace lasted was by building schools and educating the children.

He’s right, and whilst I was disappointed not to have completed the build of the school and not to have seen children being taught in there regularly, it is on it’s way to being complete and one day, you never know, a future President of Afghanistan may be eduacted in there. Or a doctor. Or an engineer. Or a nurse, or even maybe a mid-wife. People who will build and keep Afghanistan growing. That’d be something.

And here I am now at home. Sitting looking at the twinking lights of the Christmas tree. Taking a sip of a beer and listening to a bit of Jonah Lewie on my iPod. I am a lucky lad. Upstairs, my wife to be is putting my daughter to bed. I am so very lucky to have all this. Tomorrow I see my (almost) grown up kids, and the rest of my family. My brother and sisters; my nephews, nieces and my grand-nephews. We gather to fullfil a promise to my mother that we would meet, coming together from all over the country at least once a year. To be thankful that we still do have each other.

And we still do. But in this I am so very lucky. I went out there and I did some stuff with a lot of other people who were better than I, and I came home. I will gather around a tree with my family and thank all that is holy for all the blessings of a family; my worrysome eldest sister, my grumpy brother, my other sister who struggles to make ends meet. I’ll raise a glass to each one of them.

Each year, I have taken to writing a Christmas blog and it being a list of those who have died that year. This year I don’t intend to. This year I will tell you about just two.

One was a Corporal who was the 2ic of a multiple – a patrol of men – who shared a Check Point with me. He loved Spurs. He was one of the most professional soldiers I met out there, but he was also one of the funniest men I have ever met. I would often see him walk past the front of my tent to go and pour a bucket of cooling water from the well over him on the really hot days and I remember sitting next to him on the internet machines as he spent time looking for a new, bigger car for his growing family. He hit an IED, and died, whilst guiding an EOD team in to exploit a cache of weapons found by an earlier team.

The second was a Lance Corporal and was a battlefield replacement, sent out to fill the gaps caused by other injured men sent home. He was one of the Joint Fires Team and was based at a Check Point I had helped establish in May, but one I then very rarely visited. As a mortar controller, it meant he was often on patrol and he was a regular visitor down at the CP where I lived. A livewire and a chatterbox, he spoke enthusiastically to anyone who would listen. I remember chatting to him about him being one of the few who would wear gear strapped to his leg. He was shot, and died, whilst out on patrol in the North of our Area of Responsibility.

I will drink to the memory of these two lads who I had the honour to serve with. And to their families who must miss them each day, but even more at this time of year. These two were better men than I could ever hope to be. Braver, stronger, fitter. They were, as the motto of their regiment, The Rifles, says, Swift and Bold. May they rest in peace and their families gain some peace and solace.

No. It’s not what’s under the tree that matters. It’s who’s around it. And sometimes those who aren’t. Please, enjoy your Christmas with your loved ones. But remember those who have fallen, and those who continue to fight, who aren’t around their trees with their loved ones. And on Christmas Day, raise a glass to them all.

Merry Christmas.

Crosswinds…

The weather recently has been truly terrible for some. Down here in the south of England it’s not been too bad, but in the north of Britain I understand that the storms have been really bad, with very high winds – so high that even a wind turbine exploded because of it and there is a fabulous picture showing an aircraft making a landing where each wheel touched the ground one after another; left wheel, right wheel and then nose wheels…rather than the more standard main gear and then nose gear. It certainly makes for a bumpy landing, AND it certainly takes a lot of skill on the pilots behalf to do.

I saw this sort of landing for myself once, but done by a much smaller aircraft – the Tornado F3 jet. It was back in my days working on 29(F) Squadron and we were undertaking a ‘trail’ back home from a deployment out in America. I was lucky enough to be selected to be on the ‘Trail’ rather than on the main body of transport home.

The trail is the route that the aircraft take to come home, particularly if it is a long journey. It normally consists of an ‘Advance Party’ sent on a Herc C-130 or C-17, the ‘Main’ consisting of the majority of the squadron being deployed and the aircraft themselves, and then a ‘Rear’ or ‘Sweeper’ party following along. Generally the Main Party of ground crew fly straight home in one go and the Advance and Sweeper look after the aircraft on route.

I was on the Advance and we’d flown ahead of the F3′s to arrive and set up a servicing team for when they arrived at each stage of the route home. We’d been in Vegas for 6 weeks (OH! the hardship!) and the trail back was a mission. Vegas to Little Rock in Arkansas for a refuelling stop, Little Rock to Bermuda for an overnighter (It’s a tough life!) and then Bermuda to Larges in the Azores for another overnighter, with the final hop being the Azores back to the UK and the base at Coningsby.

We arrived at Larges airport and found it to be…well…the best way to describe it was as just a massive flat expanse of tarmac. The ‘pan’ was just about the biggest concrete area I had ever seen, with pretty much nothing for what seemed like miles in every direction. It was a bit…desolate. The C-130 had parked itself where it had been directed and we waited for the jets.

It was already breezy.

As the afternoon wore on and we made the preparations for the aircraft to arrive (unloading a few boxes from the pallet on the Herc containing earthing leads for the aircraft, chocks and a few tool kits) the wind slowly picked up. We then received news that not all the aircraft had taken off from Bermuda. One had gone unserviceable there due to an engine fault and was being worked on by the rear party. That would follow along with the Rear Party aircraft (which luckily was capable of air-to-air refuelling (AAR) it as it went along). The rest – 5 aircraft were inbound along with the VC-10 tanker that had done their AAR.

