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.

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?

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.

Importance…

I do try, but generally, my admin is shocking. I know you’d expect a member of the RAF and the armed forces in general to be good at admin, and to be sorted and stuff, but sadly, I think I am a little bit to ‘right brained’ for that.

My worst thing is paperwork…I try, but I lose paperwork. And the very worst for me is car paperwork – insurance documents, MOT’s that sort of thing, so that each year when the old Car Tax comes around, I have a mad panic trying to find the right bits of paper so that I can get my Tax disc…

But I know that this isn’t true for everyone, and I have a theory that the amount of paperwork you have is inversely proportional to the importance you place on it. So, there I am, with wads of paperwork…a form for this, a paper for that…and they end up all over the place. Each important paper has an important place for it…not that I can remember where each one is.

But I was shown a different way out in Afghan. The main bulk of my job was dealing face-to-face with locals, with their problems, their desires for building projects, claims for damages caused by our troops out on the ground.

And bits of paper were amazingly important to the locals. And with a piece of paper, even though the vast, vast majority of the people couldn’t read what was on the paper – be it in English or even written in Pashtu by one of the interpreters, it was the most important thing in the world.

Even when comparing it to money – it was worth more to them. It became power. It became credibility. It became a promise.

The usual case would be, for instance, a patrol would walk across a field, and a farmer would come up to them and ask if the government would help to build a well for his farm and the surrounding compounds. In the area we were, at the time, there was very little government representation and so the locals would use the British as a conduit to get information to their representatives. The Patrol Commander would give the farmer a bit of paper with the details on – exactly where the well would be, who would be building it, how many people would benefit…and so on. And then the farmer would LOOK AFTER THAT BIT OF PAPER.

And when I say LOOK AFTER, I mean guard with his life. It became more important than we would treat our passport. More important than anything. Despite it being just a scrap out of a notebook that was scrawled in tricky handwriting because writing is difficult in thick gloves, with a rifle in your hand bent on a knee in a field, it was treated like some ancient and valuable manuscript by the Afghan. The local would then keep it safe and bring it long to a ‘projects clinic’ held by me at the Check Point where I would collate all the details of potential projects, interview the local, and write a submission for the project to go off to the government so that they could make a decision about which one to build.

I often was giving out these ‘chits’ as we called them and once I had written it down the local would always treat the paper the same way, in fact the farmer would always do exactly the same thing.

After giving the chit to the man, he would always look at it, as though he was reading it. Smile broadly, and wave it a gently in the air. He would then reach inside his jacket pocket – local farmers out there always worse a single or double breasted suit type jacket over the top of their traditional ‘dish-dashes’ (even in the high summer) – and pull out a small plastic bag. Maybe like a money bag used at the bank. Or maybe like a ‘plastic pocket’ that students use at collage, maybe just a thin, clear, plastic bag. He would then take the paper and fold it just once or twice, and then place in reverently in the bag and return the bag to his jacket and pat the pocket saying ‘Manana’ (Pashtu for ‘thank you’).

And the following Monday morning at the projects clinic the man would turn up – having come straight from farming in his fields, often barefoot, most of the time with filthy hands, covered with the rich Helmandi soil, and sit down in front of me and fish out the paper and pass it to me.

I was always amazed that even though the farmers lived in very poor conditions, with very poor houses, often un-educated, that the paper would still be pristine, perfect. The paper was more important than anything.

The movement of pieces of paper was amazing, and the importance placed on them was incredible. ‘He wants a chit’ would be one of the common phrases that the interpreters would say to me, so much that I quickly learned what it was and often, when they were asking for a chit for damage (that often hadn’t actually been caused by us) to a compound or a field, then I would, without the need for a ‘terp be able to say ‘Ya! Ya chit!’ – (No! No Chit!) and go on our way.

Project chits were important to the locals, but by far the most important to them were when I had to give out a cut for genuine damage. Take, for instance, early in the tour of the Rifles lads, who were learning to drive the massive Huskey vehicles through the tiny, twist-turny streets of the villages. Occasionally the drivers would not quite make it round a bend without clipping a building and damaging it. Here the local would rightly make a claims complaint. He wall might be knocked down or his door frame damaged. And as we had caused the damage we would have to pay to put it right.

The proper procedure would be for a claims form to be raised and given to the owner of the building and he would go along to Lashkah Gar to get his money to repair. I would fill in this form, providing evidence of the damage and proof that it had been caused by us and then give this to the local. This paperwork – several pages of form (god bless bureaucracy!) would be treated with reverence folded and placed in that same small plastic bag and looked after as though lives depended upon it.

