Chapter 25: Afghanistan

On September the 11th, 2001, I was in Colchester on the promotion to staff sergeant course. On the 11th of October I was on the Uzbekistan/Afghanistan border. I had flown out from RAF Brize Norton on the 17th of September, and the horror and shock of what I had seen on the television in the sergeants mess lounge at Kirkee barracks on the 11th was still imprinted on my brain.

Lectures that morning had finished just before twelve thirty, and I and a couple of others on the course had lingered over lunch, talking about the project we had to produce for the next morning; a logistics and supply problem handed to us in the class. We had the afternoon to work on it as there were no lectures planned for the rest of the day. We had left the mess dining room to go for a pint in the bar, as I have found it always better to cogitate on a problem with a Bombardier in one's hand – and I don't mean an artilleryman. It was a few minutes before two when we entered the lounge, to be met by complete silence. Usually there would be a low murmur of voices, some laughter, and the clink of glass and bottle as mess members took a post-prandial drink. I saw that the television was showing what I assumed to be a trailer for a Hollywood disaster movie - some skyscraper on fire -as I sat down at a vacant table, and then realised it was no film but something real, in real time.

"What's happened?" I asked a fellow sat at the table.

"There's been a most terrible accident. An aircraft has crashed into the World Trade Center building in New York." He replied, not taking his eyes from the TV screen.

We watched transfixed, as the television camera scanned the surrounding area, showing fire crews, medics and police responding. The cameraman then panned up into the brilliant blue sky, and picked out a low flying aircraft heading towards the twin towers. The whole room gave out a huge cry of agonised astonishment as that aircraft slammed into a tower, and it was then clear that this was not some dreadful accident but a deliberate attack.

Like rabbits hypnotised by a stoat we just stared at the unfolding disaster on the television screen. When the first tower collapsed there was a corporate shout of disbelief and horror. The cameraman who had been filming ran back, his camera recording disjointed images as debris rained down from the south tower, and we saw emergency vehicles being covered by the wreckage from the destroyed building. When the second tower fell, and that huge, threatening, terrifying cloud of dust and debris swept through the streets, with people running for their lives, it seemed as if we were watching a science fiction horror movie. But what we were watching was happening to real people, on a brilliantly sunny September morning in New York City.

The staff sergeant promotion course was cancelled, and we were all returned to our parent units.

"You're to report to something called British Army Advisory and Training Team Alpha Foxtrot, at RAF Brize Norton, by twelve hundred on the fifteenth of September." Major Henry 'Whitey' Purcell, my company commander, read from the signal he was holding. "It's a three month deployment, to an unspecified country, but after the events of yesterday I think we can hazard a guess where." He sighed, then handed me the signal. "It's a damned shame that the staff sergeant promotion course was shot from under you, Dewey, but at least you will be back with the battalion to take the March two thousand and two course. You can take the next two days as embarkation leave; you will need to make your goodbyes to your wife." He glanced quickly at some papers in front of him. "I see you are not in Married Quarters, but have an address in Plaistow?"

I explained it was my own house, and that it was close to where my wife worked.

"I'll get Mrs Colonel Britten to call in and see her from time to time." Whitey Purcell made a note on his notepad. I didn't think Miriam would be too pleased to have the Colonel's Lady of 2RGJ calling on her unannounced, but said nothing.

On arrival at Brize Norton I was directed to a room in the corner of a large hanger. I noted several former members of Training Team Kilo, including Colly Flowers, already in the room. I didn't have time to talk to him, but he indicated, by raising his hand to his mouth, that we would meet up for a drink in the sergeants' mess after the briefing. Given the fact that several ex-Team Kilo members were present I was not too surprised when Harry Ledbetter entered the room. He gave a broad smile when he saw me, before addressing the room of about two dozen people, the majority being sergeants.

