Afghanistan Part Two

From the top of the steps, Camp Bastion lay before me. Hundreds of twinkling lights nestled beneath an ink black sky. If I had looked the other direction, I would’ve seen complete darkness stretching out to merge with the night sky.

I look up at the sky briefly, hoping for a sea of bright stars to live above me, instead several muted specks of light shone dimly. I have no idea why this was. My mum, an amateur astronomer, still refuses to believe me. She says I was looking in the wrong place.

Off the steps now and onto a coach. The name on the side is german, and It looks at least as old as I am. An afghani driver sits, nodding individually as we get on. Never seen a real afghani before, this occurs to me as we sit down. Looking at my watch I also realize I have no idea what time or in fact day it is anymore.

Our Chief gets on last and says a few words to us, that I can’t honestly remember now, and we shortly set off for the arrivals tent. My nose remains pressed to the dusty window for the 5 minute journey, until we pull up next to a row of blast walls (large concrete slabs standing upright, designed to offer protection against mortars), with the roof of a large tent sloping up behind it.

I step off the hard surface of the aircraft manoeuvring area, and onto sand for the first time.
I mention this seemingly trivial moment because at the time, my mind was on spiders. Camel spiders to be exact, and my eyes were scanning the ground continually, waiting for their co-ordinated strike. I make it to the relative safety of the well lit arrivals tent without coming under fire, so to speak. They must be planning a big offensive for later.

The tent is massive. Probably the biggest one i’ve ever been in, save for maybe at a circus.
It’s probably about 25-30 metres long. Bright strip lights illuminate the room, which has a cresent shape of chairs, facing towards a lecturn. In one corner are two fridges full of bottles, with people helping themselves. I wonder for a second if there was any coke.

Before I can investigate further, a voice from the front asks us to all take a seat.

The brief that followed, is of course confidential, but it was simply a “welcome to Bastion” speech.
By the time it was wrapping up, the effects of journey were start to take effect, and it was nearing 3AM.

Maybe it was my youth, or excitement, or nerves, or maybe just inquisitiveness, but I wasn’t tired. I wanted to explore. I could feel my camera in my thigh pocket, wanting to be used. We are shepherded out the opposite end of the tent, through another blast wall, and out into an open space, where our luggage is laid out in rows, under a flood light. At the end of these rows are our weapon bundles, which being an armourer, you’re (mistakenly) expected to deal with.
I spend 10 minutes searching the rows of near identical luggage for two strips of green tape reading PP Mac G.
I find them both and head towards the weapons, when a RAF policeman stops me and asks me if I’m SAC Macgoudge.
“Who wants to know?”
Is what I WOULD of said if I wasn’t worried about being arrested.
I mumbled in the affirmative, and he holds out a clear plastic bag, with my penknife inside, which I’d foolishly attempted to walk through the scanner with strapped to my belt, back in the UK many hours before. I thank the cop and look back at the weapon pile, which had vanished onto the shoulders of my colleagues, headed for overnight storage.

We eventually are shown to our temporary tent, where we will be spending the rest of the night before being moved onto to our permanent accommodation. I take this opportunity to take a few snaps while no one is looking, I’m still not sure as to the rules regarding photos at this point.

This tent is longer but much thinner, the walls lined with bunk beds. I head to the last remaining free bunk, right at the far end.

My mind is buzzing, and I can’t really concentrate on what to do next. I unpack as little as I can, just the few things I need for the night. Sleeping bag, wash kit, bottle of water, iPod for an alarm, jacket as a pillow.

I get myself ready for bed, my mind still full with questions, thoughts on what i’d seen, and what I was going to see tomorrow and onwards. I get in my sleeping bag, and as i’m lying there in a bright room, with people bustling around still, I start to think about my friends, and what they’re probably getting up to. I wonder when I’ll speak to them next, and if they’re thinking about me.

Eventually the tiredness catches up, and I crash.

