John D McHugh

Well, here I am, back again in the wilds of Afghanistan. This is my third year out here, my third “Fighting Season” but this time, finally, I have a real outlet for all my work. I have been commissioned by The Guardian, www.guardian.co.uk to produce photographs, video, audio-slideshows, and of course my rambling blog, which they will host, exclusively.

This means that I will be updating this a lot less freuently, but there will be times that the stuff I write doesn’t make it onto The Guardian’s site, in which case I will put it here.

So, my page has launched today, at http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/interactive/2008/apr/22/fightingseason

There is the final edit of the short film I made from the last trip, an audio-slideshow, and some standalone photographs. Enjoy it, and spread the news.

Stay safe,

John D 

Just a quick note to let you all know I am still alive, and what I have been up to. After that horrible day in November I left Charlie Company, and flew back to Bagram. I spent a week with the Medevac guys who picked me up off the battlefield in May. I haven’t published any details about my time with those guys yet, because I am not done with that story.  Since my return to London in December I have been run off my feet. I’ve been working on a short film http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RC5bZjPezVU  

and editing my photos, which can be seen at  

http://reportage-bygettyimages.com/#p=features/Back_On_The_Battlefield 

and then select “Back on the Battlefield”  and of course planning a return trip to Afghanistan for mid-April. Somewhere in the middle of all of that I also managed to convince my girlfriend to become my fiancée! So, I am now waiting to see if anyone will publish my work. I will update you of any usage, and hope to have more news soon on my next trip.  

Till then, stay safe.  

John D 

23^rd Nov
 

Some days I fucking hate this job! The memorial service for Capt Boris and Sgt Hike, the two US Cavalry troopers that were killed by the IED on 12 Nov, was held a few hours ago. I have never seen or photographed one of these events, and I am never doing one again. It was unbearably sad.
 

I had spoken with the First Sergeant of Anvil Troop, 1 Squadron 91st Cavalry, about covering the event. I really didn’t want to do it, but after some discussion with the Charlie Company Commanding Officer (CO) and 1SG a few days ago, I had agreed that it is important that people see the reality behind the casualty figures. I had also spoken with the Chaplin about the ceremony, to try and figure out how to cause the least intrusion during what was going to be a very emotional event.
 

The dress rehearsal earlier in the morning gave me some idea of how upsetting the ceremony would be for the friends of the two dead men, and I was dreading the actual service. I know my job is to record what happens out here so that others may know, but covering something like this is extremely difficult. Putting a camera in the face of a weeping human being is something I have great personal difficulty with, however important the moment is.
 

The ceremony was held in the gym building, which had been cleared of all the equipment, cleaned out and carpeted. The flags of the United States and the 1/91 Cav flag stood crossed, with a 173^rd Brigade flag on the wall behind. In front of the flags stood two wooden stands, constructed and painted just days before. The stands were gleaming white, with the white and red flag of the Cavalry painted on the base. Each stand held an M4 rifle, standing barrel down with bayonet attached. The dogtags of each man hung from the guns. A pair of boots wearing the Cavalry ceremonial spurs had been placed in front of each stand, and the signature Cavalry Stetson Hat sat atop each rifle. I had never seen this before, and the poignancy almost brought tears to my eyes. This is the way the Army says goodbye to their fallen, a ritual that allows the friends and comrades of the dead to pour out their grief. Families and friends at home have a funeral, but this is goodbye in a combat zone.
 

Helicopters had been arriving all morning, delivering various senior commanders. A couple of journalists also arrived. People milled around outside the building, everyone seemingly keen to avoid the sight of the memorial until the last possible minute. I positioned myself close to where the Anvil Troop soldiers would stand, in the hopes that I wouldn’t need to move around too much during the service.
 

The service began with a prayer, Psalm 23, and then the men’s commander, Lt. Colonel Fenzel, spoke. “On the 12^th of November we lost two great warriors” he said,” we lost a Troop Commander and his gunner, and it hurts.” He went on to praise the men, and was followed by a friend of Capt. Boris, and then a friend of Sergeant Hike. These friends spoke of their love for the dead men, and their pride in knowing and serving with them. Many of the words were choked out through their sorrow .
 

Already there were soldiers crying, and then one of the Anvil Troopers passed out, and was helped out into the fresh air. The lights dimmed, and then two slideshows of photos, set to music, were shown, first one for Capt. Boris, and then for Sgt Hike. The photos showed smiling men, in dress uniform, and grim men in filthy ACU fatigues. Many showed the dead men hugging, wrestling, or simply standing alongside other men, men who now stood together in the darkened room. I photographed and filmed them, some with jaws set tight, some with heads bowed, and more than a few with tears in their eyes or running down their faces.
 

As the slideshow ended and the lights came back on, another Chaplin led another prayer. When he was finished, the First Sergeant of the Troop, 1SG Lunsford, stepped forward and stood facing the room. “Sergeant Alonso” he called, followed by the reply “here First Sergeant.” Again he called a trooper’s name, and again the reply “Here First Sergeant” rang around the room. “Sergent Hike” the First Sergeant called next. A pause, to let the silence speak. “Sergeant Adrian Hike” he called again. No answer. “Sergeant Adrian Edward Hike” he called, a third and final time. And then he began again, calling the officers of Anvil Troop. Everyone in the room knew what was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. “Captain Boris. Captain David Boris. Captain David Albin Boris.” As the last word fell away into the silent room a firing party outside began the final act in this rite. Three volleys of seven shots rang out, the traditional 21 gun salute, and then the gathered soldiers saluted as the sad and mournful notes of “Taps” were played.
 

A General came forward, saluted, and knelt before one upturned rifle, and then the other. He placed a coin on the base of each, and reached forward and held each pair of dogtags. Slowly, and with much dignity, each man in the room, and then the men waiting outside, repeated this act. Some men touched the Stetsons, some the rifles, many held the dogtags tightly, as they said their final farewell to their dead comrades. One soldier barely managed the words “Goodbye Dave” through his tears. It was heartbreaking, and while I stayed and photographed, and filmed, as long as I could, I finally had to leave before the grief in the room overwhelmed me.  These men will carry on, already have in fact. After all, they have a mission to complete. Now, they say, they will continue; firstly to complete their mission, but more importantly, to honour the memory of their departed friends.
 

20^th Nov
 

Another day hanging around at Bermel. The simple fact is that the soldiers here are recovering from a long mission, and while they recuperate and refit I must kick my heels a while. So when I heard that the “Scouts” were going to be zeroing their weapons out at the range, I decided to go and chat with them. These were the guys I had met a few days previously, walking down out of the mountains and looking so exhausted. As usual, when I approached with my cameras, there were a few disparaging remarks about journalists. But a couple of them remembered me, and said hello. They told their mates that I was alright, that I had been shot alongside US troops in Afghanistan. I’m not sure how this dubious honour testifies to my character, but was glad that it seemed to reassure them.
 

While some of the soldiers fired their weapons at targets and then slightly adjusted their sights accordingly, I spoke with some of the others. They were preparing for a new mission. Initially they were hesitant to speak about it, but I assured them it would be over long before I wrote about it or released photos or video footage. (This is one of the reasons that I publish this blog a couple of weeks after the date it is actually written). They were planning to walk into the mountains, find where the insurgents who were planting the IEDs were, wait until they tried to emplace another one, “and then we will kill them.” And that was what he said, not “neutralize the enemy”, or “take them out”, or any of the multitude of other euphemisms that are used when what is really meant is, “and then we will kill them.” And that is what these guys do. They kill people, and they are proud of it. The Scouts are part of the reaction to the IED that killed Capt. Boris and Sgt. Hike on 12^th Nov. It doesn’t seem to be a knee-jerk reaction, just a cold military plan. I have heard many soldiers say that the worst thing they could do is overreact, you know, start searching villages, kicking in doors, etc, in some kind of righteous retribution. Most soldiers seem to be aware that those kinds of actions would play into the insurgent’s hands, alienating the local populace, and increasing support for the ACMs (anti-coalition militias). And so the Scouts will go out, find those responsible, and kill them. And every single person on the FOB will be happy that they are dead. Strange, isn’t it, to think that these ordinary men and boys, from ordinary lives in ordinary towns, have been changed so much by their experiences in this war.
 

21^st Nov
 

Struggling out of a deep sleep, and my then sleeping bag, I answered the knock on my door with a gruff “Awake.” It was 5:30am, and I was still definitely not ready to face the day, but the patrol was going out early, and that meant so was I. In the room next to me I heard a knock on Capt. Mac’s door too. He sounded a lot grumpier than me, but was met with a cheerful “You’ve got a war to win Sir!” It was delivered with perfect deadpan, but I know the guy who said it, and there was no doubting the humour. I don’t know how these guys stay so upbeat all the time. Especially as both of them were also going on the day’s mission, and it was going to suck.
 

The mission was as small in detail as it was huge in dread. The guys at the Malakshey Combat Outpost (COP) were due to be relieved, and so the new guys and Headquarters, Capt Mac, 1SG and me, would drive up and perform a Rip (Replacement in Place). Sounds easy. Drive to the COP, watch one group of soldiers hand off to another, get back in the Humvees, and drive back again. Except of course, nothing is ever easy out here. Getting from Bermel to Malakshey involves travelling the Road to Hell!
 

The IED which killed two troopers and a translator, and badly burned another soldier, on the 12^th was on this road. As have many others. And of course lets not overlook the rocket and mortar threat, and direct ambush by Taliban once in the hills.
 

Driving out the gate I was pretty tense. This was a dangerous drive ahead of us. There was every reason to believe that the people who had planted the 12^th Nov IED had also planted others. And now we were going to drive that road. I knew the danger was real, but I also knew there was nothing I could do but take a deep breath, sit back, and hope for the best.
 