"Good afternoon, Gentlemen. For those who have not yet had the horror of meeting me I am Lieutenant Colonel Ledbetter, and I am second in command of the British Army Advisory and Training Team Alpha Foxtrot." He grinned. "Something of a mouthful I admit, so we are known more colloquially as BAATTAF ... baattaf ... not to be mistaken for a sheep shagging battalion."

There was laughter as the men realised that Harry had a sense of humour, and that he was quite laid back. "Baattaf is commanded by Colonel Orlando Gibbons, who is at present in country, which country I'm not yet at liberty to tell you. Our political masters are nervous of getting involved in what our transatlantic cousins are currently doing, yet they, our political masters, want our transatlantic cousins to be aware that HM Government is beside them in all of their endeavours ... but they don't want the Great British Public, nor Her Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition, to be aware that we will be serving under the command of an American general when we get to where we are going."

There was a buzz of excited chatter; being placed directly under foreign command was not often contemplated. Even in the Gulf War the British Armoured Division was not under the direct control of the Americans, although we worked in close cooperation with US forces.

Harry held up his hands. "OK gentlemen. I will give you a full briefing, and allocate you to teams, in this room at oh nine hundred tomorrow. Meantime I have a tab behind the bar in the sergeants mess that you are welcome to use. You are all accommodated in the sergeants mess annexe, and no doubt will have plenty to catch up on with former members of Team Kilo. I wish you all a good afternoon."

Harry beckoned me over as the room emptied, and shook my hand.

"I hadn't realised that you were on the promotion to staff sergeant course, Dave, when I asked for you to be posted to the team. If you like I can have you returned to unit?"

"The course was cancelled, and the deployment will be well over before I have to take the March promotion course. Anyway I'm looking forward to going to different places. Garrison duty gets boring after a time."

Harry looked thoughtful. "Although the deployment is initially for three months we will be dealing with tribesmen, not trained soldiers, and it will take us much longer to get them up to speed than the Kenyans we trained in ninty two. We may not be back for six months, although I will do all I can to get you home for the course if we are still in Af ... in country. Anyway what about ... err ... Miriam? She won't be too pleased to see you deployed overseas again, even for three months?"

Although Miriam and I were happily living together as a normal married couple we had both spent much time being single and independent, and the domestic togetherness was beginning to pall. When I had told Miriam that I would be away for three months I saw a sudden gleam of pleasure in her eyes, and I knew that we both would relish some time apart.

"Matter of fact, Harry, I think a break will do us both good. Our love life has got pretty much into a rut, and as absence makes the heart grow fonder our sex life will get an extra kick when I get back. Although, my personal history also suggests that absence makes the heart go wander..."

Harry laughed and said. "I don't think you will have much chance of 'wandering' where we are going, Dave." He then looked a bit serious. " Matter of fact Eleanor and I are not getting on as well as when first wed. A break will do wonders for our love life as well. Anyway, a change of scenery and diet perks me up no end."

Even in the most stable of relationships a bit of separation is probably no bad thing. Between couples like Miriam and me, who were still coming to terms with living cheek by jowl even after the three years of me being posted to Colchester, some away time would do no harm whatever. Separation, like gravel in the crop of a goose, aids ingestion; and make of that what you will.

Colly Flowers was sat at the bar with his, and my, pint before him when I entered the Sergeants Mess lounge. "It's back to mortar training then, Dewey?"

"That looks to be the plan." I demolished my pint in five hefty swallows, and then ordered two more. "So what have you been getting up to since we last met?"

His smile could have illuminated the airfield. "I got married, and have two beautiful children and a gorgeous wife."

He pulled a photo from his wallet and pushed it over to me. It showed an extremely tasty blonde woman sitting on a sofa. On her right there was a very pretty mixed race girl of about six years, and on her left a sturdy looking mixed race boy of about three.

"This looks like..."

Colly beamed. "Yes, it's Noralene. We've been married for just over seven years. Our daughter is named Cora and the boy is Calvin." He kissed the photo before putting it back into his wallet. "Noralene arrived in the UK the May after we had flown back from Kenya. I was gob smacked when she got in touch with me. I knew I loved her, but I thought that once I'd left Kenya she would forget me."