It’s a good lesson really. Maybe I should follow their lead. They never lost any paper. They always knew where to find the important paperwork. They wouldn’t spend hours searching through drawers and folders and envelopes searching for their MOT documents…to make sure that those bits of paper that are really important to me are kept safe…I should just get a small plastic bag…

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.

Frothing…

We all try to get our healthy amount of fruit and veg – but it can be difficult at times to get all the vitamin C that we need, and so, just to make sure each day I take an Effervescent Vitamin C tablet to help boost my immune system.

And the story I want to really tell you came into my mind this morning as I took another one of those tablets. Out on patrol in Afghan, as the EOD search team were checking out and clearing a compound we were moving into, the CO’s TAC multiple – basically the Company commanders tactical ‘HQ’ team which I was generally part of when we went out – took a breather by a stream.

We’d been out for a long time that morning, leaving before sun-rise, and it was getting close towards lunch. It was, as usual horrendously hot, and we took the shade that we could to escape the burning sun under some trees. We lounged around on the floor, still wearing our body armour, but removing our helmets and daysacks, propping ourselves up against them. Everyone was thirsty and hungry, and we took the opportunity to get some water down our necks and munching on the snacks we had taken with us.

One of the lads in the team then popped open a tube and slipped a tablet into his water bottle. He explained that it was one of those Isotonic rehydration tablets that you can get. He said that it also added a nice orange taste to the water too. He shared them out and we did the same, dropping a tablet into our water bottles to get a bit more hydration going, each tablet fizzing and bubbling away in the water. Us enjoying the taste and feeling of drinking something – anything – other than ‘just’ water.

And just as he was putting the tube away the Company Sergeant Major came over to let us know that the search had finished and we would be able to move on in a few minutes. And the guy with the tablets offered the CSM one. ‘Want an Isotonic tablet?’ he asked as he offered across the tube.

‘Ohhhh that’s a big tablet’ said the CSM ‘It’s not a suppository is it?’ he added as he popped it straight into his mouth!

Everyone was speechless as he instantly bit into the tablet and his mouth filled with froth as it started it’s natural job of effervescing – using the moisture and spit in his mouth as the catalyst instead of a bottle full of water.

‘Nooooooooooo…’ cried the OC and then, like the rest of us fell about laughing as the froth got worse and filled the CSMs mouth. Looking like an end stage rabies-sufferer the CSM started to cough and he spat the tablet out, trying to also spit the froth out, and reaching for his drinking tube to get some water to clear his mouth.

Crying with laughter we explained that the tablet needed to be dropped into water and dissolved before drinking and he continued to swill his mouth spitting out small remnants of the pill and gobs of more froth.

Coughing and spluttering the CSM added ‘Good job it wasn’t a suppository then, I wouldn’t want THAT going on up my arse…’

It’s a Lifesaver…

It’d been a long morning. Up at about 03:00, dressed and a smidge of breakfast, and then leaving the CP at about 04:00.  Still dark and quite cool, we moved off.

This was the start of Operation Omid Haft. Our Company was to move north and establish a new check point right up at the top of the Area of Operations bordered by the NEB Canal. The Helmand Green Zone of Afghanistan is essentially bordered by two bodies of water – to the north the NEB, to the south, the River Helmand.  To move there, in force, we needed to be out before the enemy were aware that we were coming and catch them unprepared.

So off we went. Moving across the countryside we were heading into unknown but not totally uncharted territory.  Our patrols had probed the area in the past and had an idea of where to cross the irrigation ditches and go through the fields.

But progress there was particularly slow.  The Quad-bike that was following us was overloaded with kit, spares, ammo, food and water. And the multiple following us was finding it difficult to get across the ditches, even though it had bridging equipment and 16 guys to assist it. This was slowing us down.

Then to slow us down even more we had a casualty to deal with – an partial IED detonation, but still requiring about an hour to sort out, with from blast to moving back off again.  Treating the casualty, moving him to a Landing Site, setting up the HLS, putting him on the MERT and then collapsing the HLS and re-organising the multiples back into the right places, with the right people in them all took time.

And then being really careful about IEDs slowed us down even more and we were rightly checking every hedge we were about to go through and every ditch we were about to cross slowed us down even more.