I had a good night’s sleep I think, although I remember growing gradually more uncomfortable.
“Who keeps turning the heating up?” I drowsily thought to myself as I dozed in my (arctic) sleeping bag the next morning.

No one was turning the heating up.

Afghanistan part one

I’d spent my last day in the UK in a state of excitement and apprehension, with a list of things to do, but lacking the conviction to do them. I’d never been to Afghanistan before, and the exaggerated stories of my colleagues weren’t much to go on.
I spend the majority of the day packing the extraordinary amount of kit I had been issued into one holdall and one rucksack, and making (un)educated guesses as to which items I could leave behind. Extreme cold weather facemask? In a desert? not a chance.
Once i’d broken down several times, frantically looking at the clock and the pile of unpacked kit which was heaped in a pile blocking the door, I gave up and turned my laptop on, to say goodbye to my friends.
The messages from everyone were lovely, if a little saddening.
Time that night disappeared in a matter of seconds, and before I knew what was happening, I was leaving my room, weighed down with my two bags, body amour, and helmet, and heading to the armoury (where I work normally), to pick up my rifle.
I remember that walk quite vividly, it was the last time i’d be alone with my thoughts.
It was half past midnight if I remember correctly, there were no clouds and there was a full moon.
We collected our shooters and piled onto a coach, destined for RAF Brize Norton. As we drove, I realized I had no idea what to expect in the 24 hours, this was all completely alien to me. I was with people I had barely seen before, the only face I knew was my corporal, who had done this many times before.
Skip forward a few hours, and i’m sitting in the departure lounge at RAF Brize Norton. I didn’t expect this, it was just like an actual airport, albeit a lot less busy, and not as well maintained.
We are walked out to the plane in single file, the only items we had with us were helmets and body armour.
Everyone is laughing and joking and in reasonably good spirits, i’m quieter than usual.
Skip forward a few more hours, and the plane is landing in Cyprus, the staging post for all military flights into the middle east.
The stay at RAF Akrotiri was brief, as the plane refuelled.
The next 5 hours was only split up by being served…. food, I think.
I tried to sleep as much as I could, but the view out the window kept my eyes open. Before long, the sun went down and I drifted off.

Over the tannoy, the pilot tells us what was going to happen next. We’re told to put our helmets and armour on, and that the lights were going off, as the plane began its descent. In the darkness, I fall asleep again. I wake up 10 minutes before landing, and for the first time, I actually do feel a bit nervous.
We touch down and taxi for what seems like an hour. the lights are still off, and the windows closed, so I have no idea what is going on outside.  I have visions of stepping off the plane under heavy fire, with explosions going off everywhere.
We get up, and are directed to the exits. I step out onto the stairs, into a pitch black afghan night, and everything is completely silent.
Slightly disappointed.

 

 

Introductions

Good morning/afternoon/evening, internet user, i’m Patrick.
The aim of this blog, (apart from to feed my ego the attention it so desperately craves) is to provide some insight into the life of an airman. A Weapons Technician to be exact, or “armourer” as it is more commonly known.

I am currently based at RAF Odiham, about an hour west of London, and I work on Chinook helicopters (they’re the long ones with two rotors); looking after the Miniguns and M60 Machine guns.

I’ve just gone back to work after a tour of duty in Afghanistan. I’d been in a whole 10 minutes before being told I was going away again in a couple of months, this time to California, for a month and a half. My plan to see the world before it ends in December is off to a flying start.

But no time to think about the States just yet, a week of work lays ahead, followed by a week riding the waves in Cornwall. (It’s called decompression, apparently 5 days of surfing cancels out the horrors of war).

I realize my time in Afghanistan is probably the most interesting thing i’ll do for while, and also what you would probably like to hear about, so i’ll write about my experiences there in hindsight.

I’m fairly sure I can remember what happened….
One thing I remember for certain though, was that it started on a cloudless night, in the middle of October, under a full moon…..