HERRICK 11, my tour
in the middle of a patrol in the green zone, taking 5 in a compound
So here I was, 44 years old, with a few precious hours to kill before boarding a plane to Afghanistan for HERRICK 11. Fidgety and more than a little hungry I made my way to an expensive wine bar that sat on the crossroads below the castle in Edinburgh; I along with two other TA friends, Mark and Chris, had almost always started our evenings there, and there had been many since joining 3 RIFLES for the tour 3 months previously. I indulged in a rare steak accompanied by a merlot or two and wondered for the thousandth time what lay in store for me. A little over seven moths later I returned to the same bar with my family, Mark was dead, Chris had withdrawn into himself and I would never be the same again. 30 men died and over 80 had life changing injuries, it was without doubt one of the hardest tours that the British army had endured in many years, but this is not the time for that story, I leave that to far more gifted people than I. No this is simply about the changes the experience caused in me.
Trying to explain to anyone who has not served what a tour is like is almost impossible, I mean for a start how in gods name do you get across what it’s like to really work 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for almost 7 months? The longest unbroken sleep I had on mine was about 6 hours, 50% of the time you’re up 2 or 3 times a night to stag on for an hour or two, the working day starts before daybreak and ends when the job’s done, long after dark; and many a time I was too tired to even undress before collapsing on to my bunk. Whenever you can you’re grabbing 40 winks, in full body amour waiting to go out the gate on patrol, even in a Chinook’s deafening hold, a soldier will, and does, sleep anywhere. But there’s more to it than that, you see you don’t dream, there’s not even time to daydream, all you do is think about the job. At home here I’ll often go over an idea, or the days events, as I settle down to sleep; on longs walks, or out running I’ll mull over problems, or decisions, but not on tour. As soon as my head hit the bunk I was asleep, the job was so full on that even as I took a fag break all I’d be thinking about was the job.
C Coy, 3 RIFLES, in Kajaki, Afghanistan, the finest group of men and women I have ever met - Swift & Bold
And then there’s trying to explain the camaraderie, in civilian life your coworkers are more often than not a necessary evil, on occasions one or two will become friends, but on the whole you put on a front, and for many the front is there to hide their true colours, masking their backstabbing in the name of advancement. Not so the army, if you want the true definition of friendship look no further, based on a universal system of piss taking and self-depreciation, you don’t need to be a genius to see how it works.
“you can take the man out of the army, but you can never take the army out of the man”
Number one accept that every conversation begins with receiving an insult, the more humorous the better, number two said insult is answered with a self-depreciating remark, again the more humorous the better, followed by a counter insult, still with me? Ok, now for the truly knowledgeable among you, yes this is indeed also known as ‘banter’. The more stick you can take the more you are liked by your peers and considered a good egg; if by chance you’re having a bad day and so do not reply in the correct sequence then the group simply leaves you alone to move onto to someone else, no point playing ‘fetch’ if the dog wont bring back the ‘stick’, now is there? And forget about hiding behind a ‘front’, you may get away with that in your office, but try keeping it up 24/7. In your office if you turn up with a new hair cut all coworkers will of course be positive and heap praise upon you, regardless of what they really think, not so the army, no all questions on new hair cuts, clothes, cars etc. are answered with theuniversal “makes you look like a twat!” The army is a machine, the working parts the soldiers, every day these working parts are bombarded by stress, fear, fatigue, and loneliness, the humor is the grease that binds them and keeps the engine running smoothly.
I went to Afghanistan for the same reasons a climber will feel he has to conquer Everest, it is there to be climbed, and as my wife said I had unfinished business. When I left Sandhurst all those years before I wont deny that I left with a massive chip on my shoulder, but every time I saw a news report about the army, or walked past a recruitment office I felt a small tightness in the bottom of my stomach, as someone once said “you can take the man out of the army, but you can never take the army out of the man”. And so I went for me, I went to prove to myself that I could do the job, that I could indeed prove all those people over the years wrong; and boy how bloody wrong I was. I couldn’t hide behind any front as I had running Cre8, pretending I was someone I wasn’t, the banter and camaraderie soon cut through that, I felt as though I had shed a skin, all of a sudden the real me surfaced, and I liked the new me, so did everyone else. I’d rediscovered my sense of humor, and humility, no matter how bad the day I’d have a smile on my face.
Squaddies the world over rely on humor, even dealing with taking a dump is a time for a piss take!