This time I had a headset for the internal radio, so at least I could listen and join in with the banter in the Humvee, and also hear the other vehicles radio transmissions. And then, less than 60 seconds out of the gate, there was a tremendous bang! “Oh shit” I thought, as my body dumped a whole lot of adrenaline into my system. “Here we fucking go again.” I waited for an explosion, or for bullets to hit the vehicle.
 

1SG and Doc both jumped as well, and there was a brief “What the fuck was that” moment, where everyone spoke at once but no-one had any answers. Then Doc said it must be a stone flung against the floor of the Humvee by the wheels. I was sceptical, as was 1SG, but nothing else happened, and so we kept moving. Now I really started to question what I was doing on this patrol. Was I really going to see or photograph anything that was worth running the risk of being blown up? Unlikely! So why go? Well, this was the only mission of the day. And besides, if I allow the fear of what might be outside the wire to take hold, I won’t be able to work at all. And finally, truth be told, I would feel like a coward if I let the guys I am embedded with go out without me, whatever the risk. If I get to that stage then I should go home.
 

The drive was horrible. And every few minutes 1SG would point out another IED blast site, a hole in the ground. Or rocket remains scattered by the road. The worst part is when the vehicle has to drive through a depression in the road, usually a dried up wadi. These are the sites favoured by the people who emplace the IEDs, because they are harder to see from the base, due to the cover afforded by the wadi, and also because the ground is softer and easier to dig. Every time we dropped into one I caught my breath, and every time we drove up the other side without exploding I cheered inside.
 

After a couple of kilometres the vehicles came to a stop. “What the fuck is he up to” said 1SG as Capt. Mac came into view in the windscreen. He had left the protective armour of his Humvee and was walking back towards us. I fully expected him to walk on a mine at any second, but happily he didn’t. Opening his door, 1SG repeated his question, this time directed straight at the Captain. Capt Mac replied that he wanted to walk some of the road, and before I knew it myself and 1SG were doing the same thing. What can I say, I’m easily led! Anyway, I was determined to be as cautious as I could, and so I fell back behind the two of them, and carefully walked in Capt. Mac’s footsteps.  And I mean IN them. Every step I took was placed gingerly on one of his. It was slow going, and the concentration soon started to tire me. Plus, I had forgotten to take off my fleece before I put on my body armour a few hours earlier, and now I was roasting alive.
 

The vehicles started to move again, but we were off road and cut a diagonal route to head them off. Up ahead were more soldiers, guys that had also decided to dismount. They were milling around in a tight area, and as we approached they started up the road again, allowing the larger group to spread out. This was to try and minimise the target should we be ambushed on the road. Along the way we passed more evidence of IEDs and rocket attacks.
 

And then we arrived at the site of the 12 Nov ambush, which killed Capt. Boris and Sgt. Hike. It was awful. The crater was huge, proving just how immense the explosion must have been. So large that it flipped the Humvee over, which is no mean feat. The was evidence all around of the destruction. I don’t want to go into too much detail, partly because I am aware that the families of the dead men may read this, and also because the insurgents are known to read news reports as a way of assessing the effectiveness of their bombs, but I will say this. To me, the size of the crater and the remains of the vehicle, which I had seen at the Fob at Bermel, looked more like something from Iraq than Afghanistan. Whether this means that information is being shared, or just that the local insurgents are becoming more deadly on their own I can’t say, but it is a worrying development. Capt. Mac said that he also takes it as evidence that so far the insurgents have come off, by far, the losers in every gun-battle, and so have changed their tactics to reflect their fear of facing the US troops.  
 

Finally we arrived at Malakshey COP. It is a small Outpost, fortified with the ubiquitous Hesco barriers, the wire basket lined with canvas and filled with earth and stone that creates a wall around every military base I have been at, both in Afghanistan and Iraq. The RIP (Replacement in Place) was to happen quickly, as no-one wanted to stay at the COP long. This place gets rocketed most days, and was described to me as one of the most dangerous places in all of Afghanistan And considering that a report has just been published that states that Afghanistan is now statistically more dangerous for US servicemen than Iraq, that puts the Malakshey COP right up there in the top 10 places not to visit.
 

I was keen to talk to the soldiers ripping out of the COP, to get their feelings on the place, and what it is like to be living in such a dangerous environment. And when they talked to me, well, they didn’t hold back. It was as if the constant pressure of being here had destroyed their edit facility, and I got some very honest accounts. Like the Sgt, who told me he feels like puking when he hears the tell-tale report of a rocket launch, knowing that he has possibly 30 seconds to find protective cover. He told me this while we sat in a tent, which on first glance had a beautiful “starry night” effect inside. He explained to me that the hundreds of little holes, through the daylight was streaming, were in fact created by an explosion just outside the tent. Each of those tiny tears had been made by red-hot pieces of shrapnel, and even one of them would be enough to kill. Luckily there hadn’t been anyone in the tent that time, but as I was told, the insurgents only have to get lucky once, whereas the occupants of the COP have to stay lucky every time.
 

I also did a quick interview with 1SG C, and during our talk he said this. “That road from Bermel to the Cop is absolutely the worst route that I’ve been on this tour in Afghanistan. It’s six kilometres of hell, because you never know at any instant where its coming from, where its going to hit you at. There’s so many former IED sites, so may historical places that they can hit you from, that every time you dip into a puddle or you dip down into a small river, you just hold your breath, and hope that you make it out to the other side.”
 

This is exactly how I have felt on these trips, and the truth is that I know I am going home in a few weeks. What I have to wonder is, how long can this pressure be sustained. I am not suggesting that these men are afraid, or will become so, but the sheer stress must surely take a toll on them. With US combat tours now extended to 15 months, what will the cost be to these men’s mental health in the future.
 

22^nd Nov
 

Today is Thanksgiving, a peculiarly American holiday. Last year I was with a small platoon of engineers from 10^th Mountain Division, not far from here. However, we were sitting in a cold canvas tent, huddled around a wood-burning stove, with snow on the ground and a biting wind howling outside. This year I am at a small FOB with the comforts of hot food and water, and I feel spoiled.
 

Over the previous few days there have been great exertions on the part of many people to ensure that there are traditional Thanksgiving Turkey dinners for every US soldier in the country. They do the same in Iraq. It is strange to see the effort that goes into this one meal, but it is an effort the Army is proud of.
 

Before we can sit down and gorge ourselves however, Capt. Mac must attend a Shura (meeting) in Bermel district centre. The building is built alongside the base, a plain testament to the fact that the Government here cannot survive without Coalition protection. By the same token, it is obvious to all that the final solution to any insurgency is a political one, and so the Sub-Governor works closely with Capt. Mac and his men. In fact it was the Afghan Government that asked the US forces to build their base in Bermel, back in 2005, after not one but two consecutive Afghan Police Chiefs had their heads cut off by insurgents.
 

The room was full of Afghan elders, 30-40 men perhaps, dressed in traditional “Shalwar Kameez” and huge turbans, and sporting beards that made mine look like a teenage boy’s stubble. While the Sub-Governor spoke to them, lectured them really, they chatted amongst themselves, picked their noses and toes, and toyed with prayer beads. Some stared into my cameras with pride, some glared at me with undisguised disdain, and some covered their faces with hands and blankets to hide their identity. The Sub-Governor waved a letter around, a “Night Letter,” so called because the written threat is delivered under cover of darkness. He condemned the cowards who did this, but showed no fear. Apparently he has survived several attempts on his life, and does not appear to be scared in the slightest by the insurgents.
 

Then Capt. Mac started to speak, and the men in the room became more attentive. I don’t know if it was to show him more respect, or because he is seen as more powerful, and therefore a dangerous foe, or simply because they had to listen closely to the translator, but whatever the reason, there was an audible drop in noise as he spoke.
 

He started by explaining that today was a holiday in his country, and it is customary to think on what each person has to be thankful for. He told the gathered elders, “One thing that I am thankful for today is to be here, among friends, with you.”
 

Then he moved on to security. He told them that they had a great Sub-Governor. He said they should be honoured to have him. And then he told the “white-beards” that the Sub-Governor was his friend, a good friend, and that they worked very hard alongside each other. “Make no mistake” he said, “we are one team.”
 

As a piece of theatre it was good, but as a psychological operation or Psy-OP it was brilliantly simple, and simply brilliant. “This guy is my friend, and I am powerful. Therefore he is powerful. Don’t fuck with him!”
 

“In my experience,” he went on to say, “when we are battling insecurity, there is usually one reason why the people are afraid, or won’t support the government. You may not feel comfortable saying it, so I’ll go ahead and say it. The reason is very simple, and it is this. Those of you who are not completely supporting your government, the reason for that is that you are not sure that you’re government will outlast the ACM.”
 

There was much agreement in the room, and it was clear he had put into words what many thought. The speeches went on, and on, and on, but the crux was in Capt Mac’s opening statement. The people in this region, as in many areas in Afghanistan, are not necessarily opposed to the government, but they are afraid the government will fail, as it has done many times in their lives. Then, if the people have thrown their lot in with the failing system, what will the repercussions be? Well, with the insurgents it usually involves some kind of grisly death, as the people of Bermel can attest to. Just remember their two unfortunate Police Chiefs. And that is the problem, because while the people sit on the fence, the insurgents can hide in their midst. The people must side with the Afghan Government, and with the Coalition, if the insurgents are to be defeated. But the people must be convinced that the Government will not fail. And that is a message that is hard to sell.