The look he had on his face said it all. I wish I could have taken a photograph, or had the skill to paint what I saw. It was real honest to goodness love, and pure bliss. I congratulated him, and thought that perhaps Doogie Blantyre really did have a kipper for a cock, and two goldfish as offspring.

The Americans had been active in Uzbekistan ever since the break-up of the Soviet Union, and when the Northern Alliance of Afghan warlords rebelled against the Taliban government in Kabul the US started supplying military aid – advisers and equipment – to them from their bases in Uzbekistan. We Brits had kept out of it, but after 9/11 Afghanistan was seen to have been a nursery for those terrorists, and HM Government eventually sent BAATTAF to assist with the training of the Northern Alliance.

Baattaf flew into Uzbekistan on September the 18th. We didn't get to see Tashkent, or indeed any town in Uzbekistan, as we were briefed on the airfield where we landed, which seemed to be miles from anywhere in the middle of nowhere. I later learned that name of the place was Khanabad ... that last syllable said it all.

It was here we finally met our leader, Colonel Orlando Gibbons, a full colonel with the red tabs of a staff officer, and judging by his languid grace, and equally languid upper class drawl, he was probably originally from the Life Guards.

I will give just a synopsis of his briefing. The first thing we learned was that on the airfield with us were about 1000 US troops, from the 10th Mountain Division, and – shock horror – we were going to be dressed in the uniform of, equipped with the weapons of, and be under the overall command of a one star general in the United States Army, Tommy Franks. The reason for our transmogrification into GIs was to allay the fears of the local Uzbeks, who might think they were being invaded by many and various Westerners. Only Americans had been invited into their country, and only Americans were what the Uzbeks were going to see, not that there seemed too many locals at the air base.

As we had suspected we were to train the Afghans of the Northern Alliance in the use of mortars, and there were other teams teaching anti-tank gunnery and radio procedure. The US 10th Mountain Division was primarily tasked with training the Afghans in company and battalion tactics. They also had to act as a security screen to prevent the Taliban, and their allies Al-Qaeda, led by Osama bin Laden, from finding out what we were doing, and then tying to disrupt the training.

Once we had been issued uniforms (we all refused point blank to wear the issued US headgear, and chose to retain our berets), all bearing the 10th Mountain Division's flash, and with our names printed on our tunics, we were allowed to eat in the huge mess hall. The grub was excellent, although there was a confusing difference in the nomenclature of some of the edibles between US and UK English. 'I don't want no raspberry jelly on my bread!' I heard one dismayed Geordie sergeant say, looking at the label on a jar of preserve. 'Where's the fucking raspberry jam?'

At Khanabad we spent two weeks learning the basics of the Uzbek language, which was spoken both sides of the border, as the tribe/clans we would be working with were ethnic Uzbeks rather than Pashtu speaking Afghans. Actually we learned later that 'Afghans' are a mix of different ethnic groups and languages, with Pashtuns and Pashtu being the dominant in both.

After learning the basics of Uzbek a team of us were moved to an American facility nearer the Afghanistan border. The base was ostensibly an oil prospecting base camp. Set in an unforgiving landscape, with the luxury of air conditioning, the site was known as the Uzbek Hilton. Other teams of advisors were sent further to the west, near the borders of Kazakhstan and Iran, and Colly Flowers went with one of those teams. However, I was partnered with a Grenadier Guard sergeant by the name of Billy Turner, an east London boy like myself. Unfortunately he was a Leyton Orient Football Club supporter, but then you can't have everything, and apart from that character flaw Billy was a really good bloke, and an excellent soldier.

It was at the Uzbek Hilton where we first came across the clan chiefs and local war lords that we would be 'advising', and a more villainous bunch of brigands I've never clapped eyes on.