When I arrived at 3 RIFLES there were many who just saw an old man and quite rightly wondered what the hell I was doing there, by always giving it my all, by always putting 100% effort into every task set me I won over those above me, and by being just me I won over almost everyone else. Before I knew it there were lads knocking on my door knowing I’d do all I could to help, swapping my R&R at Christmas with one of my lads so that he could see his young son, writing letters to the CSA for another who couldn’t read or write, getting my sister-in-law to send welfare parcels to another who had no family. And then as we began to get losses the knock on the door came from lads who’d just lost their best mate, we’d sit just talking, letting them get it off their chests. Hearing others arguing with their girlfriends on the phone and I’d seek them out later to see if they were OK. I did this because this was the real me, and because as an NCO this was my job. A little into February I came back into Bastion after my R&R and was told that Mark, my best friend in the TA, had just died, pretty much one of my lowest days on the whole tour. I was offered the chance to stay in Bastion for the repatriation, but no I knew I didn’t belong there instead I went back to the FOB, on arrival I had the entire Company rally round to mother me, touched I realized you do in deed reap what you sow.
Before I knew it I was handing over to my replacement and I boarded the chopper out of the FOB, a blur for a few days as we arrived back in Edinburgh, the medals parade, down to de-mob after 10 months and before I knew it I was back home a civilian again. I suppose this is when the trouble started. Standing in front of the wardrobe truly lost, after wearing a uniform everyday for 7 months I now didn’t know what to wear, drinking heavily for the first week or so, feeling guilty all the time that I made it home in one piece and all these others young lads didn’t, all normal so I’m told.
We will remember them
Memorial service at Kajaki for young Rfn Howell, and 'Birksy' the Coy Bugler, and a bloody fine NCO
Loss seems a so much more appropriate word for a young mans death, we go through life and rarely will any of us have to deal with the death of someone close to us before their prime, that is unless you are a soldier. I for one am no stranger to death, I have lost those who brought me up and over the years I’ve lost a few good friends, both old and young, as many my age will agree we just learn to deal with it better as time goes on. But nothing could prepare me for the shear courage displayed by the young men around me on this tour.
Not for them is there the luxury of time to grieve; within hours they’re back out there dealing with the same dangers that have led to the loss of one of their own. But there is a mechanism that kicks into affect, out of nowhere broad shoulders are there to lean on, quiet ears to listen; and then there is the army’s way of sharing the burden, the service. Every regiment and unit I’m sure has their own slight variations, but for me there is no finer thing in the British Army than a RIFLES service.
Through our tour we had a service for the death of a young man almost every week, sometimes there would be a break for a week or two, but not often, and many times we would hold a service for the loss of more than one. On occasion we would have a Padre, but mostly the job would fall squarely upon the OC’s shoulders. At Kajaki we even had our own bugler, ‘Birksy’, I’ve often stated that he was OK at the Last Post to begin with, but became perfect by the end, through I’m afraid weekly practice. The army is a small family, 3 RIFLES even smaller and so there would always be those around us who were close with those who’d died. They along with the rest of us would start every service heads bowed, eyes moist, but as the last notes echoed across the desert heads and hearts would somehow be lifted slightly.
And then the OC would finish
“BUGLER!”
“SIR”
“SOUND THE ADVANCE!”
As one the company would grow, backs straightened, chests swelled, out across the barren landscape echoed the call to arms, a call that has stirred a 100,000 Riflemen across the ages. Men move off, jaws set, in a few months a jar or two will be lifted for another young man lost, but for now there’s work to be done.
A 500lb bomb dropped on the insurgents after a long fire fight, the spent link and cases to the right of my gun are a fraction for what I fired that day
And then after another week or so I started to try to get my life back on track, I went to see my business ‘partner’, well partner is I suppose too strong a word. Just before the tour I sought out someone to take over my clients whilst I was away and in the end formed a partnership with another designer so that the clients wouldn’t feel totally dropped. From day one I was honest with him and said that I really didn’t know what I would do when I got back, but I wasn’t prepared for the way things went. After the niceties of how’s your family etc. the very first words he uttered were “sorry Brent, but there’s just not enough business for two”, quiet stays I, he them proceeds to go on for the next 30 minutes telling me how happy all my old clients are; with him he means. Well I left that meeting and then had pretty much the same from everyone I did business with; my best client just went on and on about all the new things she was implementing in her business, how lucky I was that my partner had stepped in so that her business didn’t suffer. As I was driving home I couldn’t help but wonder why I felt happy, I’d spent the last 10 months with people who would, and did, share there last fag with you, and here were others not prepared to share, in fact it suddenly dawned on me that not one of them even asked how I was, or what the tour was like; and yet there I was grinning like a bloody Cheshire cat!
