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Authors: Chantelle Taylor
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the last four months. Climbing into the back of a vehicle, I keep my dignity by balancing over the sharps container, out of sight of the base.
Stuck in what now feels like a stress position for an absolute eternity, thighs burning, I can’t seem to finish. Moments like this make me wish that I had joined the Royal Air Force (RAF). Laughing for a second at my efforts, I try to stand up, succeeding eventually. Sleeping rough has left me with a few minor aches and pains. Smashing my head on the roof of the vehicle as I manoeuvre myself around sets me up for an awesome start to the day. Even the cumbersome Mark 6 Alpha helmet I’m wearing doesn’t stop the vibrations from going straight to my skull. I need to wash my hands, but water is scarce. I pull a packet of wet wipes out of the map pocket in my trousers, take out a wipe, and clean away the grime and remnants of what looks like blood from my lower arms. Hunched over in the back of the wagon, I pull up my trousers. Taking a small clear bag from the top of my basic wash kit, I use it as a makeshift rubbish bin. These very basic things make life bearable in a place like Nad-e Ali.
If your personal administration is poor, you will not survive for very long in these conditions. My time teaching recruits all about basic field admin always reminded me how to deal with myself. After two years of showing them how to do it, I found this part easy: lack of sleep and self-imposed pressure would become my biggest challenges. My final chore is to brush my teeth; while I have no concerns about the rest of my body, furry teeth might stop me from functioning. It all comes down to personal choice, and my morale is instantly lifted when I have clean hands and teeth.
Stomach rumbling, I remember that I haven’t eaten for a fair few hours now. My stained, grubby combats have become a little baggier around the waist – happy days! I dig out my rations from my day sack and start to sift through the culinary delights that I will be enjoying today. British army rations are for sustainability only; they aren’t known for their Michelin star-rated menus. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh, but I would give my left arm for an American military ration pack right now, or ‘meals ready to eat’ (MREs), as they call them. A packet of M&Ms, lemon pound cake, chicken breast, and a mini bottle of Tabasco sauce can hide a multitude of tastelessness. Not today, though: corned beef hash and beans for breakfast. Starting my day like this is clever, as things will only ever improve!
It’s not long before command elements are summoned to the ops room for routine orders. This becomes a regular event, regardless of the time of day or night. A PB can’t just maintain itself. The boss needs to be confident that everyone in his team understands what is expected of them. B Company will send out our first patrol later today: Scotty McFadden will lead his platoon out to meet a combat logistic patrol (CLP) coming from Lash with a resupp.
As soon as the word resupply (‘resupp’ for short) is mentioned, I know that we are going to become very familiar with this morning’s call to prayer. I’m grateful to have packed some basic reading material, albeit a pocket-sized medical manual. The main operating base (MOB) in Lash will be a ghost town with the majority of its force protection down here in Nad-e Ali. What’s strange is that I am not as disappointed as perhaps I should be. In some crazy warped way, I hoped that we would revisit the badlands of Marjah, which lies south of Nad-e Ali. Kev and I often joked about the ‘Battle for Marjah’, having already felt the buzz of adrenaline that comes with close-quarter engagement.
The mixture of fear and excitement left us naively wanting a little more. As it goes, a new story was emerging: ‘The Battle for Nad-e Ali’. This is what I thought I had signed up for; the word combat in my job title had finally come to fruition, and I didn’t want to be back in Lash
Stuck in what now feels like a stress position for an absolute eternity, thighs burning, I can’t seem to finish. Moments like this make me wish that I had joined the Royal Air Force (RAF). Laughing for a second at my efforts, I try to stand up, succeeding eventually. Sleeping rough has left me with a few minor aches and pains. Smashing my head on the roof of the vehicle as I manoeuvre myself around sets me up for an awesome start to the day. Even the cumbersome Mark 6 Alpha helmet I’m wearing doesn’t stop the vibrations from going straight to my skull. I need to wash my hands, but water is scarce. I pull a packet of wet wipes out of the map pocket in my trousers, take out a wipe, and clean away the grime and remnants of what looks like blood from my lower arms. Hunched over in the back of the wagon, I pull up my trousers. Taking a small clear bag from the top of my basic wash kit, I use it as a makeshift rubbish bin. These very basic things make life bearable in a place like Nad-e Ali.
If your personal administration is poor, you will not survive for very long in these conditions. My time teaching recruits all about basic field admin always reminded me how to deal with myself. After two years of showing them how to do it, I found this part easy: lack of sleep and self-imposed pressure would become my biggest challenges. My final chore is to brush my teeth; while I have no concerns about the rest of my body, furry teeth might stop me from functioning. It all comes down to personal choice, and my morale is instantly lifted when I have clean hands and teeth.
Stomach rumbling, I remember that I haven’t eaten for a fair few hours now. My stained, grubby combats have become a little baggier around the waist – happy days! I dig out my rations from my day sack and start to sift through the culinary delights that I will be enjoying today. British army rations are for sustainability only; they aren’t known for their Michelin star-rated menus. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh, but I would give my left arm for an American military ration pack right now, or ‘meals ready to eat’ (MREs), as they call them. A packet of M&Ms, lemon pound cake, chicken breast, and a mini bottle of Tabasco sauce can hide a multitude of tastelessness. Not today, though: corned beef hash and beans for breakfast. Starting my day like this is clever, as things will only ever improve!
It’s not long before command elements are summoned to the ops room for routine orders. This becomes a regular event, regardless of the time of day or night. A PB can’t just maintain itself. The boss needs to be confident that everyone in his team understands what is expected of them. B Company will send out our first patrol later today: Scotty McFadden will lead his platoon out to meet a combat logistic patrol (CLP) coming from Lash with a resupp.
As soon as the word resupply (‘resupp’ for short) is mentioned, I know that we are going to become very familiar with this morning’s call to prayer. I’m grateful to have packed some basic reading material, albeit a pocket-sized medical manual. The main operating base (MOB) in Lash will be a ghost town with the majority of its force protection down here in Nad-e Ali. What’s strange is that I am not as disappointed as perhaps I should be. In some crazy warped way, I hoped that we would revisit the badlands of Marjah, which lies south of Nad-e Ali. Kev and I often joked about the ‘Battle for Marjah’, having already felt the buzz of adrenaline that comes with close-quarter engagement.
The mixture of fear and excitement left us naively wanting a little more. As it goes, a new story was emerging: ‘The Battle for Nad-e Ali’. This is what I thought I had signed up for; the word combat in my job title had finally come to fruition, and I didn’t want to be back in Lash
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