All of a sudden it was about 11am. Out for 7 hours, making slow progress, the heat of the day was rising.  We should have been in the village where the check point was to be by 10am, and it was still over a a kilometre away. And then we were hoping to meet the local elders before we started on the check point…it was still going to be a long day…

We found ourselves on the edge of a village. The sun baking. The ground totally open and dry.  The poppy and wheat harvest had started and the wheat in the field had been cut down and so there was no cover at all.  We moved to a BUND line (Built up Natural Defence – basically a bank built by the locals when they had constructed the irrigation ditches) and sheltered behind it.  But this still wasn’t great.

We were facing directly onto the village and this BUND only provided protection from the south, where there was a cemetery.  We sat there feeling exposed and nervous.  The gentle wind was from the south and so we were getting none of the benefit of the cooling breeze.  All that could be heard was the flap of the flags and streamers from the cemetery and the occasional snap of the Multiple commanders radio conversations.

The sun baked. I took slurps from my camelbak – a bladder of about 3l of water inside my day sack with a drinking tube coming from it.  I had been expecting it to be a long trip and had filled the bladder AND had brought an extra litre of water in bottles.  Thinking wisely (for once) I had used the bottles first, one 500cl bottle in each of my trousers pockets which I drank from as we moved along.  Once these were emptied I stuck them in my day sack and started on the bladder. Sucking on the drinking tube as we went along to try and slake my thirst.

The multiple commander really didn’t like where we were.

Slowly the multiple moved through another hedge line and over a ditch into another field.  This felt much better.  It was sheltered from the sun by trees and once we’d done our checks we could move down into the cover provided by the ditch along the shrub line and relax for a bit whilst the other multiples moved into position.

I slid down into the cover and checked around for any indication of IED components. With nothing seen I relaxed for the first time properly for hours. I shrugged off my day sack and sat chatting to the medic sitting a few feet away from me on my right. I slurped at my drinking tube…and then the worst thing…the slurping sound of a straw at the bottom of a glass. The water came through in fits and starts. Not enough. I opened the sack and looked.  Of course, the bladder was empty.

Bugger. ‘You got any spare water, Tommo mate?’ I asked the medic.

‘Nope. I ran out about 20 minutes ago.’

I asked over the multiple radio system – the PRR – and no one had any spare. This was a bad thing.  We still had a long way to go until we were certain of getting fresh clean water.

I looked down at the irrigation ditch. It was filled with stinky, filthy, muddy water. NOT a good idea to drink. Then I saw the quad-bike. Spare water.

‘Boss, I am going to get some water off the quad-bike.’ I shouted, and he nodded.  I walked over to the bike and asked for a Jerry-can of water for our multiple.  The driver shook his head.

‘What? Have you run out too?’ I asked.

‘Nope. The water isn’t drinking water.  A lad was tasked with filling the can with water – and of course did.  But he used the water from the well and not drinking water from bottles – the dip-shit. I’ve had to empty it out as it’s not drinkable.’

Bloody bloody bloody. Pointless. Hopeless.

I went back to the multiple, my explanation met by groans from the thirsty lads. I sat back down.

‘Here you go Alex. The multiple 2ic (second in command) tossed me a flask-like bottle.  Blue with a drinking spout at one end and a screwcap at the other. ‘I’ve got a Lifesaver bottle.’

And it was a lifesaver. This was a special bit of kit that was just coming into wide usage. It was a water filter that allowed you to turn ANY water (or so the Environmental Health guys who had introduced it) into drinking water. They claimed that any muddy puddle could be put through the device and become pure drinking water – with no nasty bugs that would make us ill and send us down with the dreaded D&V.

I undid the screw top and moved down to the muddy water, putting the bottle into the dirty puddle. The flask filled and I returned to my day sack. I followed the instructions and pumped away at the bottle – almost like a plunger in a coffee pot, but pumping over and over and over. This built up pressure in the flask and when it was not possible to pump anymore I opened up my water bladder in the day sack and then opened the other end of the Lifesaver.

Fresh, clean water poured into the reservoir. I repeated the process again and again and again.  My reservoir bladder filled with water.  I tossed the flask to the next guy who did the same, and eventually the multiple replenished their water supplies.  The filthy nature of the ditch was gone and the water in the bladder on my back was now fresh, clean and drinkable, and most miraculous of all, it was relatively cool…

I made a vow there and then – to get hold of a Lifesaver bottle of my own to sit in my own day sack.  This would weigh a lot less than carrying spare water and would be invaluable.