15^th Nov
 

After I went to sleep last night 1SG made a different kind of war, this time a blue on blue, and he won. We would not be required to back-track the movement we made yesterday after all. Instead, we left Sharana, and started out for Orgun-E. The plan was for the guys to stop briefly there, collect a couple of new Humvees in exchange for some knackered ones, and then continue their journey back to their home FOB, Bermel. 1SG asked me if I wanted to go with them, and I said yes, immediately. I had connected with these guys, and I always think it is better to stay with a unit once a trust has been built, rather than flit off to a new one. This would mean that I’d get less time to cover my Medevac story, but you’ve got be flexible in this environment.
 

Everything I had heard about Bermel sounded good for a story, if not for my health. They get rocketed regularly, and have been in numerous fights, mostly with foreign fighters. The base is only 4 kilometres from the Pakistan border, and frequently they get hit from the other side of the official boundary. There are also a couple of outlying Combat Out-Posts (COPs) which are hit by rockets, mortars and recoilless rifle (called a rifle, but really a direct fire rocket launcher, very dangerous) almost every day.
 

I pointed out to 1SG that I was only supposed to be embedded with them for the mission that they had just left, Operation Attal, and that I would probably have to seek permission to stay with them. The Big Angry replied that I was invited by both him and the CO, and that was all the permission I needed. That was fine by me.
 

Travelling from Sharana to Orgun-E was the usual time consuming affair. Twice we stopped for vehicle repairs, and both times the location couldn’t have been worse. Even changing a flat tire takes time when dealing with a Humvee, and sitting stationary on a road makes an easy target for any opportunistic insurgents watching the main routes.  At one stage, while sitting in a particularly nasty spot, with high ground all around us, perfect to hit us from, 1SG called on the help of the JTAC (Joint Tactical Air Controller). The JTAC is an Air Force guy, and is trained to communicate directly with the numerous fighters and bombers that are constantly present in the skies over Afghanistan. His job is to coordinate their movements so that they can all be utilised by ground forces while at the same time making sure that they remain on different flight paths, and therefore safe from mid-air collisions, ground fire, etc.
 

1SG had asked for a show of force, which basically means fly really low, really fast, and frighten the “fucking be-Jesus out of them” as we say in Ireland. The insurgents are known to be wary of the air assets that the Coalition can call on, with good reason. Letting any would-be ambushers know that there is an A-10 with it’s deadly 30mm cannon on station, or maybe a fighter/bomber carrying a 500lb JDAM bomb (Joint Direct Action Munition, I think) overhead, tends to make them think twice about initiating an attack.
 

Unfortunately the pilot overhead was “a goddammed pussy,” according to someone who shall remain nameless, and flew overhead at such an altitude that he could have been mistaken for a commercial airliner. The soldiers on the ground constantly complain about their Air Force, saying that they are too risk averse. But praise is heaped on British, Dutch, and French aviators. I was told of a recent “show of force” where a Mirage came over the soldier’s heads at about 50ft above the ground. 1SG said he could have thrown a stone and hit the fuselage of the plane. The British Harriers are also popular for their ground-hugging “nap of the earth” antics. In one story related to me, a Harrier came screaming over a village and made all the children cry. The soldiers told me that they felt bad for the kids, but would rather have them scared and crying for a few minutes, than be caught in the crossfire of an insurgent’s attack and killed or maimed. It seems shocking, but these are the tough realities.
 

Rolling in through the gates of Orgun-E I felt as though I had been away a lot longer than 8 days. I really needed a shower, but we were only going to be here for an hour or two, and I needed to collect the bag I had left here, grab some food, and be ready to leave with March or Die. I had left a bag at Orgun-E because I wanted to travel light on the mission, and so now I had a second bag to pack into the truck. The boot (trunk) of the Humvee was already stuffed, but with a little rearranging I squeezed in my extra luggage. The trick with packing stuff into a Humvee is to work around the important stuff, like ammunition, rather than just dropping a case on top. In the middle of a fight a poorly placed bag could either (a), take time to move and get someone killed or (b) get thrown out of the way and onto the ground in the confusion, and possibly left behind. As so often, a little effort makes all the difference. I ended up having to jump on the boot to get it to close, but at least I felt sure it wouldn’t open again accidentally during the second leg of our trip.
 

The plan was to make the rest of the move to Bermel today, which was why we weren’t staying long. Everyone wanted to get to the FOB before dark. We all knew that the IED that killed Capt. Boris and Sgt. Hike wasn’t the only one found that day, and there was intelligence that said there were more out there. Driving the road in to Bermel was going to be a stressful undertaking. At least in the light there was a better chance of spotting some tell-tale sign of a bomb. I was thinking about this a lot, but once again there wasn’t a lot I could do about it, apart from not go. And if I start trying to avoid possible danger, and second guess every trip, I won’t be able to work.
 

Pushing all these concerns to the back of my mind, as best I could anyway, I concentrated on my preparations for the second leg of our journey. I pulled my body-armour over my head, and buckled it up tight. Then I shoved both my arms through the cross straps of my chest-vest, and snapped the clasp behind me. I check my first-aid aid kit, on my left-hand side as per standard, and my tourniquet attached to the upper right front of my armour. Beside the tourniquet is a felt-tip marker. Standard procedure requires that when a tourniquet is applied a large “T” is written on the wounded person’s forehead, along with the time it was put on. Also attached to the front of my vest is a small knife, which is easy to reach should I need to cut, say, a seat-belt in a burning Humvee, for example. I thought about all the events I have planned for, all the little tricks I have learned from the all the soldiers I have been around, and I wondered if any of it would ever be used. In this environment it’s like an extreme version of the Boy Scout’s motto, “Be Prepared,” is in play. “Be Prepared for extreme and unpleasant shit!” Not so catchy, but captures the tone just right, I believe.
 

Now I put on my gloves, and tucked my sleeves into them. Not a flattering look, but the idea is to reduce, as much as possible, exposed skin. In an explosion the flash burn will destroy naked skin. The gloves are flame retardant, and all my clothes are cotton, slower to burn, and safer than polyester or any other manmade fibres, which melt in a fire and stick to your skin. I changed the lens in my ballistic sunglasses from dark to clear, as we would probably be driving through the dusk if not the dark before the day was over. The glasses are designed to protect the eyes from flying shrapnel or debris. Blindness is a major outcome from explosions. Again I though of all the precautions I take every day, and wondered if any of it was likely to really make a difference,  or was it all a placebo, a way of reassuring myself that everything was going to be OK, because I was well prepared. I still don’t know the answer to that.
 

Just as I put the finishing touches to my combat ensemble, 1SG came striding up. “OK guys, get together. Here’s the deal. We are heading into a TIC (Troops in Contact) in Sarobi, just outside Orgun-E. Some ASG (Afghan Security Guards – a type of militia) are in a fight, and we are going to QRF (Quick Reaction Force) them.”
 

He said more, but to be honest, the roaring of blood in my ears and the beating of my heart in my chest drowned out all the rest. Fuck, here we go again. I was in a spin as the various emotions and reactions flowed through me. I was scared, as this was a carbon copy of the events that led up to the ambush in which I was shot earlier in the year. I was excited, because I was going to find out if I was still up to the job, which was part of the reason I had come back in country so quickly after my wounding. I felt guilty too, because I had told my girlfriend, family and friends that this should be a quiet trip, with minimal danger, and now I was about to ride into a battle of my own volition. Ah, but that’s just the point. Is it really my own choice? I don’t think so. I believe that the situation was out of my control. Yes, I could put my hand up and say “Sorry 1SG, but I’m going to sit this one out. I’ll stay here safe and sound while you guys go out and face the fight.” But I can’t do that. It would be cowardly, and I would be ashamed. Don’t get me wrong, I was definitely afraid, afraid of getting hurt again, afraid of once more waking up in hospital in lots of pain, and also afraid of losing my composure in the middle of the fight, of being overcome with terror and then freaking out or doing something that got myself or someone else killed. But if I faced it down I could overcome the fear. If I stayed back, just this once, then I knew I would never go out again.
 

So, I climbed into the Humvee, and while sitting waiting for the go, I proved once more the truth in the old adage; “There are no Atheists in foxholes.” Or in Humvees, about to race into the fight. As we left the secure womb of the FOB reports were coming in of burning Jingle trucks at the site of the still raging battle. I was checking my cameras, making sure that everything was correctly set and ready to go. I didn’t want to be fumbling with them in the middle of a firefight. I changed and corrected my settings again and again, conscious that I was trying to take my mind off the upcoming chaos by putting my gear in order. As we moved down the road I began to calm down. The initial adrenaline had been used up, and now I was looking at the situation in a colder way. I was weighing up possible scenarios, deciding what I would do if we were hit by an IED, RPG, or small arms fire. When would I exit the vehicle, if at all. I scanned the dusty road outside my little window, searching out potential cover. And then, unbelievably, I realised I was feeling sleepy. With the excitement and adrenaline receding, my body was attempting to shut down. 10 minutes before I had been on the highest state of alert the human body has, and now I was struggling to keep my eyes open. In the end I decided that if we were hit I would wake up, and in the meantime I might as well just get some rest. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 

My eyes snapped open to the sound of a BANG! Looking around, I realised that the Humvee was still in one piece, as was I. So, wasn’t an IED then. No shooting, so shouting, no nothing at all. Guess it was just a stone hitting the armour on the vehicle. I had been asleep for maybe 15 minutes, and it had done me good. I was more alert now, but calm at the same time. I asked what the latest news was. 1SG said that the fighting was reportedly over, and that there should be some pick-up Rangers coming towards us on the road, carrying the wounded. It was still important to stay prepared, because although the firefight between the ASG and the ACMs (Anti Coalition Militia) was over, it meant that there were ACMs in the area. And the sight of an American convoy might tempt them out for a second fight. Or, they might have hit the ASG in order to draw out a US QRF, possibly luring our convoy into a prepared ambush, or maybe an IED. That’s the problem. Even when you’re told the fight is over, you never believe it. And if you do, than you’re already in trouble.
 

