Ed Macy - Apache

Even the Boss had to take rest periods, chivvied out of the JHF by his second in command. He’d plug his headphones into his computer and lie on his cot to watch the first season of 24 . He’d never get more than a few minutes into the first episode before falling asleep. He must have played that opening sequence twenty times over.

The official day ended at around 9pm, after the evening brief. It kicked off after dinner, following the same agenda as the one in the morning. We always started with the weather, the temperature, sunset, sunrise, moon state and light levels. Then came the permanently disappointed Kev Blundell’s ammo report, the fuel stocks, the callsigns and codewords for the radios the next day, the porn star airframe’s service standards, and Alice’s intelligence brief.

The Ops Officer spoke about that day’s missions and firefights, the next day’s tasks, which crews were on what shifts, and what the ground troops were up to. Billy might then say something about flight safety, I’d do a little on weapons and Carl would give an update on the aircraft’s self-defence. Trigger (aka the Boss/Major Christopher James) wrapped it up with a few last points of his own.

It was during Carl’s brief in the second week that Rocco made his first appearance of the tour. Rocco was the longest-serving member of the squadron, and in more ways than one, judging by his picture. He’d been around for years – since the mid-Eighties, by the look of him. So long, in fact, that nobody knew where he’d originally come from. He had more Apache flying hours than Billy and FOG put together.

Rocco was an Italian porn star, with perfectly tousled fair hair, giant pecs and a cock that would have been the envy of a king rhinoceros. FOG looked him up on the Internet once. Rocco had starred in more than 340 hardcore porn films over his twenty-year career, directed and produced another 200, and written fifty more. That was an awful lot of shagging. Among his back catalogue were the truly classic Fantastica Moana (1987), A Pussy Called Wanda (1992), Intercourse with the Vampire (1994), and Buttman & Rocco’s Brazilian Butt Fest Carnival (1999).

For us, though, Rocco existed only in photographic form – a page torn out of a long lost magazine, glued onto a piece of cardboard and laminated for his own protection. He stood on a bed, stark bollock naked and posing manfully, with his right eyebrow suggestively raised, 007-style. His flexed left arm met his right where his hand covered his pubic thatch, but did little to conceal the launch pad of his very own disconcertingly potent Hellfire missile. The picture bore the dedication, ‘From Rocco, With Love. x.’

Rocco might not be seen for weeks, then make a dramatic reappearance when he was least expected, like Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition.

Carl had been talking about a new upgrade to the Defensive Aide Suite. ‘Ewok,’ Geordie piped up, ‘Alice told us yesterday that the Taliban might have a ZU23 anti-aircraft gun in the Garmsir region.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ He should have seen it coming.

‘Well I was just wondering what the ZU23’s effective range is, like? Is it a threat, like?’

‘Yes, it’s a threat. Hang on, I’ve got it here. I’ll look it up.’

Geordie knew it was a statistic Carl couldn’t have known off the top of his head. Darwin had already doubled up, red in the face, desperately trying to suppress his giggles. But, holding the floor now, Carl was feeling too important to spot him. He reached for his Black Brain and turned to face the packed room. He ripped back the Velcro fastener and flicked it open.

There he was. From Rocco, With Love. x .

Carl blushed to the roots of his hair, and the JHF erupted.

‘Very f… funny… VIDAL .’

‘Ahaa! You’ve been Roccoed!’ Geordie was beside himself with glee.

You could get Roccoed at any time, day or night, in the air or on the ground. Then it would be your turn to Rocco someone else. Rocco didn’t discriminate between rich or poor, giant or dwarf. Everyone was fair game. We even got our old CO once in the simulator at Dishforth, as he flicked his Black Brain bang in the middle of a particularly challenging Hellfire sortie.

Now he was out and about, there would be a frenzy of Rocco activity for a couple of days. Then, just as quickly, he’d go undercover again.

The Boss stepped forward as the laughter subsided.

‘Okay guys, very funny. I said all I wanted this morning, so nothing from me tonight. Any other points from the floor before we close? Alice?’

Alice had slipped in late. She’d taken a quick call from the brigade’s int cell in Lashkar Gah. She looked uncomfortable.

‘Sorry, not very good timing, but there’s something that’s probably worth mentioning. I’ve just been briefed on an enemy intercept.’

The room fell silent.

‘The Taliban have a new plan for what they’ll do if they capture a Coalition soldier.’

I realised I’d stopped breathing. The TADS image of the two SBS boys filled my head.

‘They intend to set up a webcam for a live Internet broadcast, and then skin him – or her – alive.’

The Taliban kept up a permanent bombardment of the new Garmsir DC. The marines had put the boot into their lovingly kept hornets’ nest, and they weren’t going to let them forget it.

But their focus on the four other northern district centres now seemed to ebb and flow. For a week or two, they’d have a concerted crack at Sangin and its defenders would be back at the ramparts. Then, without any apparent reason, they’d tire of Sangin and turn their attention to Now Zad or one of the others.

During the first few weeks of our second tour, they threw all they had against Kajaki, the furthest outpost, ninety-five kilometres north-east of Camp Bastion, right at the top of the Helmand Green Zone. The town itself was not much to shout about – it was barely more than a village. But control of the giant Kajaki Dam was something else again; it stood 100 metres high and 270 metres wide, in front of the biggest lake in Afghanistan.

It had been a Cold War playground, constructed by the Soviets in 1953 as a gesture of comradeship. Then along came the Americans in 1975, wanting to spread their share of love and influence, and built a thirty-three megawatt hydroelectric power station beside it. By the time we arrived, the dam irrigated the entire province, neighbouring Nimruz and a sizeable chunk of Iran, and also provided Helmand with almost all of its electricity.

Hold the dam, and you controlled the livelihoods of half a million Helmandis. To lose it would have been a strategic disaster. If the Taliban destroyed it, they’d wreak havoc, plunge the province into darkness – and blame the atrocity on a US bombing raid.

A 3,000-metre-long ridgeline towered over the south-eastern side of the dam. The tallest of its three peaks had been fortified by the Paras and was occupied by a troop of thirty marines. It was an excellent vantage point from which to spot any approach. It was given the codename Arnhem.

The marines were skirmishing daily as the Taliban probed towards the hydroelectric dam. The marines held them off, but the Taliban had them surrounded – and took out their frustrations by giving them a fair kicking.

HQ Flight took over the IRT / HRF role from 2 Flight at the height of the Taliban’s Kajaki-thon; 2 Flight had gone up there twice. It was a racing certainty we’d follow suit.

‘Ten quid says we’ll have to go all the way up to bleeding Kajaki and back every day of the shift,’ Carl grumbled. The longer flight meant a greater chance of him missing a meal, which alarmed him almost as much as it did FOG. But none of us took his bet.