Back on the patrol though, we had a job to do.  The Mutliple commanders radio snapped into life again, and he gave us the 2 minute warning to move off. We had a Check Point to establish, and a lot of work to do before the helicopter was going to be able to come in with it’s underslung load – with it’s vital supply of clean bottled water.

That Lifesaver bottle was going to be used again I felt…and it really would live up to it’s name. It really would save lives.

Tell…

Everyone has a Tell.

If you play Poker you need to find out what your ‘Tell’ is.

Your ‘Tell’ is the thing you do…the involuntary body action you make when something happens. When you see you have a good hand – or when you KNOW someone else has a good hand. You might do this elsewhere; not just at the poker table. You might do it when your boyfriend strolls in a little bit drunk after being out with his mates. You might do it when your team scores at the footy. You might do it when you get stressed by something. The thing is it is an thing that you do as a reaction to an important event and people who know you can read you to look for your tell to give them a heads-up that you have had a reaction to something.

My tell is rubbing the back of my neck. Well, the top of my back actually. That bit of the C-Spine, just below the nape of your neck. If you see me rub that…then something is going on in my head. My girlfriend knows it and will straight away ask what is going on…ask me if I am alright.

Tonight I was watching a TV show about medicine and medical treatment of wounded people out in Afghan, and they did a segment talking about OP Minimise.

Op Minimise is the codename for a total shut down of communications from Afghan to the UK. The welfare facilities are brilliant – getting on the phone to call home is fairly easy (if a bit hit and miss with connection if you are using a satphone) and the internet is always there if you are in a location big enough to support a couple of laptops. But these are all shut down if a member of the British Armed Forces is seriously injured or has sadly been killed.

It’s to stop inadvertant release of the name of someone before the family is told. It’s a good thing, because it means that the family of a casualty gets the correct information first hand, delivered from someone who has been properly trained to deliver it. Rather than by reading someone elses Facebook status. The bad thing of course is that until the family has been properly told then you have no contact with home.

And if you are a regular contactor of people at home and you don’t send an email for a day or so (Op Minimise can last for days, and when lifted can be almost immediately reinstated for another event), then people at home get worried. Of course the important thing for the people at home to know, and I made sure that I told all my familiy before I left was this – if you hear about someone being killed on the news…then it’s not going to be me.

The terrible irony is that no contact means that people worry – but the reason for worrying couldn’t be more wrong. If their loved one has been hurt then they will know about it. They are worrying for no reason. Sadly, someone elses son or daughter or father or sister has been killed.

Pretty much as soon as a casualties status is known for certain, Op Minimise is called. It takes a few minutes to get around, but in a small camp like the Patrol Base I was in, within about 3-4 minutes of the call coming through the two laptops plugged into the net were shut down and the two SatPhones disappeared from view.

You might be sleeping and wake up to a minimise and walk into the Welfare tent to find the laptops off. Or you might come in from a patrol with a desire to phone home and find the phones have been locked away. And instantly you feel bad. You feel selfish for wanting to call or email home when you can’t and you know the reason is that someone is being told news that will shatter their lives.

You walk into the Ops Room and ask the fateful question ‘What’s Minimise on for?’ Hoping that the news will be that it’s another AO and it’s not something that has happened in your own Area of Operations; that it’s not someone you know and then…well…due to the nature of the job I was out there to do, I knew people in every AO.

In every Company location there was one of the lads or lasses that I had done my pre-deployment training with. Even if the incident that had hurt someone was far away, there was still a chance – a remote chance – that it could be some one that I knew. So it didn’t really matter. But you’d just want to know whether it’d been a shooting or an IED…or even a vehicle crash incident…

You’d track the events, the techniques, that the enemy were using. Making mental note to watch for one thing or another – amongst the plethora of things you already watch for when out on the ground. On hearing the reason or the injury – if it was an IED – you’d mutter ‘The dirty bastards’ or if it was a shooting ‘The necky bastards’ under your breath and walk back to your tent.

But that wasn’t really the worst part. The very worst part of Op Minimise is when it’s lifted. This is initially a relief. You can phone home. You can jump onto Facebook. You can send an e-bluey. But then you realise that it has been lifted because someone at home has been told their son or daughter has been killed. Or their father has had a double leg amputation and their lives will never be the same again. You realise that your ‘joy’ is someone else’s heartbreak. Guilt. It feels horrible. It feels like the worst thing in the world.