Now I’m not going to say I had a revelation, or any other equally unbelievable ‘life changing’ moment, no it just slowly began to creep up on me until one day it was no longer a nagging thought at the back of my mind, no it was now a full on ‘fact’ – the yuppie puppy had grown up! All became clear and concise, the bankruptcy had been the saving of me, “what” I hear you say, and “I thought this bit was about Afghanistan?” Well it is, but the fact is my tour would never have happened had it not been for the bankruptcy, the bankruptcy stopped me in my tracks, why didn’t I just start up another company and prove everyone wrong, because deep down inside of me I didn’t want to, but why? The simple truth is that I’d never been a particularly good or successful yuppie, even in the 80’s I’d always felt that I was a sort of visitor looking in, you see I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, and no one can keep that up for ever. If I think back even trying to go into the army as an officer all those years ago was about social climbing. The point I’m trying to make is that the bankruptcy set me free from my own stupid bloody insecurities and ambitions; and so I went to Afghanistan as a Lance Corporal because I wanted to, not because I felt I had to for either social or business reasons.
My callsign just before setting out on another patrol, the tall lad on the right, 'Shanksy' was to lose both legs a little after this picture was taken, a fantastic lad who within weeks was raising money for those worse off than himself!
The Tour Book
Near the end of the tour the OC poked his head into my little cubbyhole,
“ah Corporal M got another job for you”
“eh OK sir…”
Heart sinks, I’ve been on the go for 15 hours straight and had only just got into my bunk, fag and a brew in hand.
“Yes I want you to grab every picture anyone has taken and get everyone to start writing,”
says he rooting around in my boxes and my kit
“What?”
“I want to put a tour book together, something that we can all keep”
“Hey that’s a great idea sir!”
“I know, and Godder’s”
“Sir”
“Where’s the milk, come on everyone knows you’ve always got a stash of fresh milk…”
“Eh in the left boot sir”
“Oh and no smoking in the bed spaces, you’re supposed to set an example”
comes from the back of his head as he waltzes out the door carton of milk in hand.
And so I started on the tour book, even after the tour I spent a week in Edinburgh to sort out the final proofs, enough were printed so that every lad got 2, one for him and one for his mum to keep safe, I’ve got the odd idea that it may in fact be the very last graphic design job I ever do, and my most rewarding.
For many the ANP, the Afghan police, are really not rated, not so at Kajaki, here they were great, helping us to gain the confidence of the locals, and a fantasticly brave bunch out on patrol. I took this picture in a 'shura' with locals, to the left is the Chief of Police.
And then there was how I felt now, before the tour I tried to avoid going into Exeter, and I never thought I’d ever set foot on the quay again, where my old office had been. As anyone who has gone bankrupt will tell you in the immediate period after you see your self confidence evaporate, you’re guilt ridden about those who had lost their jobs, and you have a deep routed feeling of being a leper, someone to be avoided at all costs, but now for me it was somehow different. The tour had given me back my self-respect, yes I had gone bankrupt, yes I still felt a deep down guilt, but I no longer wore it like a cloak of shame. And my view of others had changed, successful people who I’d admired simply because of their success now became transparent to me, I saw through their success to see the true person underneath, and I wasn’t all that often impressed with what I saw.
As all this hit me thoughts started to flash through my mind, flying through at incredible speeds, OK so what else was the new yuppie anti-Christ capable of? Well first of all I decided that there are two sorts in this world, those that give and those that take, the generous v the selfish, and I want only those that ‘give’ as friends. Step one I shed all the so called friends who don’t fit the criteria, bang go almost all former clients, bang goes the so called partner, and so on, Facebook is culled and I feel great! “How did they take that?” you ask, I really don’t think they even know, these people are so wrapped up in themselves that wouldn’t even spot the fact that they haven’t heard from me in more that 12 months. “But don’t you want to get even, to give them some of their own medicine?” Of course not, these people didn’t go out of their way to hurt anyone, they’re just selfish gits who think the world revolves around them.
Next I’m walking down the street with the wife,
“you’ve grown an inch or two”,
“I’ve what?”
“You stand more upright, you really seem to have grown, and I prefer it”
Confused I ask
“you like taller men?”
“No stupid I mean more in a metaphorical way”
“Meta-what?”