Finally we turned off the main “road” we were on, taking a smaller track that wound up into the mountains. This was the Bermel road, and 1SG assured me that we were now “ heading into Indian territory.” These mountains sit between the AOs (Areas of Operations) of Orgun-E and Bermel, right on the outer edge of each. As a result, they are rarely ventured into, and so provide a safe haven for the insurgents. As we drove along, at a snails pace, 1SG pointed out several historic ambush and IED sites. Now, you may think that “lightening never strikes twice,” and in fact it does seem highly illogical for the insurgents to attack from the same location repeatedly. But they do. And as far as I can work out, it is due in part to the fact that quite often the entire ambushing party is wiped out by the Americans. Therefore there is no-one left to go back and report to the following teams what location was used. When a new team comes in, and finds what appears to be an advantageous position to attack from, they are completely unaware that it has been used before. Of course sometimes, even if they know it has been used before, the advantages of the ambush site for them may outweigh the possibility that the US forces will be on a higher state of readiness. 
 

As I stared out at the terrain I couldn’t help but feel that we were being watched. This was perfect ambush territory, with plenty of vegetation and boulders to hide in, and a road so rough and pitted that an IED would easily be concealed. And then, as if on cue, a vehicle broke down. We had high ground on one side, and a dip and then a rise on the other. An RPG could be fired very effectively from the other side of the dip, still giving the attacker the advantage of concealment and escape. Everyone was told to be on their guard as the Humvee was hooked up to another, to be towed. A couple of the guys got out of their vehicles, and then 1SG opened his door. He wanted to point something out to me, and so, against all the instincts that were telling me to stay in the armoured vehicle, I got out. I kept the door open, and kind of stood between it and the vehicle, sheltering myself as much as possible. If bullets or rockets started flying I could be back in the truck in a couple of seconds. I didn’t stay out for long. It was just too risky a spot, and while I said earlier that I can’t do this job without some risk, there are times when I gain nothing from the risk, and this was one of those times.
 

We moved on again, and eventually came to a very steep slope. So steep in fact that the Humvees had to take a run at it, gathering speed in order to crest the top. It was amazing watching one Humvee tow another up the sharp incline, and I couldn’t help thinking it was symbolic of the uphill battle the US soldiers are facing in this country. Corny, but true.
 

Once over the final ridge, Bermel valley spread out before us in the golden light of the setting sun. With a river running through the valley, and scattered settlements, it looked an idyllic scene, belied only by the knowledge of the recent death of Capt. Boris and Sgt. Hike.
 

From here on in the drive took on a new tension, which would have seemed inconceivable a few miles earlier, but was now a fact. All intelligence said that there were up to possibly 15 other IEDs emplaced in the Bermel Valley, just waiting. The rest of the drive was a serious of sharp intakes of breath, severe palpitations, and levels of stress so high that my head pounded. And I wasn’t the only one. Finally though, we approached FOB Bermel, and once through the outer gates people began to relax. We had made it. This time. But we all knew that it wouldn’t be long before we had to go out again, and the IEDs and their makers were somewhere out there, waiting for their chance to kill again.
 

16th Nov
Now that I am back at a base, even though it is a small FOB, things are going to be quieter. The soldiers need a few days to rest and recover, and the vehicles need to be taken into the shop for maintenance. They are falling apart after so long in the field. The soldiers too need maintenance. I walked into the shower/laundry room to find them cutting each others hair. Ell actually not so much cutting, as shaving their hair. It was buzz cuts all around, and I had to turn down their kind offer of “cleaning me up.” It just wouldn’t look right with my rapidly expanding beard!
 

Other than that there wasn’t much to report. Charlie Company was home, and enjoying the comforts of home. And believe me, they have worked hard to provide the little touches that make somewhere a home. 1SG’s room is a perfect example. Like everyone else, he had a room about 10ft by 10ft. displaying basic but competent carpentry skills, and an understanding of design and space management, he had turned it into the epitome of “combat zone chic.” He had had a raised platform built, putting his sleeping arrangements above head height and thus utilising all the space usually lost to a bed. He had an “around the corner” desk built, on which laptops, music speakers, DVDs and books could be stored. He also had a coffee maker, the only known protection against that much feared denizen of Bermel “The Early Morning Big Angry.” Under the bed sat a leather armchair (God only knows where it came from) and a small TV and games platform. All in all, it is a testament to the human drive to build a home, whatever the location.
 

17th Nov
With time on my hands, like everyone else here, I decided to hit the gym. Finding a cycling machine I planned to put myself through a tough workout, and ensure that my visits to the DFAC at Bermel don’t start showing on me. I brought my ipod with me to the concrete room, but was told that indirect fire attacks can occur at any time, so I should only listen in one ear. The other one should be an guard for the distinctive “whoosh” of a rocket, or the alarm that gives a very short alert of incoming missiles. My armour and helmet had been stored in the TOC (Tactical Operations Centre), where I was to report to should we fire. The TOC is the heart of operations at any base, and was where all information would flow too during an attack, and more importantly, where a counter attack would be organised. It was here that I would learn most about what was happening. In the meantime, I worked out, listened to “The Raconteurs” in one ear, and strained the other. A very strange feeling indeed.
 

Later in the day, there was a refresher CLS (Combat Life Saver) course, mandatory for all Charlie Company soldiers. CLS is the medical training that the US troops receive which enables them to deal with most battlefield and combat related injuries. It is pretty in-depth stuff. I completed a shortened version at Salerno last year, but sat in again on this course. I was filming and photographing as Doc gave his presentation, but I was actively concentrating on the class as well. I was pleased to find that I knew the answers to most of the questions he asked, but I did learn an few new things. The course covers administering IVs, addressing and depressurising sucking chest wounds, applying tourniquets and handling other heavy bleeding, etc. And there was to be lots of hands on learning. The first aid kit that every soldier carries was on display. Doc tore open every bandage, dressing and implement in it, explaining when and when not it was to be used, and covering any tricky exceptions. A nose tube was produced, which is emplaced in an unconscious patient to ensure his airways stay open. As the name suggests, it is pushed up the nostril, and then down into the throat. Everyone cheered when it was displayed, and I soon found out why. Like the other stuff, Doc was going to give a display of the tube in action. That meant that he needed a victim, sorry, I mean volunteer. Some poor guy was pushed forward, and it began. The soldier chosen to perform the procedure was nervous, and dropped the tube even before he started to insert it. When it was finally in, after much struggling on the patients part, and much cheering on everyone else’s, the poor bloke on the table had to bear it for at least 60 seconds while Doc made a few more points. My eyes were watering by the time it was removed, but not as much as the “volunteer’s.” After the class the soldiers split into squads and went outside, to work through various scenarios. They were tested on their knowledge and proficiency in using the various items in their First Aid kit. The whole idea is to ensure that if they ever are put in the situation, they are confident in their knowledge and ability.
 

They then moved to IVs. “Sticking” each other with needles was a great source of amusement, and I enjoyed the atmosphere as much as the rest. Some guys were very proficient, but some, well, it looked like the vampiric tendencies, they bled their patients so much. But again, better to learn in a safe environment like this, and then be confident while doing the procedure on the battlefield for real.
 

19^th Nov
Another quiet day. I’m getting bored, and even the harsh gym workouts will only keep me amused for so long.
After dark information came in that the insurgents were planning an attack on one of the Combat Outposts (COPs) near Bermel. This information comes through various sources that I am not allowed to discuss, but it is usually pretty accurate. Suddenly the TOC was a hive of activity. Maps were consulted, various other sources of information to help the commander to make his decisions, and then, “Fire Mission!”
 

A fire mission is an order to the big guns, the 155mm howitzers, to shoot. The current phrase to describe what happens is “Imminent Threat Fires,” but was originally called “Harassment and Interdiction.” In between it has variously been called “Recon by Fire,” Hostile Intent Fires”, and many more. They all mean the same thing though; shooting pre-emptively in a self-defence manner. What many people may not understand, but I have witnessed before, is the amount of time and effort that goes into planning the fire mission. Despite the accusations of “Cowboy behaviour” that are often levelled at the Americans, especially at their use of artillery and air power, the process to plan and then get approval from “higher” (senior commanders) was an arduous one.
 

However, one mans trouble is another man’s luck. I took the time to borrow a set of night vision goggles (NVGs), and get out to the howitzer pit. Over the last few nights I had been experimenting with using the NVGs in conjunction with my cameras to produce some kind of usable night image. It is well nigh impossible to do it with my still cameras, but much easier with my video camera. Now I would get to test it out. The only problem was the fact that I could quite possibly drop the camera, NVGs, and everything else once the guns fired. The shock wave from a 105mm is big, but I had never seen a 155 shoot before. Their effects were evident all over the base though, in the form of large cracks running through concrete walls. The shock waves when the fired shook the entire FOB apparently.  
 

I got into position, braced myself, and started filming. It is hard to describe a huge gun firing, but just before they did, one of the gunners shouted to me, “Open your mouth.” This is to dissipate the shock wave and help avoid having your eardrums blown out. I wondered if he was just trying to scare me, you know, make fun of the dumb journalist, but then they fired. My guts rattled inside me, my head rocked, but I’m glad to say, I didn’t drop the camera.