And here’s where my ‘Tell’ comes in. Tonight, during the show they showed a scene where the presenter was talking to camera and they played the tannoy announcement of the Op Minimise enforcment starting at Camp Bastion.

Now I didn’t spend a long time at Bastion. I spent the vast majority of my time in Afghan in a small Patrol Base in the Green Zone, but I passed through Bastion a couple of times, and when I did, sadly Op Minimise was started and, at Bastion, people get to hear about it mainly through the network of huge tannoy speakers that dot the site. Spoken at a speed designed to carry across distances it is a simple and slow message, spoken by a pre-recorded slow and steady, but above all calm and clear female voice: ‘Stand by for broadcast. Op Minimise’…a gap of 3-4 seconds…’Op Minimise’…gap again…’Op Minimise.’ Gap again. ‘Op Minimise is now in force.’ Gap. ‘I say again….’ In the gaps the voice echoes away across the camp, just gone by the time the voise starts up again.

And tonight, when I heard it, I got the shivers. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. And I did my ‘Tell’. I rubbed the back of my neck. For far longer than if I had an itch. My fingers scraping over the skin. Trying to scratch an itch that wasn’t really there. For 8 or 9 seconds I scratched away.

For an instant, despite the wine I was drinking. Despite the comfy sofa I was sitting on. Despite the different surroundings, I was back out there again listening to that broadcast. I felt the same guilty chill. I felt cold. Sadness. Guilt. Some poor sod. Someone’s mum breaking down. Someone is going to have to explain to their child that Daddy isn’t coming home. My skin prickled. A shiver down my spine. The gut-wrenching feeling that someone, somewhere had been lost.

And then a voice. ‘You ok?’ My girlfriend…back to the real world. Back to the hear and now. With a jolt and a gentle sigh of relief I realise where I am, and what is going on. No need for those feelings. I am back home. I am sitting watching the TV on the sofa with my girlfriend. Upstairs my daughter is sleeping. Home. No need for guilt. And then…

Then, sadly, the very next thing that popped up on my laptop screen was an RSS news notification ‘that a soldier from the…serving in the….region of Afghanistan has been killed. The family has been informed.’ This means that yet another Op Minimise has already been and gone. That out there people will have had feelings similar to mine. That despite the distance and the time…the same thing was going on again and again.

And even sadder, it won’t be the last time that it does…I just hope it’s the last time it causes me to do my tell.

________________________________________________________________________________

PS – After the post went live, I was contacted by a member of the family of someone who had, sadly, been through informing process and the ‘other’ side of Op Minimise – being told that their soldier had been killed in Afghan.

It is interesting, and sad, to note that they themselves felt they should do a similar thing, and not post anything on any social media, notably Facebook, until all the family have been informed.

Surreality…

I was driving along the back road by the open fields last Saturday, and noticed a single car parked up. Further along, in the middle of the field next to the road a solitary figure was slowly wandering about…with a set of bag-pipes.

I thought this was a bit commical, but it reminded me of a situation about 20 odd years ago when I was living in a coumpound in downtown Dhahran during the First Gulf War. It was literally a civilain compound used by other aircraft types based at Dhahran which had been taken over by ourselves and used by us for the duration. For a bit of security we had a guard on the gate, and this particular day it was my turn to pull the duty. With another lad, we took shifts in standing at the gate of the compound – a simple barrier that had been hastily installed across the driveway into the camp. Along this driveway was a small line of trees and on the other side of the trees, between the road and the main building of the site was a basketball court.

This was frequently used by guys off shift to relax and un-wind and to get a bit of exercise and fresh air, but given that Saddam Hussein had just set fire to the oil wells up in Kuwait and the smoke from those fires was drifting south over us, mixing with the clouds to create a really dull day.

But on this day it was still being used. However, there was no baskets being ‘dunked’. Instead one of the lads from 43 Sqn (based in Scotland at the time) was out there…with his bagpipes.

Even though I was on 29(F)Sqn the deployment out there was a mixed squadron, from the two, and we’d even flown out together, with this guy ‘piping us’ onto the Tristar that took us to Saudi Arabia. (That was a bit of a surreal thing – and a notable forst for me to be honest, walking up the steps at the back of the Tristar in the early hours of the morning to the strains of Holyrood…) But here he was now, taking an hour or two to practise his skills.

