Alex Duncan - Sweating the Metal

But that all lies ahead. For now, Afghanistan beckons.

Those people we know generically as Afghanis or Afghans hail from at least five different ethnic groups and countless different tribes, many of which are spread across Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas. More than thirty languages are spoken within the country’s borders, in addition to the three official tongues of Dari, Farsi and Pashto. Perhaps the only common thread to tie the country’s people together is their Muslim religion, which is practised by 99% of the population. The average Afghan feels little or no sense of loyalty to President Hamid Karzai; it is in the nature of many to support whoever looks likely to be the victor of any given argument, battle or confrontation. A deep-rooted system of tribal and ethnic loyalty overrides any sense of nationality, such as that possessed by the average British or American citizen.

Underpinning all of this is the illegal widespread cultivation and harvesting of opium poppies, which are the Taliban’s main source of income. Afghanistan produces 90% of the world’s opium, the main ingredient in the heroin that finds its way onto the streets of Britain and the US. Despite this, the country could be self-sufficient within a decade if the security situation was stabilised to allow the world’s mining companies to invest in Afghanistan’s significant mineral resources, which are believed to be worth in excess of three trillion dollars. These include vast reserves of oil, gas, copper, gold and lithium.

It was into that melting pot that we were headed as a component of 16 Air Assault Brigade. Our deployment was born in January 2006, following the then defence secretary Dr John Reid’s announcement that the UK would send a Provincial Reconstruction Team with several thousand personnel to Helmand Province for at least three years. The move was coordinated with other NATO countries to relieve the predominantly American presence in the south. Senior Taliban figures voiced opposition to the incoming force and pledged to resist. And resist they did.

Dr Reid expressed the hopelessly naïve view that: ‘We would be perfectly happy to leave in three years’ time without firing one shot.’ Some hope. Within two and a half years, British soldiers had fired a total of 12.2 million bullets.

Our landing in Kabul was uneventful, but because of our late arrival time we had to wait until the following morning to take the short flight via Hercules to Kandahar. We landed at the main base for ISAF forces in Afghanistan around midday; even though it was only May, the first thing that struck me was the heat. Fuck me, it was oppressive! Acclimatising was going to be a bitch.

Kandahar and Helmand, where we would be operating from, is unforgiving territory. It can take over three weeks to acclimatise on arrival. The temperature in the summer months rarely drops below 48°C and reaches as high as 55°C, with humidity consistently around 9%. It’s arid, hot and dusty – the sand’s consistency is like talcum powder and it clings to everything. Heatstroke can be almost as much of a threat as the Taliban; so too is the dreaded D&V (Diarrhoea and Vomiting), which can strike down a whole patrol within days. You need to take in eleven litres of water a day just to stay hydrated, and there is almost no shelter from the sun.

Incidentally, the heat has other effects on your body’s physiology during the acclimatisation period. The heat is an appetite suppressant, but because of the amount of energy that you expend on ops, you need to take in more calories than you do at home. The soldiers at the FOBs, the guys who are engaging with the Taliban, take in around 5–6,000 calories a day. But the heat plays havoc with your digestive and urinary systems – there’s almost no desire to go to the toilet. Ten, eleven litres of water each day and you can’t remember the last time you went for a piss.

We were relieving ‘A’ Flight, 27 Sqn when we arrived. After picking up our weapons and other kit, we were met by Sqn Ldr Dan ‘Danno’ Startup, their OC.

‘Welcome to KAF, fellas,’ said Danno. Mike Woods, who was OC ‘A’ Flight for our tour shook his hand.

‘Cheers mate, although we’re not entirely pleased to be here!’ said Woodsy in his thick Geordie accent.

‘Sorry about the transport, it’s about par for the course round here,’ Danno apologised, as he led us out to a vintage 1960s bus that was coated inside and out in dust. All was well as he drove us towards our accommodation, and I took in the vast, sprawling base that is KAF, home to some 8,000 NATO troops. Suddenly, a fetid stench assailed my nostrils. ‘What the fuck is that?!’ I asked Danno.

‘Ah, that’ll be Poo Pond,’ he said as he rounded the corner to reveal an enormous circular lake about 100 yards across. Facing it on the opposite side of the road were several accommodation blocks.

‘Er… Poo Pond?’ asked Woodsy.

‘Yeah, it’s that lake there,’ said Danno, pointing. ‘It’s a liquid pit for all of KAF’s human waste.’

I stared at the lake’s still, brown water and shuddered involuntarily. Nothing stirred. Surely no insect would dare to brave its inky depths. Then I noticed the warning sign hanging from the single rope that cordoned the water off. ‘Biohazard: Do Not Enter,’ it read. In terms of stating the obvious, that sign was rivalled only by the warning on a bag of peanuts I’d been given on a flight a year or so before that said: ‘Warning. May Contain Nuts.’ What sort of fucking world do we inhabit now?

‘Which poor fuckers live in that accommodation block?’ asked Woodsy, as the bus slowed… and then turned.

‘Er, we did. Now it’s all yours. Welcome!’ said Danno, and a collective groan went up from everyone on the bus.

The accommodation itself was pretty good, considering: brick-built single-storey blocks with rooms either side of a central corridor. The rooms were air-conditioned and slept four – each berth had a cot and bedside cupboard. At the end of the corridor were the ablutions – a row of about eight showers, sixteen sinks, two urinals and four proper, porcelain flushing toilets. At least the waste wouldn’t have far to travel.

‘Do you get used to the smell?’ I asked Danno, screwing up my nose. I read somewhere that your sense of smell works by analysing molecular particles of whatever odour it detects. Sometimes I wished I didn’t read so much.

‘Honestly? No,’ said Danno. ‘But it’s not just yourselves. The Harrier Det are in the next block along, so they absorb the worst of the smell.’ I laughed – that wasn’t going to do the fast jet boys’ over-inflated egos any good. How do you know that the man you’re talking to is a Harrier pilot? Because he’ll tell you himself.

After being given an hour to dump our kit and straighten up, we met up with Danno at The Green Bean, a kind of low-rent coffee shop. In light of the fact that alcohol was banned at KAF, I could see The Green Bean becoming our de facto second home.

Danno did the handover. ‘Okay, the set-up is pretty simple. The Chinook Force in theatre is known as 1310 Flight, and we’ve got a total of six cabs here – nowhere near enough. Two cabs are at Bastion on IRT and HRF and there are two here for taskings, plus another two in various stages of maintenance. The rotation at Camp Bastion is two days on IRT followed by two on HRF (Helmand Reaction Force). On the fourth day, you handle the afternoon’s taskings and end up back here at KAF. The taskers will fly down to take over from you. The IRT and HRF cabs are permanent fixtures at Bastion and there will be three crews forward there at any one time, as well as a few engineers to handle routine maintenance and minor repairs.’