The Northern Alliance was equipped with the US Army M252 81mm extended range mortar, which was a version of the L16 81mm mortar used by the British and Kenyans, so it didn't take us long to get up to speed with the weapon. It had a better sight, and range setting and wind deflection measuring instruments, than the L16, which made it quicker and easier for users to get on to the target. After a few days of a mortar refresher course under our belts we crossed into Afghanistan, ready to advise and train the men belonging to the local Northern Alliance war lord. Our team of 6 sergeants was to advise and instruct the local tribesmen in radio communications, and the use of mortars and anti-tank guns.

There was nothing we could teach them when it came to moving through, or living off, the land; setting ambushes; weapon handling and marksmanship; or camouflage and concealment. These hill men had generations of raiding behind them, and they grew up with a rifle in their hand. They were tough, resoucful and hardy fighting men, and it would be a similar type of enemy that they would be facing, with the added ingredient of religous fanaticism.

To be honest I think all that the Northern Alliance really needed was a good supply of ammunition and a bit of air support, and they could have dealt quite adequately with the Taliban by themselves, assuming they didn't start chopping each other up instead. I've never come across such a cantankerous load of buggers in all my life. They took umbrage at the slightest thing, and of course the blood feud was their way of life; the Afghans made the Hatfield and McCoy confrontation look like a church garden party, and I wondered how long it would be before old tribal and clan rivalries split the Northern Alliance.

One of the clan chiefs I got friendly with (or as friendly as is possible with them) said. "Dezzi, all we want from you is guns and gold. Foreigners are the only thing that makes us fight together instead of against each other."

They called me Dezzi, which means 'warrior' in Uzbek, as it was as near to my surname they could manage; they also knew, I don't know how, that I had received a gallantry medal. My facility with languages once again stood me in good stead as I was soon fluent in Uzbek, and could converse with them beyond the few basic military terms that the rest of the team used.

Our first task was to get the tribesmen up to speed in loading, firing and maintaining the M252 81mm mortar, and to be fair they were quick learners. We had mostly men aged between 30–40 on the mortar team as the younger men/boys thought it beneath their dignity to fight from a distance. The older blokes, with families and responsibilities, were not as reckless as the young bloods.

The Uzbek who would eventually command the mortar platoon was about 25 years old, a son (one of many) of the local clan chief, and was a bright intelligent cove by the name of Ergash. I got on well with him and he was eager to learn. In fact, he had been educated in the States, and had studied business administration at UCLA – don't think for one moment that these hill tribesmen were stupid, dull or brainless. Although in many ways they still lived a medieval life style they were as sharp as the knives they all carried. That being said I wouldn't trust any of them as far as I could throw them. Britain has a history with Afghanistan, and the overriding lesson we had been taught by our encounters with them was they were/are completely untrustworthy. We were infidels, and were considered by True Believers to be less than real men, so breaking their word to an infidel caused them no loss of honour, or shame.

In fact, between ourselves, ie the members of the training team, we referred to all Afghans as as Pathans --the 'wily Pathan' crops up in Kipling's works, and although highly regarded as fighting men they were never to be trusted. A few lines of a poem by Kipling came into my mind, and I hoped it wasn't a omen.

We spent the next couple of months in 'dry' training, but at the beginning of December 2001 we carried out live firing. On the firing range the tribesmen wouldn't wear helmets; in fact the only military kit they ever wore were ammo' pouches and a canteen and carrier. They wore their normal dress of a tunic (khat) over baggy trousers (partoog), and in the winter poshteens – sheepskin knee length coats lined with fur or wool. Most wore turbans but a few wore pakols, something resembling a flattend woollen beanie.

The mortar platoon consisted of 4 mortars, and for first timers at live firing their speed of loading was not bad; accuracy on the other hand was not so good, even with the bells and whistles of the upgraded M252 mortars. Billy and I had explained trajectory, and wind direction, and gauging distances, but this was something they hadn't yet picked up on.

The training teams stood down over Christmas and went back for two weeks of R&R at the Uzbek Hilton, the oil drilling camp just over the border in Uzbekistan.