14^th Nov
 

Travelling in this country really sucks some days, and today was certainly up there in the top 10. Rising and packing before sun-up, I was breakfasted early and ready for the move back in to Spina. The plan was for Charlie Company to provide security while the Civil Affairs and ETTs handled the Humanitarian Assistance distribution. We would be joined by the 1/503^rd Scouts, who had spent the last several days in the mountains, in an over-watch position. The poor buggers had been inserted by helicopter, and had spent the days and nights freezing their asses off, while ostensibly protecting the operation from rocket or mortar attack from the ridgelines. They had had to hump down the mountain and looked pretty exhausted when they walked into Spina.
 

By this time the HA drop was well under way. Once again the event had started off fairly civilised but unfortunately had descended into a melee, with ANA chasing and threatening to beat people with their guns and belts. What was heartening to see was a group of girls coming forward to take their share of the spoils, the first time I have seen this happen I Afghanistan.
 

Once the drop was finished we should have been on our way, but first we had to wait for Attack Company to arrive and replace March or Die. They were coming over the same pass we had yesterday, so while the brilliant planners back at whatever base was coordinating this mission had allocated a couple of hours for the movement, in reality it took a lot longer, as they faced the same obstacles we had. This lack of understanding of the situation on the ground by the senior leaders is an ongoing source of frustration amongst the troops. They see it as a failing in their commanders to not understand, and take into account, the trials and tribulations of travelling by road. Or should I say lack of road.
 

Which leads nicely to the next FUBAR (an old military phrase which applies as much today as ever – Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition). The plan was for Charlie Company to return to Orgun-E, the base where I had met them, and then to continue by road back to Bermel, their home base of operations. But this would mean going back over the same pass again, and no-one was keen on that idea. The Military Police element that was with the mission was heading back to FOB Sharana, a major base in Paktika, and they told 1SG that there was a good road all the way, plus a decent road to Orgun-E after that. On paper it seemed ludicrous, as it would take Charlie Company miles out of their way, and once again they would be initially heading further away from where they were trying to get to. But 1SG was assured that the “paved road,” as prevalent in Afghanistan as Yeti in my opinion, was certain to make the trip faster and safer than going back the way we had come. The MPs assured the 1SG that they travelled the road often, and that it was good. Also, a paved road is harder to place IEDs in, and so is always an attractive option.
 

With the eventual arrival of Attack, we were finally ready to go. The MPs knew the way, so they would lead. They set off confidently, and everyone got into the correct order of march, and followed. 10 minutes later, with the entire convoy trying to execute u-turns in the narrow streets, with mud-walls on either side, due to a wrong turn by the MPs, I started to have doubts. In fact, more doubts, because I already thought the paved road story was bullshit; either a myth or wishful thinking. However, I am an ignorant non-military civilian, and worse still, a journalist, so I said nothing. More driving through those claustrophobic laneways, and whoops, we were lost again. Now 1SG started to vocalise his thoughts, in a delightfully colourfully manner, and so I felt I could join in. And did, with gusto. How those MP ears must have burned.
 

And then, unbelievably, after more u-turns, bashed walls, and much to the bemusement of the local Afghans watching us, it became apparent that for the third time, we were lost. I kid you not! Spina is not a big town, it is tiny. How in Christ’s name could we get lost 3 times in what was probably a square mile? We had now spent a FULL HOUR trying to get out of town, and tempers were fraying.
 

1SG offered a little guidance, in his own inimitable fashion, and finally we started to make progress (1SG is also known as “The Big Angry” and having heard this for over a week now, I finally got to see why). Soon we were climbing again, as we made our way to another mountain pass. But of course we had been assured by the very same MPs that this was a much easier pass, and after all, the paved road awaited us as reward for whatever difficulties we had so far suffered. The pass was in fact simple enough to climb, although one of the Humvees crapped out, meaning it had to be towed. So now the wrecker was towing one, and a Humvee was towing another. When we crested the pass it became immediately apparent that this was going to present very serious problems. The descending road was like something out of a Roadrunner cartoon. The road was effectively built onto the side of the mountain, and in no way looked strong enough to hold even a starving mountain goat, let alone a fully up-armoured Humvee. And as for the recovery vehicle, well, I felt sorry for the driver and crew. It would be a miracle or a display of super-human driving if he made it down in one piece. Oh, I forgot to mention the hairpin turns, and the approx 600ft drop off at the start of the descent.
 

The ride down was, …hmm, how do I put this, not fun. Really unpleasant in fact. But for the wrecker, which was behind us, it must have been a nightmare. The first hairpin turn required them to make, wait for it, a 20 point turn. And on the second hairpin the Humvee being towed broke free, such was the twisting and wriggling that was required. By the time they reached the bottom it was almost dark. There was still a long way to go before we reached FOB Sharana, let alone Orgun-E. 1SG worried that he would be ordered to stop and camp by the road over night, as travelling in the darkness holds it own dangers. There is also the added problem of lack of Medevac availability in the dark. However, he is very experienced, and obviously a lot of people put a lot of trust in his judgement, and so we were able to continue.
 

By now all the soldiers were wearing their Night Vision Goggles (NVGs) and so could see well. I, on the other hand, couldn’t see a damned thing, so I fell asleep. Briefly. The sound and feeling of the Humvee slamming into an unseen dip frightened the life out of me. Waking up to what sounds and feels like an IED ripping through a vehicle is not conducive to calmness, and so, with my heart pounding for a few miles, I was awake and alert again.
 

Of course, there was no paved road, or if there was, the MPs must have taken one of their infamous wrong turns, because we bounced and bumped over dirt tracks, and even off –road, for the entire trip to FOB Sharana. At one point, part of the convoy got lost in the dark, and an overhead aircraft was asked to check on the progress of the situation from the sky, with their own night vision capability. The pilot informed the missing element that they were in fact travelling in the wrong direction, and needed to “do a 180 degree turnaround” to rejoin the convoy. Their section leader, known as “Little Angry” for his emulation of 1SG, exploded over the radio. I couldn’t hear the actual event because I didn’t have a headset, but I got the basic gist of it once the guys in my Humvee had stopped laughing. Suffice to say, he was not happy with his people.
 

Finally approaching the FOB, we encountered what 1SG described as “The Eye of Sauron”,  a reference to Lord of the Rings. There was a massively bright rotating light, not dissimilar to a lighthouse beacon, that shone out from Sharana. Either the FOB’s occupants get lost frequently, or they have decided that the insurgents need something to aim at in the night, when shooting rockets. It led us in though, and I was much relieved when I was finally able to get out of the Humvee and stretch my legs. It had taken 5 ½ hours to make the trip, including the farcical tour of Spina. Now we had 15 minutes until the Chow Hall closed. However, there is a PX (military supermarket-type outlet) on the base, and the March or Die boys were torn. 1SG told me he hadn’t exchanged cash for goods in 6 months, and the same would be true for most of the guys. Using his powers of persuasion, he convinced the PX to remain open a little longer, thus allowing everyone to enjoy the spectacular DFAC (dining facility) before shopping till they dropped.
 

After all the excitement of real food and then the PX, I was ready for bed. But first I needed a shower. Having dumped my gear on a bunk in our designated tent, I found the wash facility and stripped. Unfortunately a lot of other guys had got there before me, and I ended up having a freezing cold shower. My teeth were chattering when I finished, but it felt good to be clean.
 

I then realised that being at a major base, my Afghan mobile might work. I switched it on, and low and behold I got a signal. This was great, because I had been out of contact from the moment I left Orgun-E 7 days ago, and I knew that my girlfriend would be worrying about me. I felt sure she would have heard about the 6 US deaths in Nuristan several days before, and because that is where I was shot earlier in the year, I knew this would have set her imagination running wild. I dialled, she answered, and it was great to hear her voice. It had only been a week, but a lot had happened, and I felt better already just talking to her. I was right, she had heard about the incident, and had been worried, although she managed to contact my embedding contact at Bagram, who assured her I was nowhere near that particular fight. That took 12 hours though, and she said it had been a hard 12 hours. Again the feelings of guilt came to me. I put so many people through so much worry with these trips. I believe my work is important, and I am willing to run the risk of getting hurt again, or even killed, but it is hard to bear the truth, that I am not alone in the equation. I am certain that this is what will eventually stop me, but not tonight. I told Helen not to worry, a useless request of course, and then I made for my bunk.
 

There was one more act to the day’s play though. In the tent the XO and some of the other guys were in convulsions of laughter, and when they could finally talk, they explained why. Apparently the 1SG had just had a call informing him that none of the senior commanders had been tracking the convoy’s movements that day, and in fact Charlie Company was still supposed to be in Spina. They were now telling him that on the morrow we would have to retrace our steps entirely. This was ridiculous, and discussions were ongoing. I dreaded the thoughts of going back over those roads and that pass again, but there was not a bloody thing I could do to influence the outcome, so I embraced my helplessness, and slept.

13^th Nov
 

Finally the news came through about yesterday’s attack. The IED had been huge, flipping the heavily armoured Humvee into the air. The Anvil Troop Commander, Captain David Boris, and his gunner Sergeant Adrian Hike, had been killed. An interpreter travelling with them had also died, while the driver had been badly burned, but was still alive. There were other details, but I see no need to tell them here. Suffice to say every man who did hear them had to digest them slowly. We had driven to this town amidst the threat of IEDs, and when the mission was over Charlie Company would have to drive back along the same roads that had just seen the death of their comrades. It wasn’t a nice thought.
 

When the news came through there were also a change of plan. Charlie Company would be pulled off the Chabaran mission, and would drive back to Bermel. We would leave later in the day, after a visit from the 82^nd’s Commander. This was a show and tell trip, and there was a lot of anger that it was going ahead. The guys just wanted to get out of Chabaran immediately, and get back to Bermel. The feeling was that they had been pulled away from “home2 to this “dog and pony show” mission, which had been seen as a farce from the very start. Now the implications were much more serious. Many guys felt that by leaving their Area of Operations (AO), they had handed the initiative to the insurgents, who it appeared had seized the opportunity afforded by the reduction in troop numbers. Now Charlie Company wanted to get back to Bermel and do some “housekeeping.”
 

