Alex Duncan - Sweating the Metal

I had to use white light as well my NVGs to carry out the approach but even then I had to overshoot once, as at 30ft I lost all sight of the ground and the cyalume box used as a landing aid. The second attempt wasn’t much better, but this time I trusted my trimming and the aircraft flew itself to a ‘positive’ landing. We got in – just – and got the casualty back to Bastion.

We were also scrambled to take a ‘Compassionate A’ case from Kajaki to KAF – a British soldier whose mother had suddenly taken a turn for the worse and was dying. That’s one of the great things about the Armed Forces: if someone close to you is ill or dying, they’ll move mountains to get you home yesterday, regardless of rank or where in the world you are. They’ll even divert a TriStar full of troops just to get that one person to where they need to be. We scooped this guy up, landed on at KAF, where we taxied to the end of the runway and stopped next to a C-17 waiting with its ramp down. He was straight off the cab, onto the waiting C-17 and they were away, straight back to England. After that, we flew back to Bastion and shut down. We weren’t called out again that night.

If I thought Op Oqab Sturga was behind us, I was wrong. The following morning, May 25th, illustrated that fact all too vividly. Sadly it meant the death of one young soldier, and life-changing injuries for two others.

While we’d been flying the Paras in on the night of the 23rd, Royal Marines travelling in armoured vehicles had provided reinforcement and support on the ground and were only now returning to their bases. As they did so, they were engaged about halfway up the valley, between FOB Inkerman and Sangin, in a rolling contact that lasted about four hours. They were driving, stopping, fighting; driving, stopping, fighting; and they were harassed all the way down the valley as they tried to return to their FOB at Sangin.

Sadly, the Taliban had managed to plant a massive IED right in the middle of the wadi, within about 500m of the main gate to the FOB, and it sat there waiting for them, inert and silent, until the lead BvS10 Viking – driven by Marine Dale Gostick of 3 Troop Armoured Support Company – rolled over it.

The phone rings back at the IRT tent and I run to the JOC with Andy Rutter to get the grid and the details while Alex and Griz head for the aircraft. The nine-liner shows we have three T1 casualties; the grid is the Sangin crossing of the Helmand River. Andy races us across Bastion to the pan where Alex is spinning up the cab. As ever, the MERT and QRF teams are ready and waiting in the back. The Apache is already on station because it has been supporting the Marines during their contact.

As soon as we get authorisation (and for once, it isn’t long in coming) it’s pull pitch, nose down and we crack on as fast as we can. I call the Apache to tell them we’re inbound.

‘Ugly Five Two, Black Cat Two Two, inbound your location in figures twenty.’

The AH pilot keys the mike and, against a background track of 30mm cannon fire, he says, ‘Yeah, Black Cat Two Two, you’ll need to hold. We’re still in contact and the HLS is hot. Repeat, HLS is hot.’

I acknowledge and fly us along the river to a point about eight miles west of the target and set up in a figure-of-eight orbit there. As I’m flying, I see a young Afghan male of fighting age, sitting on top of a hill in that classic stance that Afghans seem to adopt – sitting on their haunches – and he’s just gazing out over the land, a mobile phone to his ear.

‘Clock him,’ I say to Alex. ‘What’s the betting he’s dicking us?’

‘Yeah, the fucker’s probably passing intel up the chain to another motherfucker with an RPG who’s waiting to shoot at us,’ says Alex. ‘Here we go again.’

I take us down and fly close enough to him that, had it been me down there, I’d have ducked, but we may as well be silent and invisible for all the fucking difference it makes. He continues talking on his phone, almost oblivious to our proximity. Now look, I’m sorry, but if you’ve got a fuck-off great noisy Chinook flying within a few feet of your head, you’re going to move, aren’t you? Not this guy. I know there are cultural differences, but there are limits. The whole thing has me worried, so I say, ‘Okay Andy, get on the port Minigun. I want you to put some rounds down on the next hill, see if that gives him the incentive to move away.’

‘No problem, Frenchie. I’m ready on your order.’

‘Hold one; I’m just going to have a quick sweep around. I want to make sure that if we have any stray rounds they’re not going to hit anybody.’

It’s as well I do; just as I clear the hill, I see a flock of goats at the bottom. I look back at the guy on the hill, who I thought had been dicking us, and suddenly the threat evaporates. I see him for what he is – a young goat-herder, his gaze on his flock while he sits talking on his phone to a mate in the next valley, perhaps. Then again, he could be all that and still be dicking us. That’s what I hate about this fucking country; nothing is what it seems.

Suddenly, the man stands up, ends his phone conversation and sets off down the hill towards his flock. ‘Okay Andy, you can stand down mate,’ I say. I let out a sigh of relief and curse my heart, which I realise is beating faster than it should be. I wipe away a bead of sweat that’s running down my face.

Thirty minutes later nothing’s changed; we’re still holding. I need to think about the mission.

‘Right guys, time’s running out and I’m not prepared to go back and refuel.’

Returning to Bastion for more fuel would be tantamount to signing a death sentence on the casualties – time is something they don’t have. I need to conserve the fuel we have, so if we can’t go forward and we can’t go back, I’ve got one option: down. I’ll land in the wadi below us and we can wait on the ground until we’re called in for the extraction.

I pick the wadi because it looks almost impossible to access and its banks are too steep to climb. A scan of the area reveals nobody within two miles of the spot I’ve chosen and time-wise, it’ll take them longer to get to us than we’ll be there for. Of course, it’s sod’s law that as soon as I apply the brakes and complete the after-landing checks, the Apache will clear us in, isn’t it? And that’s exactly what happens…

‘Okay Alex, rebug your RadAlt to 10, I’ve got 20 on the light,’ I say. ‘I’m going to fly us in low and dirty.’

My head is full of memories of the 17th, when I’d been flying at 20ft and 160kts and we’d still been hit, so I’m determined to fly even lower this time. I’ll stick rigidly to 10ft. For this mission, as well as the MERT, I also have an ITV camera crew onboard who are filming for the third episode of Doctors and Nurses at War .

I pull power and lift us above the wadi and, completely oblivious to the fact that they are recording the audio from the intercom, I jokingly say to Andy and Griz, ‘Right, Rules of Engagement are easy – if it’s bearded and looks at us, kill it.’ Of course, my comment makes the final cut and is played to a primetime audience on ITV seven months later when the programme is broadcast. It’s not like I was ever going to be able to deny it was me – I mean, how many Chinook pilots does the RAF have who speak with a French accent?

I’m at 10ft now as we’re running in, and the needle on the airspeed indicator is at 150. I’m wringing all the power she’s got out of the collective. I’m flying so low insects on the ground are running for cover, and I’m moving the cyclic like I’m whipping egg whites as I throw the aircraft around. If anyone’s trying to get a bead on us, I’m going to make their job as near fucking impossible as I can.