Well, actually given a twist of fate, the VC-10 is actually FASTER than the F3′s were. The VC-10 has a ‘Super-cruise’ that means it can fly faster and higher than an F3 when cruising long distances. It basically meant that it had done it’s job of re-fuelling the smaller jets in flight, and then had left them behind and flown on to the Azores. It landed a good hour before the F3′s were due.

But this itself, had created a problem. The wind that I had talked about had also picked up out in the Atlantic and it was a head wind. It meant that the jets were fighting against the wind and were using more fuel to make progress against it. A LOT of fuel. And it transpired that they were using more fuel than they had thought and that the only place they could make it to with the fuel load they had left was the Azores. They couldn’t divert. Which was now a real problem, as the wind on the ground at Larges airport was now dangerously strong.

And it was a cross wind. The one runway at Larges was roughly at 90 degrees to the direction of the now very strong – almost gale force winds. The storm clouds were gathering, and looking really nasty and menacing, like they were planning to do some serious storming about. We, on the ground, decided to hide inside the Herc. Whilst it wasn’t raining yet, it was clear that within a very short time it was going to rain. A LOT.

People anxiously looked at the sky. And then at their watches. They looked out towards the west to see if there was any sign of the gaggle of jets. Nothing. Then the rain began. A short sharp shower. Thankfully we stayed dry on the ‘Fat Albert’ as it pelted down, and it was just a short shower. A precursor of what was to come.

And then a vehicle turned up. It was the ‘Follow Me’ van that would direct the jets to he parking slots next to us. I asked if I could sit in (I was only a young Junior Technician back in those days) and was told I could have a ride along to bring the jets back. I could also be on hand should there be any problems with the jets between landing and taxiing their parking slot.

With the Portuguese driver and a liaison officer we drove to the end of the runway and awaited the jets. He turned to me and said that the jets had a serious problem. The air traffic control were going to shut the runway! It was considered to be too dangerous for aircraft to land given the stormy conditions and the cross wind.

The only problem was that there was no-where else for the jets still airborne to go to. They were now on the vapours of their fuel tanks and given the Azores location in, pretty much the middle of no-where in the Atlantic, they had no fuel to go anywhere else. ATC couldn’t shut the airfield. The F3′s would simply HAVE to land there. Wind or no wind.

And then there they were. Five small dots on the horizon. Getting slowly larger. They wouldn’t even have enough fuel to fly over the airport and get an idea of the conditions. They would just have to come in and land. Or try to. From my viewpoint at the end of the runway I could see how they were being buffeted by the wind and how the gusts were blowing them off their landing course.

And how the pilots were having to correct for this by flying as much into the wind as they could.

Take a look up from the screen you are reading on for a second. Imagine a straight line along the floor stretching out in front of you. That’s your 12 o’clock. That’s the runway. Stick your hand out and imagine that it’s an aircraft about to land there. Normally the aircraft glides down in the straight line on top of the runway – called a glide-path – and lands on it. An imaginary line coming out of the front of you hand (itself an imaginary aircraft) lines up with the OTHER imaginary line that is the runway.

But the wind was blowing from the side, meaning that the aircraft was being blown by the wind to the side, so the lines no longer match up. To over come this the aircraft flies into the wind to correct for being blown sideways. Still with your hand out in front of you (don’t worry people around WON’T think you are mad in the slightest) imagine that the wind is blowing from your left.

So like the aircraft did, fly your hand into the wind and turn it to the left. Now imagine that the wind is really strong…really, really strong, and you’ll have to turn your hand quite a lot to the left to overcome it.

This is what the aircraft were doing. As well as being blown sideways they were now also descending, AND being hit by gusts of wind and turbulence that also pushed them up and down.

Like on a rollercoaster they flew in and down…crabbing their way through the sky at, from my view point, what looked like about 30-45 degrees to the runway. This was now really dangerous…because this angle was too much for the runway. If they touched the ground at this angle then they runway simply wasn’t wide enough for the aircraft to be able to touch it’s main gear down and then drop the nose and then steer to the right to get back in line with the runway…they’d simply shoot off the side of the narrow strip of tarmac…and crash!

A really. bad. thing.

So as they came down, one at a time, I saw quite simply the very best bit of flying I have ever seen (well, ok second best – that belonged to a Flt Lt Lee Fox who beat up the pan at Cyprus once), but was repeated five times by five different pilots.

Each one came in like the first, crabbing through the air, buffeted and blown and battered by the wind. At what looked to be terrible angle to the runway…but just at the very last minute…hell, last second…the pilot, just as the mail wheels were about to hit the floor slung the aircraft around into line with the runway.

Quickly the nose wheel came down and the aircraft decelerated down the runway to where we were waiting.

Each jet came in and did the same, each one making the best landing possible given the atrocious conditions. I marvelled at them. It must have been a hell of a ride…but not one I would particularly like to have taken. And by the faces of the pilots who, to a man, looked completely wiped out from the experience, not one they wanted to repeat.

You can keep your Red Arrows. Flying into an airport on reserve fuel, into a crosswind, after flying for hours across the Atlantic…and landing into the beginnings of a storm. Those guys were the real deal. For once, as we carried out the servicings of the aircraft as the crews were driven off to find a beer somewhere, I didn’t begrudge them that beer whilst I was still working. They’d bloody deserved it.