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Authors: Chantelle Taylor
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Tony was manning the outer wall when he was struck by the RPG round.
The Jocks don’t welcome this information at all. It’s not the best start to relations between the two sets of soldiers. Amazingly, the grunts take the news in their usual relaxed and politically correct stride. Cries of ‘cunts!’ echo around the PB for the rest of the evening. Too tired to care, I laugh quietly at the absolute outrage of it all.
When all is said and done, the young Jocks realise that we have to fight alongside the Afghans if we are to stand any chance of surviving down here. The Afghan fighters are as knowledgeable as the Taliban when it comes to knowing the ground and terrain; their input is priceless, and it is our job to mentor them and introduce them to battle discipline. They have a medical team just like we do, and I am happy to mentor and guide them.
My throat is parched, and I down two bottles of water one straight after the other. I need sleep, and look down with less-than-eager eyes at my thin roll mat and my even thinner bivvy bag. A quick brush of teeth, and I lay my head for the night. Thinking about what will become of us, I still hold on to a glimmer of hope that we may return to Lashkar Gah.
In addition to being the capital of Helmand Province, Lashkar Gah is the seat of the provincial Afghan government. The base, in the centre of a heavily populated area, is home to the UK task force commander. I flew into Lash on a Chinook when I arrived twelve weeks ago, after initially landing in Kandahar aboard a Tristar.
I had been here briefly in 2006; many changes had occurred since then. The deployment of UK military forces in Lashkar Gah (LKG) followed a tradition for the area. LKG means ‘army barracks’ in Persian. LKG was established a thousand years ago as a riverside town for soldiers accompanying the Ghaznavid nobility to their seasonal winter capital of Bost. The ruins of the Ghaznavid manors still stand along the banks of the Helmand River.
The city of Bost and its outlying communities were mostly destroyed by the Ghorids, Genghis Khan, and Timur Lenk. Today the community of Bost is home to a hospital and airport. It also provides a great backdrop for photo opportunities to the increasingly popular military tourist. Steeped in history, the stunning scenery and Old World imagery provide a spectacular backdrop for photographic souvenirs.
Back in Nad-e Ali, at the old school, we as a company group are writing modern history. The thick walls offer more warmth than that of the roof from last night. Sleeping for what seems like five minutes, I soon imagine someone pressing the fast forward button on a really old video player. The glow of the morning sun is already upon me. A voice mutters excitedly, ‘I have just managed four hours sleep!’ I groan; it is not my voice. Grumbling and puffy-eyed, I look at the dirty grey ceiling of our CP and then gaze around the room, noting that everyone has that ‘don’t talk to me just yet’ look about them.
B Company stands to as the sun rises over Nad-e Ali. In normal circumstances, this would be my favourite time of day. The sky is serene and beautiful, softening the sometimes harsh landscape. The sounds of the muezzin bring to an end our stand-to. The muezzin, a man appointed to call to prayer, climbs the minaret of the mosque and calls in all directions. Many mosques no longer require the muezzin to climb the minaret. Instead, a loudspeaker carries the message.
The mundane but necessary chores of morning routine are a welcome break from taking cover. My bladder feels like it is about to explode, and I can’t recall the last time that I emptied it. Stumbling outside, I search the nearby vehicles for my multipurpose yellow sharps container. This small piece of kit is designed to hold discarded needles, syringes, and so forth (i.e., ‘sharps’), but now it is affording me the luxury of a portable latrine. I have been using the handy piece of gear in this capacity for
The Jocks don’t welcome this information at all. It’s not the best start to relations between the two sets of soldiers. Amazingly, the grunts take the news in their usual relaxed and politically correct stride. Cries of ‘cunts!’ echo around the PB for the rest of the evening. Too tired to care, I laugh quietly at the absolute outrage of it all.
When all is said and done, the young Jocks realise that we have to fight alongside the Afghans if we are to stand any chance of surviving down here. The Afghan fighters are as knowledgeable as the Taliban when it comes to knowing the ground and terrain; their input is priceless, and it is our job to mentor them and introduce them to battle discipline. They have a medical team just like we do, and I am happy to mentor and guide them.
My throat is parched, and I down two bottles of water one straight after the other. I need sleep, and look down with less-than-eager eyes at my thin roll mat and my even thinner bivvy bag. A quick brush of teeth, and I lay my head for the night. Thinking about what will become of us, I still hold on to a glimmer of hope that we may return to Lashkar Gah.
In addition to being the capital of Helmand Province, Lashkar Gah is the seat of the provincial Afghan government. The base, in the centre of a heavily populated area, is home to the UK task force commander. I flew into Lash on a Chinook when I arrived twelve weeks ago, after initially landing in Kandahar aboard a Tristar.
I had been here briefly in 2006; many changes had occurred since then. The deployment of UK military forces in Lashkar Gah (LKG) followed a tradition for the area. LKG means ‘army barracks’ in Persian. LKG was established a thousand years ago as a riverside town for soldiers accompanying the Ghaznavid nobility to their seasonal winter capital of Bost. The ruins of the Ghaznavid manors still stand along the banks of the Helmand River.
The city of Bost and its outlying communities were mostly destroyed by the Ghorids, Genghis Khan, and Timur Lenk. Today the community of Bost is home to a hospital and airport. It also provides a great backdrop for photo opportunities to the increasingly popular military tourist. Steeped in history, the stunning scenery and Old World imagery provide a spectacular backdrop for photographic souvenirs.
Back in Nad-e Ali, at the old school, we as a company group are writing modern history. The thick walls offer more warmth than that of the roof from last night. Sleeping for what seems like five minutes, I soon imagine someone pressing the fast forward button on a really old video player. The glow of the morning sun is already upon me. A voice mutters excitedly, ‘I have just managed four hours sleep!’ I groan; it is not my voice. Grumbling and puffy-eyed, I look at the dirty grey ceiling of our CP and then gaze around the room, noting that everyone has that ‘don’t talk to me just yet’ look about them.
B Company stands to as the sun rises over Nad-e Ali. In normal circumstances, this would be my favourite time of day. The sky is serene and beautiful, softening the sometimes harsh landscape. The sounds of the muezzin bring to an end our stand-to. The muezzin, a man appointed to call to prayer, climbs the minaret of the mosque and calls in all directions. Many mosques no longer require the muezzin to climb the minaret. Instead, a loudspeaker carries the message.
The mundane but necessary chores of morning routine are a welcome break from taking cover. My bladder feels like it is about to explode, and I can’t recall the last time that I emptied it. Stumbling outside, I search the nearby vehicles for my multipurpose yellow sharps container. This small piece of kit is designed to hold discarded needles, syringes, and so forth (i.e., ‘sharps’), but now it is affording me the luxury of a portable latrine. I have been using the handy piece of gear in this capacity for
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