The thing was it was causing a real stir in the neighbourhood. It was a sound that was totally foreign to the locals, in everyway. Imagine hearing the skirl of the pipes for the very first time. And then imagine you are in a fairly scruffy back-street of an Arabic country, on a dull day. Surreal doesn’t cut it. To make matters worse for the locals who were gathering at the gate to find out exactly what the noise was, the basketball court was behind a 7 foot high wall, and the trees by the drive were screening the court from view from the open gateway.

People in full Arabic dress stood there with a puzzled look on their face. The local workers (mostly Pakistani, Bangladeshi or Indonisian) came up looking bemused. Eventually I had to bring the fellow out to the open gate so that people could see just what he was doing, and what he was playing. When they saw they stared in awe. A totally surreal moment.

I get those surreal moments again now. For instance I am sitting in a coffee shop as I type this. I sat and turned my MacBook on and stared at an empty desktop screen. It’s a picture of me in a Check Point just about to go out on patrol with a bunch of the lads. And then I looked up. People were going about their normal lives. A woman over in the corner feeding her baby. Two old ladies having a natter. A man reading his newspaper. Me in a coffee-shop. But only a month or so ago I was in Helmand. I was dressed like ‘that’. Thinking about the patrol to come; the heat, the kit, the weight, the mud, the corn.

It’s a million miles away. It’s surreal how reality changes. And how it changes so bloody quickly. Your world is full of one thing and then suddenly it is full of others.

Over there, believe it or not, life is fairly simple. Despite all the things to think about, they are pretty much all in the same vein. It’s all about looking after yourself and the others you are with. The world gets very small. Your cares and cancerns get less and you become focussed on only a few detailed things. Your contact with home can be broken at any time and you just get on with things.

Objects become important. Your rifle, your body armour, your kit. You spend time adjusting your kit and spend even longer discussing it. You talk about what you are carrying, how a bag weighs and feels on your back. It’s madness but you can spend an hour just discussing the design of a rucksack…

And then you come home. Those objects that you touched everyday; that were your life are left. When I returned I left my kit for a week or two, and then decided that it needed to be sorted; which items needed to be kept, what items could be returned to stores.

I ended up tipping a bag of kit about on my bed and then just sitting there for 5 minutes looking at it. Just two weeks before this had been my life. I would have gone mad – literally mad – if my notebook had gone missing out there, but it had just sat in a bag for two weeks. It was essential for me to do my job out there. It had everything, notes, prices for jobs, phone numbers, names, contact details – EVERYTHING. But now, this was an item that now felt different, odd. It’s weight wrong. The material of the cover cold and dead. Out of context. It didn’t fit into my life anymore. Did I need it? Yes. Do I need it anymore? No. It has suddenly become part of my history. It’s value changed and shifted. It’s purpose skewed.

Does this apply to me too? I am certainly different having returned from Afghan. I have learnt a hell of a lot about myself. You tend to do that in stressful situations – the old ‘Comfort-Stretch-Panic’. You learn and grow when you are being stretched. And some of the things I learnt about myself I didn’t like. Some of the things I do. But getting used to that, and accepting it, is hard.

I have found I have lost a bit of patience, patience with people, with my family, with my baby daughter. But when you have concentrated so much on one thing – yourself – for a long time, it takes a while to adjust back. Just getting used to things around home has been hard too. It’s difficult to settle back into a routine. You feel like something is missing. Something is wrong. But you can’t quite put your finger on what it is. Just something… Even doing the little things like taking a shower feel…different. There’s a reason for this.

They are.

Everything is different. It’s a different world. It’s 4,000 odd miles away, and in places, a couple of hundred years back in time. Showering and shaving outside, no mod cons, little things like washing your clothes taking twice as long to do.

And that’s ok, as the thing about it is that it’s miles away. But it’s not where I am anymore. I am home. It’s time to put the thoughts and feelings of all of it in a box marked ‘Afghan’ and put it on a shelf somewhere in my mind and leave it there, but able to be brought back out at the times when I need it, and at other times just let it lie.

My patience will come back…patience with Lily – a nearly-3 year-old is never easy to cope with at the best of times, but the person I have to have the most patience with is myself. My girlfriend, despite being quite poorly and in pain, has been fantastic. She’s given me patience and time and made far more allowances for me than I deserve. Truly, she’s been amazing, and now I need to just remember that it was a huge adventure, but now it’s over and I should just accept the changes in me. She already has. And of course because she loves me she’s done it unquestionably. If she can love me, then I can love me too.

I went, I did, I came back. It’s time now to accept the new me, and get busy living my life…as surreal and as complicated as everyone elses is…