“Metaphorical, look what I mean is you don’t really seem to stress anymore about fitting in, you’re you and you seem to be both proud and content to be you, and, well, I like it”
“I…”
“But you really do need to plan the next adventure”
“What bloody adventure!”
“Afghanistan was an adventure, oh ok you tried to convince yourself that it was all about you going back to right a wrong when you got kicked out of Sandhurst..”
“I DIDN’T GET KICKED…”
“Whatever, the point I’m trying to get across is that we now neither own, or owe, anything, we have savings for the first time in our lives, the kid’s have grown up and you’re truly free, so what are you going to do with it, your freedom that is?”
Smiling I finally see where she’s coming from
“I really don’t know love, I have no idea at all and for some reason it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”
This page is dedicated to Rfn Mark 'Marshy' Marshal, the finest man I ever knew
Marshy and I on our last patrol together, a few short weeks after this he died on patrol in an IED explosion
There is no way on Gods planet that I could end this page without talking about ‘Marshy’, the finest man I’ve ever known. Marshy and I pretty much joined the TA at the same time; we shared everything, right through basic training and on tour. On the 14th February 2010 he died in an IED blast in Helmend, and I miss him, his humor and his humanity every day. In the days after I was asked to write a eulogy for his funeral, I’d like to end this page by reprinting it here. You’re free to read this page, free to lead a good life because of men like ‘Marshy’ please try to remember that, thank you.
Mark 'Marshy' Marshal
Mark, or Marshy, as he was known to his mates, and I met when we joined the TA together in 2007, as I got to know him he told me more about himself, how he’d always wanted to join up, but had somehow got sidetracked into working as a baker in a supermarket. After a few years he was made a department manager, but still felt unchallenged so left to join the Police as a Community Police Officer. But still he had the nagging feeling that he had to join up and see if he had it in him to do the job, and so he joined the TA with the firm plan to go on the first tour he could. As I got to know him better it became clear that Marshy had real strength of character, he wasn’t the most athletic of people, but he never quit and always passed whatever test was put in front of him, on the coldest, wettest nights he never snapped and his humour would lift all around him.
Straight out of Cattrick all were keen for him to go on the JNCO’s course, and again just before joining 3 RIFLES he was pushed to go on the course, but no Marshy was adamant that it could wait until he had got a tour under his belt. All who worked with him were left in no doubt as to just how good an NCO he would have made.
Before we left to join 3 RIFLES I remember 6 RIFLES putting on a welfare morning in Exeter; and afterwards Marshy, his mum Lynn, sister Jo, myself and my wife spent a lazy summer afternoon sat in a local pub garden. His brother Alex couldn’t make it, but from the chat and way they were together you knew how close he was to his family, and he was without a doubt the apple of his mum’s eye. I know how devastated they will be by his death, but I also remember his mum saying that she always knew he’d do this, ever since he was a child he’d always wanted to join up, and how although she hated the thought of him being away they were all really proud of him for following his dreams.
Outside of the Army Marshy had a real love for speed; from his BMW to his Superbike anything that was fast. When last winter he got a chance to go skiing for the first time with the Army it became clear he was fearless, flying down the nearest black runs on his third day, mind you I think the instructor would have been happier had he learned to turn first.
I remember how worried he was about the lads finding out that he was a copper, he made us promise not to tell anyone, but he needn’t have worried as it became the worst kept secret in 3 RIFLES and as usual by the time people found out his personality and keenness to work hard had already won them over.
I remember the last time I spoke to Marshy was the night before his R&R, just before Christmas, he spent the evening talking about his section, his mates and how much they meant to him. After a while he asked me what I thought about him staying with 3 RIFLES after the tour, I started laughing and told him that him wanting to stay with 3 RIFLES was a worse kept secret than him being a copper in civvie street, and how if I was 10 years younger I’d be joining him. As usual Marshy had a come back, “Godder’s don’t you mean 20 years younger!”
Marshy was in my mind the very best that the TA can bring to the party, the wisdom of someone a little older, the tenacity to always give it his all, the openness to always be willing to learn from all he met and the ability to become so good at his job that no one any longer knew he was TA. The TA and the RIFLES have lost a truly gifted man, and I have lost a true friend that I will never forget.
A few months from now, when I’ve left 3 RIFLES, I’ll be propping up a bar in Exeter TAC and some young recruit is bound to ask me how ‘Marshy’ died, I’ll smile, raise my glass and tell him; he died how he lived my son, as a RIFLEMAN, SWIFT AND BOLD.
Posted by Brent Meheux - 2/2/12 - Tags - herrick 11, 3 rifles, afghanistan
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