Of course the plan to leave straight after the commander’s mission didn’t happen, and when we finally left, it was in the wrong direction. I’m not kidding, we set off in completely the wrong direction. It had been decided that we should head to a town called Spina, to meet up with some other elements of the battalion mission. This involved following an unknown road, and then moving into a town to distribute HA.
 

There was such a delay in leaving Chabaran that there was no doubt we would be struggling to make our destination before the sun set. The convoy was big, not as big as on the way down, but big all the same, with ANA and ETTs as well as US troops. We had travelled for maybe 30 minutes when the lead vehicles called back on the radio to say that the road stopped. Just ended. So much for using roads that haven’t been checked out in advance. Now every vehicle had to turn around, and we moved back to the town we had just left. One hour down, and no distance covered! Great.
 

The other option was to head over a mountain pass, close to 10,000ft. This would be challenging, to say the least, as we had ANA Ranger pick-ups and a Jingle truck in the convoy, not to mention a huge armoured recovery vehicle. Again the convoy headed out of Charbaran, and this time my altimeter started to climb quickly. That isn’t to say the convoy moved quickly. Oh no, it bloody well crawled along, stopping regularly. We were far back in the procession, so we couldn’t see why we were stopping, but as we moved further up the road it became clear. There were several steep points, and in order for the ANA’s Rangers to make it up these, they needed to get a run at them. Hence the stopping, to ensure the vehicle in front had cleared the incline. Back at out point in the convoy this meant many frustrating stops, often after moving no more than 25 ft.
 

There was a lot of radio traffic to try and find out what was going on, and eventually 1SG sent a terp up ahead to get an explanation for the delays. I should have mentioned that the MOD  CO, Capt Mac, had flown out to take temporary command of Anvil Troop in the light of their Commander’s death. That meant that while there is an Executive Officer (XO) who should stand in, 1SG was really in charge. This may seem strange, but the reality is that a 1SG has years of experience where as an XO is probably a First Lieutenant, and still considred wet behind the ears. So now I was travelling in the defacto Commander’s vehicle. I couldn’t help but think that that meant I was travelling in the number one target vehicle in the convoy. When the terp came back and stood at the door to explain to the 1SG what the hold-up was, I was fucking furious. In that simple act the terp had singled out our truck as a leaders vehicle. Now any spotters in the mountains would have good reason to try and hit our Humvee should there be an ambush.
 

And believe me, this was perfect ambush territory. We had rock face on either side, very steep and rising hundreds of feet above us. Christ, they could have rolled boulders down on us and been sure to kill some one, never mind small arms, rockets, IEDS, or any other modern weapon. This was a real Thermopylae type pass, and only a few insurgents would have been required to hold up the entire convoy. I was absolutely convince we were going to be attacked here, and looking out the Humvee window I couldn’t see a single outcrop or rock behind which I could take cover should I need to get out of the vehicle.
 

The other concern was time. We were making almost no headway, but the clock was ticking, and the sun getting lower. It gets dark early in the mountains, and the last thing anyone wanted was to even consider patrol basing in this terrain.
 

Eventually we made it to the top, and I, and probably everyone else, breathed a huge sigh of relief. It turned out to be a little pre-emptive however, as what goes up, must come down. And what a down slope we now faced. The road, if it could be called that, was a series of hairpin turns, on narrow tracks that fell away hundreds of feet. The slightest wrong move from any of the drivers and there would be a catastrophe.  I was on the right hand side of the vehicle, so my window looked out straight into the rock face climbing upwards, whereas the people sitting on the left hand side looked out over the precipice and into very thin air indeed. We made it to the bottom without any disaster, but in all probability the drivers lost a a few years of their lives from the extreme stress.
 

Once down off the mountain it was a short drive into Spina. The sun was setting as we pulled up in a clearing close to the town. The inhabitants had all come out to see the strange and unexpected procession through their quiet town. All along the route little kids, both boys and girls waved to us. Older boys and men stared, but not in an aggressive way, but simply curious. There were even some young women on the streets or peeking out behind doors. The girls and women wore beautifully vivid dresses, bright reds and yellows, and covered in rhinestones and glittering in the golden sunset light. The men wore huge turbans, the largest I have seen in Afghanistan. I desperately wanted to get out and walk amongst the people and shoot some pictures, but of course this was not an option. This is one of the hardest things about working in this environment; bearing in mind that even a beautiful scene like this has hidden possible dangers.
 

1SG decided that we couldn’t stay here for the night, as it was too close to the houses. An insurgent with a rocket could get far too close to us using the houses as cover, with the possible added bonus of a PR disaster for the Americans if they returned fire and killed innocent civilians. So, the elders were told that we would camp outside town, and return in the morning to distribute HA and talk with them. Then we all climbed back in to the vehicles, and started looking for a safe place to spend the night. By now the light was gone, and all the soldiers had mounted their night-vision devices on their helmets. These allow them to drive fairly well, although as it is a monocular device their depth perception is compromised. However, we didn’t crash.
 

By the time we stopped there was the faintest deep red glow just on the horizon, just enough to let me shoot some silhouettes of the soldiers standing around with their night vision on their helmets. Then it was gone, and I turned my attention to sleep. The ground here was extremely rocky, and try as I might I could find a clear spot. Plus, we were on the top of a hill, so a piece of flat ground was also unavailable. I realised that this was not going to be a good night’s sleep. And then, to cap it all, the mortar guys set up their weapon right on the top of the hill. This meant I would be sleeping within 25ft of the tube. I hoped that if they had to shoot during the night that I was awake before they did. Otherwise I might have a heart attack. Everyone else was also trying to sort out sleeping arrangements. It was cold, and because we were on a hill we could expect the wind chill to contribute to our discomfort. The solution was for everyone to sleep in close proximity. I don’t mean hugging each other, but not far off it. 1Sg reminded everyone that this was not a very secure place, and so all non-sleep related kit was to be packed and put in the vehicles, just in case we came under attack during the night and had to make a hasty exit. I seriously thought about sleeping with my boots and trousers on, but in the end I decided that I could get them on pretty fast these days, and so I opted for comfort. What little there was anyway.

12^th Nov
 

Another cold night, down to -4.4 Celsius. This sucks. At least the ANA had their fire going. It’s amazing, because as soon as the sun comes up it is lovely. This time last year, I was snowed in up at Firebase Wilderness in the KG pass. Once the kettles were boiling I was back to Charlie Company though, for my morning coffee. Sitting there, enjoying the warmth of my drink I was a million miles away, when a massive disturbance broke out. I grabbed my cameras, not knowing what the hell was going on, and ran to the other side of the big recovery vehicle, where the shouting was coming from. Maybe a fight has broken out, or they caught someone trying to steal, or something like that, I thought.
 

The scene that I came upon was bizarre. It was one soldier’s birthday, and the others, maybe 20, were determined to give him a birthday “treat.” He had locked himself in, but someone had snuck up on the gunner’s turret, and once in a wrestling match ensued. All the intruder had to do was unlatch the lock, and then there were many more hands waiting to aid him. As I arrived the birthday boy was being lifted out of the cab of the vehicle, still kicking and struggling, but already he had lost. He was stretched out between the others, pulled taut by arms and legs, and then his shirt was pulled up to his chest. The gift was “Pink Belly,” achieved by delivering repeated slaps to the stomach, stinging slaps, with resounding sharp cracks. The poor guy kept struggling, but to no avail. It was over as quickly as it started, and everyone walked away laughing. The soldier turned to my video camera and said, “That’s what I get, the big two zero.” And that is what I have to remind myself sometimes. These guys are really just kids. It isn’t any surprise that these playground pranks should be so prevalent.
 

My coffee was now gone, and it looked like we would be sitting around on this hilltop for another day, so I headed over to the ETT camp again. As I walked by the school, I noticed a class being held, and looked in the empty window frame. The teacher motioned to me to come in, and as there was no window baring my way, I stepped into the room. The kids thought this was hilarious, and once again I was responsible for a break with the Curriculum. They settled down much faster than the ones the day before though, and I got quite a lot of photographs and video. Then another young man entered the room, conversed briefly with the teacher. The teacher then announce that class was dismissed. Not that I understood what he said, but some things are the same the world over, and the kids were running out of the classroom before the teacher was finished speaking, as sure as if a bell had rung.
 

I was confused, because it was only just after 8am, so they couldn’t be on a lunch break already. I followed them outside. There the ANA were herding the children and adolescents into two separate groups, and making them form a queue. One of the Jingle Trucks that had accompanied our convoy was parked up, and I realised that there was a Humanitarian Assistance (HA) drop planned. HA can take many different forms, sometimes being food, sometimes clothes, sometimes school supplies, etc. Today it was clothes. Big woolly jumpers to be precise. The sizes were all a bit off, and in some cases way off, but the theory is that if each kid gets at least something, then they can trade afterwards, or pass it along to a family member. The clothes are all second hand, from well meaning Americans by the loks of them. One pullover particularly caught my eye. It was bright red, with white snowflakes, reindeer, and Christmas Trees. I guess some Western child didn’t like Grandma’s gift. And now here it was, on a child in a land where it was extremely doubtful that anyone would understand the symbols adorning the wool sweater. And if they did it would mean nothing to them. The kid seemed pleased with it though.
 

