to get sent back into Adin Zai.
And this time, the enemy would be waiting for us.
Seven
GOING BACK IN
I came to my senses in the pitch dark. Someone was shaking me. It was Sticky, and he was muttering something about me having air. For a few moments I thought I was having a nightmare, for who could have allocated me air at FOB Price?
What do I need air cover for here, I felt like screaming. I’m in FOB Price. LEAVE ME ALONE. But it was hardly Sticky’s fault, so no point shooting the messenger.
Someone had booked me in for an Air Special Request from 0400–0800. An Air Special Request (ASR) is air cover booked in advance, for a specific reason. Why the hell someone had given me an ASR at FOB Price I couldn’t figure. But I was told that no one else could use it, so I had to.
It was a bit chilly, so I pulled on my battered yellow Hackett jumper and a pair of shorts and flip-flops, and hunched over my TACSAT. I had a giant B-1B supersonic bomber overhead — call sign
At 0615 I told the pilot that I was going off station for a few minutes, and asked him to continue flying air recces. I couldn’t resist the smell of frying grub that was drifting over from the cookhouse. I was starving, and I just had to get a brew and some scoff. I left Sticky to monitor the air, and told him I’d be back in a jiffy.
I hurried over to the mess tent, piled a plate high with sausage, egg and bacon, perched on a deserted bench and started to ram it in fast. I felt a presence beside me. I glanced up from my plate to see the camp commandant standing on my shoulder. He was staring at me with ill-disguised contempt.
‘What d’you think you’re doing in mixed dress?’ he snapped.
It was forbidden to wear shorts around the main British Army bases, and I guess the captain hadn’t gone a bundle on the jumper, either. If nothing else it obscured any badges of regiment or rank I might’ve been wearing, so he had no idea who I was.
‘I’ve been up since 0400 controlling a B-1B,’ I answered, speaking through a mouthful of grub. ‘I’m going right back to it.’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ the captain replied, stiffly. ‘Mixed dress isn’t acceptable…’
‘Right, well, like I said I’m just trying to get some bloody breakfast before going back to me jets.’
I couldn’t abide blokes like that. They stalked around in their starched kit and never left the base. There were a few more words between us, before I finished my grub and stomped out. The captain kept firing comments at me even as I left the mess tent.
I knew the camp commandant did a daily briefing to all senior commanders at 0800. It was 0745, and I asked the B-1B pilot if he could fly a low-level show of force over FOB Price, just to deter any enemy that might be eyeing us. I asked him to bring his jet in at 0800 sharp, right over the top of us.
‘I can come down to five thousand feet,’ the pilot told me. ‘Any lower I have to clear it with higher.’
‘I don’t think that’s enough of a deterrent,’ I replied.
‘What d’ya mean?’ the pilot queried.
‘Any enemy who’s dicking us to attack won’t be deterred by that. I need you lower.’
The pilot put it up to his superiors, and got cleared down to two thousand feet. I confirmed that was good enough, and repeated that I wanted the show of force at 0800 sharp.
‘What you up to?’ Sticky asked.
He’d been listening in on my shoulder. I explained to him the squabble I’d had in the cookhouse, and that I was planning to buzz the camp commandant’s briefing.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Sticky told me. ‘You’ll be right in the shit.’
At the same time he couldn’t help laughing. Throp was awake by now, and just as soon as he heard what I was up to he started egging me on.
Bang on the nose at 0800 this massive swing-winged aircraft came screaming over the walls. It was like having a jumbo jet land in your back garden, only worse. The B-1B tore FOB Price to shreds in terms of the audio level, and left our ears ringing.
‘
The pilot signed out of my ROZ, and no sooner had he done so than a runner arrived at our tent. I was summoned to see the regimental sergeant major, who accused me of ruining the camp commandant’s briefing. He’d heard about our argument in the cookhouse, and he demanded an explanation for what I’d been up to with the B- 1B.
‘Show of force to deter any enemy dicking FOB Price, sir,’ I told him.
‘Fuck off. There’s been no attacks on FOB Price for months, as you well know.’
I was ordered to go and apologise to the camp commandant. I went to see him, and said I was sorry for being so abrupt in the cookhouse over my mixed dress.
‘It won’t happen again, sir,’ I assured him.
‘Thanks for apologising, Sergeant Bommer,’ he replied. ‘Doing the manly thing and all that. I never knew who you were, actually.’
He didn’t mention the B-1B, so I left it at that. I returned to our tent feeling honour had been satisfied, but Chris collared me and tried to give me another bollocking.
‘Bommer, you can’t bloody do stuff like that,’ he was saying, ‘It’s just not on. It’ll build a barrier between us and them…’
But at the same time as he was trying to be serious, Chris couldn’t help laughing. I headed to the gym with Sticky, to pump some iron and work it out of my system. We made a good training partnership, and whenever we were back at FOB Price we’d hit the weights together.
I ran into Butsy in the gym. He gave me a thumbs-up, before taking me aside for a fatherly chat. ‘If you ever have problems in the cookhouse or whatever, Bommer… I know what you did and why you did it, but you’re one of mine, so come and speak to me about it. I won’t tolerate people speaking to my lads out of turn like that bloke did you.’
I knew I’d got a gentle bollocking, but I knew why. And what Butsy had said just served to reinforce the sense that he considered all of us in the FST as his own.
Once I was done in the gym I managed to place a phone call home. My wife, Nicola, had seen a lot on the news about lads getting killed and injured in Helmand, and she was understandably worried.
‘You are OK, aren’t you?’ she asked me. ‘You would tell me?’
‘ ’Course I would,’ I reassured her. ‘Nowt’s been happening our end,’ I lied. ‘I’ve not heard a thing about anyone getting injured or anything. It’s nowhere near here and nowt to do with us lot, anyhow. So come on, tell me: how’re the nippers?’
Nicola told me that Harry and Ella, my infant son and daughter, were just fine, but missing their dad, which I liked to hear.
‘Roger-dodger. Well, put ’em on the line then.’
I had a couple of words with my little ones, by which time my ration of phone minutes was almost done. The Army allowed us twenty minutes’ talk time a week. Nicola came back on the line.
‘So, have you been using your new job?’ By that she meant JTAC-ing.
‘Yeah, a bit,’ I told her.
‘So how is it?’
‘Tell you the truth, it’s class.’
Nicola and I had been married for seven years, and she’s a fine lass. She’d had a good education, as her dad was in the Army and he’d served all over the world. The one thing he’d been dead against was his daughter marrying a soldier. So when Sergeant Grahame came along I was hardly flavour of the month. Things were all good