You have to hand it to the Yanks, they sure know how to organise a good time. There were about thirty of us, a half dozen Brits and the rest Americans, staying in The Uzbek Hilton; the accommodation was first class, with single en suite rooms; hot tubs; air conditioning; Satellite TV; some of the best grub I've ever had; booze galore; and, as it was Christmas, plenty of female company. The Americans had flown in about sixty girls from all over Central Asia, or so it seemed. These girls were pleasure girls, and they certainly knew their business. Talk about the twelve days of Christmas; it was more like the fourteen days of Cuntmass.

There was shagging morning noon and night, with enough girls for twosomes, or even threesomes, and the younger element certainly took full advantage.

I chose a sweet, slant eyed piece, who spoke only a few words of English and less Uzbeki; she may have been Tartar, Tibetan, Mongolian or anything in between. I kept her for the duration of the R&R, and we fucked each other's brains out every day.

She was a tad less than 4 foot 9 inches tall and weighed about 80 pounds sopping wet. She looked as delicate as a piece of Meissen porcelain, but in bed she was a tiger. I've never been gripped so tightly by a woman's thighs as by that girl, who I called Ying Tong, as her name was unpronounceable.

She ravaged me rather than me shagging her, and when she was done with me I was well and truly fucked. She had tremendous control of her pelvic floor and cunt muscles, and when inside of her my prick seemed to be sucked and wanked at the same time – awesome. The first time it happened I came after only a few thrusts. Ying Tong was not best pleased by that, but she cheered up when I ate her out. Licking and sucking at her small shell like lips and clit I soon had her writhing in pleasure under my tongue, and she rewarded me with some of the best kissing I ever had. Her tongue was like a flickering snake's; all over my body and inside my mouth.

I quickly learnt to control my orgasm when she did her suck and wank routine, and we would often come together after that. When she came she would squeeze me like a tube of toothpaste with her strong thighs, shout out in a language unknown to me, and bite my shoulder, sometimes drawing blood. After licking the blood from my shoulder she would curl up against me, practically purring with contentment.

Ying Tong wouldn't do anal, not that that bothered me much, but even sticking a finger up her arse was taboo. In contrast she loved me going down on her, and I spent many happy hours with my tongue in her sweet box, although I had to be careful when she climaxed that she didn't throttle me with those satin smooth tensile steel thighs of hers.

After the Christmas 'rest' it was back to training. The Taliban government had fallen, but we were now up against Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters who had refused to surrender, and were established in strong positions in the mountains and strategic valleys. One such valley was Shah-i-Kot, and plans were made to assault the many fighters situated in the strong points there.

Harry Ledbetter spent his time shuttling between the various advisory and training teams all over Northern Afghanistan like a blue arsed fly on amphetamines, while Colonel Orlando 'Lazy Bastard' Gibbons stayed in the luxury of Tashkent, and schmoozed with senior US and Uzbek politicians and military. The rumour was that Gibbons was going to stand for parliament at the next UK General Election, which was due to be held in the following Autumn, and was getting in practise with glad handing and back handing.

Billy and I had informed Harry Ledbetter that the mortar team was not yet combat ready, and after watching the team on a live firing practise he agreed. However politics raised its head and Colonel Gibbons ordered that the mortar team would go into action when required, fully trained or not.

It had not been envisaged, when setting up BAATTAF, that the British instructors would command the mortar platoon in action, but if Ergash took the mortar team into combat they would be ineffective at their current level of proficiency. Billy and I came up with the plan that in the event of the mortar team being called into action before we deemed them combat ready then one of us would act as Mortar Fire Controller (MFC) and the other would run the mortar firing line.

I 'won' and became MFC, with Ergash shadowing me to see what the job entailed; his second in command (a half-brother) would shadow Billy at the firing point, and we would keep in touch by radios manned by British trained Uzbek operators. Harry Ledbetter agreed to the plan, but insisted I added a couple of Uzbek riflemen to the spotting team as protection, if I had to lead the mortar team into a combat situation.