Once everyone had clothes, then the hand-out moved on to school supplies. Pens, notebooks, satchels, chalk, everything you can think of. The orderly queues were starting to break down, but never fear, here comes the ANA to save the day. Swinging belts, rifles, and shouting and screaming in a particularly aggressive manner at the children, I wondered what the point of giving with one hand and then terrifying with the other was. The kids seemed a lot less perturbed than I was though, and so once again I had to remind myself that there is a different culture here, and I shouldn’t judge.
 

During all this, one of the ETTs had noticed something. He walked over to the teachers, and through a terp he asked who the men were. Some were teachers, and some were what seemed to translate as teachers assistants, or something like that. The soft-spoken Major from Alabama then thanked the men for having the courage to teach the children. He said he understood that the Taliban made terrible threats against the education system, and in fact have often carried out these threats, burning down schools and maiming or even killing teachers. The Major said that it was important that the children got an education, and he respected the men for teaching, and for doing so in spite of the risk. However, he went on to say, he had just seen one of the men surreptitiously take, steal in fact, a bag of school supplies given to him by a US soldier, and if he witnessed it again, regardless of the respect he had for the teachers, he would kick the guys ass. Now, to Western sensibilities this may seem inappropriate, excessive, and even downright rude. But I believe that this ETT has got to grips with the Afghan culture a lot better than most, and he said exactly what was needed to ensure that the kids got to keep their new found gifts. How’s that for cultural awareness?
 

With all the goods now distributed, it was time for some education. Each of the kids had been given a toothbrush and toothpaste, but it’s important to ensure that the locals know how to use items that they may not have encountered before. So, up stepped one of the terps, called “The Professor.” He proceeded to give a fun filled demonstration through Pastu and gestures, making all the kids laugh. He was a natural entertainer, and the children loved it, and so at least this interaction ended on a happy note.
 

Once all the kids were back in class I continued on to the ETT’s camp, my original destination. They had a fire going, and once again I spent several hours sitting around chatting. They have come to trust me now, I believe, and the conversations veered wildly from one subject to another, as it only can when you have hours to kill, and such a diverse group of people. I wandered off at one stage, to relieve myself behind a wall. Standing there, with my back to the nearby ridgeline, I suddenly got the fear. I was convinced that a sniper was looking down his scope, with me in his cross-hairs. It was extremely unnerving, and I started moving, still taking a piss, in the vain hope that it might make it harder to hit me. Now, some would say that this is a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress  Disorder, and that I should be seeing a shrink. I’m pretty sure it is just a figment of an over-active imagination. It was the same feeling that I used to get as a child, when I would be walking in the dark I would imagine that there was some terrible monster behind me, and before I knew it I would be running for my life, terrified. Stil, it gave me the creeps.
 

I left the ETTs before dark, around 4pm. As usual I wanted to get my bed made up while it was still light. I was in high spirits, despite my sniper-scare, when I returned to the March or Die patrol base. As I pulled my rucksack out of the boot (trunk, for my American readers) of the Humvee, I casually asked 1SG if we were still on track to do the planned mission tomorrow. I was keen to get off this hill and actually do something. In my high spirits, I had totally failed to pick up on the mood around the vehicles. 1SG told me that everything was now in flux, due to an unfolding incident just outside their home base of Bermel.
 

Bermel had been described to me many times over the previous days. It is a FOB, though they claim almost forgotten by the rest of the Army. It is a few miles from the Pakistan border, and has been rocketed, mortared, and even recently hit by a suicide bomber at the front gate, killing several ANA, and resulting in a Mexican standoff between the ANA, ANP, and US troops. The ANA believed that because the suicide bomber had passed through an Afghan National Police checkpoint that there must have been collusion, and so wanted to kill the ANP. The ANP refuted this, and wanted to kill those that wanted to kill them. The US soldiers that got between them to try and calm things down suddenly found themselves looking down some ANA barrels, such was the high emotion of the day. In the end, noby killed anybody, except of course the suicide bomber’s victims
 

The point is, FOB Bermel is a dangerous place. The FOB is shared by two different units, due to the large soldier requirements in the active Area of Operations (AO). Charlie Company, 1/503rd of course, and also Anvil Troop, 1 Squadron 91^st Cavalry. And while Charlie Company were away, the work-load on the Cavalry guys increased. News had just come in that during a convoy a few hours earlier, one of the vehicles had been hit by a catastrophic IED. A catastrophic strike means that the vehicle is destroyed, and all the occupants are Wounded in Action (WIA) or Killed in Action (KIA). The initial report gave the vehicle call-sign, so everyone knew who was in the vehicle. Now they were waiting for word, WIA or KIA.
 

They waited all night, but despite the speculation, the news never came. A day that had started so light-hearted, with the birthday celebrations for a young soldier, had now turned very dark indeed, and like the others I went to bed early, anxious to escape into sleep.

11^th Nov

 It was even colder last night, dropping down to -3.8 Celsius. It just isn’t possible to sleep soundly when you are that cold, and I tossed and turned all night. The soldiers have varying degrees of comfort, due mainly to theft. The theft, that is, of their equipment before they arrived in country. As part of their deployment preparations, Charlie Company sent 130 duffle bags of personal gear, including the modular sleep system that the Army issues to them, in a shipping container to Afghanistan, through Karachi port in Pakistan. When it arrived, there were 10 bags remaining. The rest had disappeared in transit. Of course the possibility of Army logistics replacing these necessary items is, in the soldier’s experience, pretty slim. An old Army motto, delivered in some war movie by Clint Eastwood, tells a soldier to “Improvise, adapt, and overcome” when faced with a problem. Well, these guys did. Some scrounged kit, some “liberated” stuff, and a lot of them just got online and purchased sleeping bags out of their own pocket. There will be no reimbursement from the Army, which some guys did complain about, but others said they were happy to buy their own because it is better than the Army’s anyway. 1SG had the ultimate bag, an Elite 5 by Snugpak. He never stopped telling us how hot it got in there, and how he was sweating during the night, etc. For those who really suffered, there was always the option of sleeping in the Humvee. This is something I have always rejected, as it is just too uncomfortable, but some of the younger guys manage it.
 

I ran the now familiar gauntlet of getting out of my sleeping bag and getting my trousers and boots on as quickly as possible. I know I am supposed to be ready to jump up at a moments notice if we are attacked, nut sleeping with boots on is just a step too far (excuse the pun) and I have so much mission essential equipment (read, junk) stuffed in my trousers pockets that it’s easier to take them off than empty the cavernous compartments. And anyway, I am wearing Merino wool thermals, so if I do have to get up fast, I will at least be decently covered, if looking a little ridiculous.  Then, with a breakfast consisting of coffee and an MRE, I was ready to face the day. As I gulped down the hot coffee in an effort to get some heat into my system, I had noticed the Afghan kids making their way to the school-house, so as soon as I was finished I followed their lead. I found a “terp” near the school, and asked him to accompany me in to class. Technically the terps are not required to assist me, as they work for the Army, but these guys are all friendly and keen to help. I’m always hitting them up for quick Pashto lessons, so most of them know me. We walked in the front door of what I very loosely call a school. Bare concrete floors and walls gave the place a nuclear bunker type feel. Most of the windows were broken, or just empty frames, and there were doors on maybe half the classrooms. Chanting emanating from one room caught my attention, and I followed the rhythmic sound. With no door to knock on, I asked my “Tadjiman” (interpreter) to ask to teacher if I could photograph and film the class. He seemed mystified as to why I would want to, but he gave his agreement, in a gruff sort of way. Of course I was now the star attraction in the room, and so I ended up pretending to take pictures and film for ages before the teacher eventually got their attention back and I could actually get something usable. The class ranged in ages from around 8 to 15 or 16 years of age, with 3 or 4 boys sharing a single textbook (all boys of course, I didn’t see a woman the whole time I was in Chabaran town).
 

When class dismissed, the kids rushed out to the side of the building, where the ETTs and ANA were camped. Immediately they started demanding balls and Frisbees, and the ETTs happily complied. I moved amongst the kids, trying to capture the scene, but they were still fascinated with the “Akas” (photographer). Then I made the mistake of speaking a few words in Pashto. I was immediately surrounded by shouting kids, and however much I repeated my stock “I don’t understand” phrase, they just kept at me. Some of them had reasonable English, and we started an impromptu language class. They would point, or more accurately, pull at, an item of clothing or something I was carrying, like my cameras, and tell me its name in Pashto. In return I would name the item in English. This went on for a long time, from head to toe in fact, with great enthusiasm on their part, if a little less on mine. I wanted to write it all down, but the biggest mistake of all you can make around these kids is to produce a pen. It is what they always ask the soldiers for, and even driving through a village they will make the international hand gesture for writing in an attempt to gain one from the troops. So, I had to commit as much as possible to memory. 
 

One of the ETTs then produced a couple of packets of crayons, and started to distribute them to the kids. He tossed me a packet, and I was immediately swarmed. These little kids, some only 5 or 6, were shouting “John, give me pen” and “One more, John” and the scene was pretty wild, but all good natured. Overlooking the scene was a group of older students, and the teachers. Or at least a group of men I took to be teachers. Suddenly one of the ETTs noticed that they were writing, and he called on one of the terps to find out what they were putting down on paper. And like that, the situation soured.
 

The ETT said he had noticed the kids calling out my name, and the men were writing at the same time. He felt it was possible that they were noting down information about the soldiers identities of camp that might be useful to the insurgents. Or listing the different types of guns on the vehicles. Or drawing their layout. Or any number of other possibilities. Typically, I had been completely unaware of this. Looking at it now, there were too many men, all of whom fell into what the military categorise as “fighting age,” to be the teachers. They said they were friends of the teachers, and had come up from the village to join them on their break. In the end, there were no names in the writings, but the mood was broken. The men were told to leave, and the teachers glowered as they called the children back to class. And so, whatever hearts and minds the beach-ball, Frisbees, and crayons had won, suspicion had lost again. And so it goes on, this war.
 

