Alex Duncan - Sweating the Metal

It’s a minor perk (and one of the few divides in theatre between officers and enlisted personnel) but as officers, we board the TriStar first and get the pick of the seats. It’s rather academic to a degree; there are no business-class recliners at the front, just more of the same layout that you find throughout the cabin. I chose to sit at the front and luckily, as it wasn’t a busy flight, I got a row of three seats to myself.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the sense of relief I felt as the TriStar departed Kandahar was almost palpable. I don’t think I’d appreciated how tightly I’d been wound. As the wheels came up and the aircraft gained altitude, I sat back in my seat and let out a huge but silent sigh as I felt the weight on my shoulders lift and the worry start to fall further and further behind. It was over; we’d done it and we’d all got out. I felt a mass of conflicting emotions; relief principally, but also apprehension – the experience had changed me, but how? How would Ali feel when she saw me? What about Guy? A tiny part of me had got used to the existence in Helmand as it always did, and despite my happiness at leaving it behind me, I was going to miss it. She’s a cruel mistress, Helmand; a complete head fuck.

As soon as we reached altitude and began the long journey home, I gave up on analysing what had gone on – there’d be plenty of time for the reckoning in the months to come. Now, all I wanted was to sleep. I pulled my green maggot from the overhead compartment and snuggled inside, inflating my pillow and pulling a mask over my eyes. I wondered how I’d feel when I got home, but I never got to think it through because it was my last conscious notion as sleep claimed me. I didn’t wake up again until the thump of the undercarriage descending ready for landing at Brize roused me about five minutes out. We were back.

This close to home, I was thinking that my days of trouble at the end of a Det were behind me. After all, I hadn’t had any problems getting out; the flight had even been on time. In actual fact, because of the intensity of the ops and the attempt to blast us from the sky on the 17th, JP had thoughtfully sent us home a few days early. However, I hadn’t reckoned on the complexity of the female mind!

Alison had known about the incident on the 17th almost immediately after it happened because of her job and her connections. In fact, she found a cable with all the details, sent over by a mutual friend at the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, in her office when she got into work the day afterwards. When I eventually rang her, she already had some idea of what had happened and knew I was okay. We’d spoken several times since, but not after JP had told me I’d be coming back three days early, so she didn’t know. I considered ringing her as I was heading from Brize to RAF Odiham. She wasn’t expecting me, so I was sure she’d be delighted. In the end, I decided against it. She’d see me soon enough.

Unfortunately for me, circumstance and fate intervened. When I got home, my parents were there, having flown over from Paris to await my return, but Ali wasn’t – she was out walking our dog with Paul Farmer’s wife Becs. Paul had come home earlier and had told his wife that we would be home early too. Becs mentioned it to Ali while they were out with the dogs.

‘How much are you looking forward to seeing Alex later, then?’ she asked.

Ali played it cool. ‘Ah, it’ll be great to have him back. I can’t wait. But I want to surprise him, so I’m getting my hair done tomorrow and I’m going to dress up and really give him something to remember!’

‘Well you’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?’

‘Late?’ Ali asked. ‘I know us girls are known for the time it takes us to get ready, but two days is hardly a rush, is it?’

‘Two days? They’re on their way home now. I thought you knew!’

Apparently Ali’s face was a picture. She dialled my number and when I saw her name flashing on the screen I thought, ‘Shall I answer?’ But then it dawned on me – she’d know I was back from the way it rang. I hit Answer.

‘Hi babe,’ I said.

‘Hi. When’d you get back?’

I told her I’d been at the house for about five minutes.

‘Fine. See you later,’ she said coldly and hung up.

Every man will know what I’m talking about when I say that I didn’t really get why she was so irked. And I guess every woman will sympathise with Ali and intrinsically understand her mood.

She’d had it all mapped out; what she was going to wear, her make-up, her hair. The champagne was on ice, the house was clean and tidy – she’d even arranged for my parents to be out with Guy when I got back so we got an hour or two on our own. She’d planned on looking like a million dollars, and instead I’d caught her unawares. Her hair was unwashed and unkempt, she had no make-up on and she’d been out in the forest walking the dogs. But she always looks gorgeous to me, so I didn’t get what all the fuss was about.

It wasn’t the welcome that I expected. And it wasn’t five minutes of the cold shoulder either; let’s just say it was a good few hours before I managed to break the ice!

After my post-detachment leave, which Ali and I spent in the South of France (the perfect antidote to the rigours of life on Det in Afghanistan), I left 27 Squadron and returned to RAF Shawbury to train as a Qualified Helicopter Instructor.

JP had asked me where I wanted to go earlier in the year and I’d asked him to look into my obtaining a ‘fixed-wing crossover’, allowing me to move to the multi-engine fleet, but it simply wasn’t an option.

I guess it was because there was a desperate need for Chinook pilots in Afghanistan. Also the recession was beginning to bite, so the airlines weren’t recruiting; this meant there wasn’t the usual exodus of fixed-wing pilots from the RAF into civil aviation that normally creates demand in the service to replace them. So he said, ‘If you’re sure you don’t want promotion at the moment – although I’m certain you’ll change your mind at some stage – the obvious route for you is to become a QHI.’

The only reason I didn’t want to take promotion then was because I joined the RAF to fly and it’s something I love; for me, aviation is not so much a profession as it is a disease with no cure. The only thing that alleviates the symptoms is flying and, no matter how hard you try, it’s inevitable that with every step up the promotion ladder you do less and less of that.

But the offer of QHI was on the table so I took it. It made sense, and at least I would know where I was going. It offered a degree of consistency and stability and it would mean, perhaps more importantly for me at that stage, no more tours of Afghanistan. I think it’s fair to say that at the time, with all that had happened on my last Det, I was ready for a break from combat ops.

It was a hard course, there’s no question. I’d come from the Chinook where I’d been a training captain, a big fish in a small pond, and suddenly I was back, initially at least, in a Squirrel. I was used to flying this huge, powerful helicopter with its twin rotors and suddenly I was in this tiny little Squirrel, which has the shape of a sperm, is made of plastic, and gets upset in five knots of wind. That element was a complete nightmare; it was just so difficult making the backwards transition. It’s demoralising too, because you know you can fly – you’ve flown countless missions under fire, you’re combat experienced, you’ve performed some really aggressive manoeuvres that come naturally to you – and all of a sudden you’re back to basics in a helicopter that’s the aviation equivalent of a Fisher Price toy and you’re thinking, ‘Fuck, I can’t fly anymore, let alone teach!’ That was a bit of a shock.