I spent the rest of the day doing interviews with my video camera. The ETTs all, eventually, agreed to speak on camera, and I got some great stories. Like the one about a kid that had been wounded twice in a month, gaining two Purple Hearts and a ticket home. The second time he was hurt, he was peppered with shrapnel, and already on the stretcher when a medic got to him. The medic started to cut of his trousers, and then said in a sorrowful voice, ”Oh Dude, they got your nuts.” Naturally, the kid cried out “Oh no man, not my nuts” at which point the medic grabbed the young mans privates and said “Oops, no, my mistake, there they are.” I reckon after that the kid could have handled anything. This story made me laugh, inappropriate as it was. It also reminded me of the dark, some would even think callous, humour that most medics embrace.
 

Later in the day I also interviewed 1SG.He had been really great so far, taking the time to explain to me on camera what was going on, even when he was obviously busy. However, I wanted to sit down with him and get some deeper insights into the man, and his experiences. This guy has been around, and it shows. I grabbed him as the sun was setting, and we sat on a stone wall, and he talked extremely frankly to the camera. Just before we started news had come in that one of the outlaying Combat Outposts (COPs) by their home, FOB Bermel, was being rocketed. There was a lot of frustration that Charlie Company was out here on this mission, while their colleagues were being hit back at “home.” 1SG talked about it, and it was strange, to be getting a report of a still ongoing fight.
 

It was all great stuff though, and I was just worried that the light would go before he finished. As he was ending, I heard a bang. So did 1SG, and he went to find out what it was. Then there were two more, and suddenly it was battle stations. Someone was shooting, and the question was whether it was at us. Mortars and rockets, known as indirect fire, can be launched from miles away, and so the distant bangs we were hearing could be the first indications of attack. If confirmation arrived, it could likely be in the form of violent explosions, flesh tearing metal, and burning shrapnel, all in out midst. Everyone tensed up, and there was a lot of fast radio calls in an attempt to ascertain what was happening. 1SG shouted orders while working the radio. “Everybody get their gear on, helmets and IBA (Individual Body Armour). Anyone who doesn’t need to be out, get in a vehicle, now!” This was to lessen our vulnerability to injury if blasts suddenly started ripping us up. Within maybe 10 minutes, it was all over. The shooting had been friendly. ANA troops were firing their big artillery pieces, and somehow the message hadn’t come down the line. As quickly as everyone went to full battle preparedness, they now slipped back into relaxation mode. And that is the tell right there. These guys have seen plenty of combat, and are not fazed by it. They have a self-assured confidence that only comes from experience, and lots of it. Before I came out a friend I have been embedded with before emailed me, and told me to judge carefully the merits and skill of the unit I was with this time. He said I should know their limitations, if any, as it could literally save my life. Well MSG B, I think I’m safe with March or Die.

10 Nov 

Minus 2.6 degrees Celsius. That is what my watch told me when I woke shivering before dawn, and I have to say the knowledge did nothing to make the cold more bearable. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, I got up and dressed as fast as possible. Nearby the ANA had a small fire going, and pulling my armour on I made straight for it. 1SG had decreed that no Americans were to build a fire, and so they probably wouldn’t go to an ANA one, but I’m not a bloody soldier and I was freezing. The ANA soldiers made room for me in their circle, and we went through my Pashtu repertoire. It is amazing how useful it is to be able to say good morning, how are you, I’m fine, I’m freezing, thank you for your fire, I am a photographer, I am not American, and most of all, when things get confusing, to say I don’t understand what you are saying. Throwing in a few swear words and questioning the sexual practices of the Taliban had the ANA laughing and cheering, and soon I was offered a cup of sweet Chai and some Naan bread. 

Returning to the March or Die (MOD) camp, I was told that there were some helicopters inbound. An engineer had twisted his testicle (don’t ask, everybody was so busy making fun of him that no-one could tell me how it happened) and was going to be Medevaced out. Then there would be a series of Chinooks delivering various items of heavy equipment, including a battery of 105mm howitzers. So, I made my way down to the helicopter landing zone (HLZ). I talked with the Captain in charge, and got the low down on where they would land. Of course I should have remembered that helicopters tend to land wherever they want, not where directed, let alone come in from the planned direction. 

Thinking about the rising sun in the East, the still hanging mist, and the dust that would be thrown up by the helicopters downdraft, I chose my spot carefully. I hoped to get a nice silhouette as the bird flew in low, and then catch the beautiful golden light through the dust of the landing. Soon enough I heard the whoop, whoop, whoop of a helicopter’s rotors. It came in over the village exactly as I expected, but then banked off the south, turned, and approached the HLZ. Now I was right under it’s path, which wasn’t ideal, as I would be covered in dust before I got the pictures I wanted. I followed it in the whole way with my video camera. As it neared me it got loud, and then as it was coming over my head, boom, boom, boom. The flares that are used as counter-rocket measures had detonated, and frightened the life out of me. As it happened I ducked my head, so I didn’t see exactly what happened. Another soldier watching did see though, and came running over to me. “Hey Dude, are you ok?” he asked, his concern written all over his face. I shrugged my shoulders, and said yeah. But he explained what he saw, when my head was down, and watching the video tape later confirmed it. One of the flares had impacted just inches from me. If it had hit me I would have been very seriously burned, but instead I had had a lucky escape. Imagine the ignominy, being wounded by a Medevac! 

More helos came and went, and after I had moved to a safer location, I got some great photos and footage. The dust storms blown up by the downwash of the birds, especially the twin rotors of the Chinooks, looked spectacular. Pretty tough though for the guys who had to run forward and unload the helicopter’s deliveries. 

Once I had enough of the HLZ I wandered back up towards the school, to March or Die’s patrol base. But on the way I noticed a commotion going on with a bunch of Afghan kids. The kids had turned up for school, despite the fact that several of the rooms had been occupied by the ANA, and now, outside, the US ETTs (Embedded Tactical Trainers) were playing games with them. There was a beach ball being kicked around, and also a Frisbee. The kids were going crazy, but it was good fun to watch. 

I ended up spending hours with the ETTs. After the kids went back into school I sat and chatted with them, and eventually it got dark. They had a large fire going, and it was warm against the night’s chill. Stories seem to flow more readily around a fire, and they talked about their experiences both here in Afghanistan and also Iraq. A lot of the stories revolved around the huge cultural differences they encounter. For example, in Iraq one of the guys had witnessed a serious fist-fight break out in a queue of waiting men. Knives were drawn before the fight was broken up. When asked what had started the fight, it transpired that one man had insulted another by suggesting his wife could not cook. So enraged was the second man that he was prepared to kill the first. 

I was impressed by the commitment that came out in the ETTs stories. They have been in country for a while, and have been involved in a lot of action. I had heard some pretty bad stories about ETTs from some of the regular Army recently, which saddened me, because I always will remember the work that Master Sergeant B did with the ANA up in Nuristan earlier in the year. I think the work the ETTs do is hugely important, and they have the ability to be especially effective because they are not constrained by the same tight regulations that the Army suffers from. Most of the ETTs are older, in their 30s, 40s, and 50s, and so they have a lot of life experience that is useful in the field. These particular ETTs were from the Alabama National Guard. Part time soldiers, the regular Army would say. Doubly qualified, the National Guard would say. With their fires, and their relaxed attitude to uniform, and their extra comforts, I can see why there can be some resentment towards them, especially from the younger soldiers who don’t understand the ETT role. But the truth is these guys were working hard. And if they spend less time worrying about bloused trousers, and more time on getting their ANA up to a standard to take control of their own country, then great. Yes, they had brought cots to sleep on, and yes, they eat local food, but I see all of these things as a positive. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Any fool can be uncomfortable, but it takes a little more thought and planning to achieve better living conditions. And if you are living better, and sleeping better, it can only improve the way you work. 

So there we were, all sitting or standing around the blazing fire, telling stories and making jokes. I had some coffee, good company, and the war seemed very far away. But it never is. And soon enough, it barged in again, and spoiled our party. One of the ETTs had been in the building for a daily report by radio, and when he returned to the fire he said he had some news. Earlier in the day, up in Nuristan, there had been an ambush on US and ANA forces. 5 US soldiers and one ETT had been killed, as well as 3 ANA. Another 8 US were seriously wounded. This was a huge loss. My heart went out to the families of the dead men. Over the next few hours many more lives would be destroyed, with the news that they had lost sons, fathers, brothers. And on a personal note, I worried about my own girlfriend and family. Nuristan was where I was shot back in May, and I knew that as soon as Helen heard the name on the news, she would worry about me. Now I realised what a mistake I had made, not bringing my sat-phone on this mission to keep my packing light. I had no way of knowing how long we would be out here, and I had no way of contacting Helen to let her know I was alright. 

For a while people were lost in their own dark thoughts, as I was in mine. But after a while two of the ETTs announced we were going to play a campfire game. They said it was called the Dumb Dumb Club. It was a silly game, but perfect for the situation. You had to observe what they did, and listen to what they said, and then repeat it. It seemed simple, but wasn’t. Quickly we were all absorbed, and as one after another of the participants figured out the secret code, the rest of us became more obsessed. I never did figure it out, much to my frustration, but it certainly lightened the mood that night, and I was grateful. But later, as I went to sleep, still trying to solve the Dumb Dumb riddle, I also thought again of the families of the men killed earlier in the day. There would be no games, no laughter, no distractions for them from their pain. Looking up at the stars, I thought about how I had so recently written that I love this place. Well, sometimes I fucking hate it too.