Huw Williams reinforced Carleton-Smith’s message as he prepared his men psychologically for the new deployment. He found that most of them were receptive to the constructive mood abroad in the brigade. The response may have surprised some observers of the regiment. The Paras’ reputation is based on their fighting prowess. It was won during the Second World War in Normandy and Arnhem, then reinforced at Suez and in the Falk-lands. The Paras genuinely believed themselves to be the best soldiers in the British Army, by which they meant the best in the world. Their exploits in Helmand appeared to justify that claim.
About four hundred of the six hundred men in the battalion had been in Afghanistan in 2006. The new members had arrived from other units or were raw young Toms’ straight out of training. Many of these eighteen-and nineteen-year-olds had been inspired to join up by what they had heard about the last operation and were, in their commander’s words, ‘keen to prove they were the same as the guys last time, that they matched their stature’.
But among the older men and the young veterans of 2006 the attitude was more considered. They knew the reality of combat. Many of them had relished the chance to test their skill and courage. But the thrill of fighting had faded. It was something you endured rather than enjoyed. Jamie Loden had taken over command of ‘A’ Company during the defence of Sangin in June 2006, one of the most intense passages of fighting of the tour. Now he was taking the company back again, supported by another veteran, Sergeant Major Steve Tidmarsh. Their attitude, according to Loden, was that although they were ‘more than happy to deal with whatever we came across, at the same time we weren’t going to go out of our way looking for trouble’.
It was shared by the ‘corporals and lance corporals and senior private soldiers who had been there before, who were very content with doing their job. They knew what they had to do, they had the right resources and equipment to do it, but equally there was an element of be careful what you wish for.’ The mixture of cautious veterans and newcomers determined to get their share of action, in Loden’s opinion, made for ‘a very balanced company group’.
Those who had served in the 2006 tour were pleased that this one would be different. It was not only because they did not relish the thought of another six months spent in static positions slogging it out with the Taliban. The Paras are more thoughtful than their public image, and the picture painted of them by their army rivals, might suggest. At every level of the unit there were those who felt that the concept of excellence embraced more than just fighting prowess. It meant demonstrating the ability to carry out the non-kinetic, ‘influence’ operations aimed at persuading local people of the soldiers’ good intentions that were vital for the ultimate success of the campaign.
‘I’m sure’, said Huw Williams, ‘that there were some people who thought, “Oh, 3 Para. They’re just going out there to see how many bullets they can fire. It’s all going to be kinetic.” But a lot of us wanted to prove we could do all sides of it…We were very keen to show we could do “influence,” we could do reconstruction, stabilisation, anything we were asked to do. We could bring security without wielding the big stick.’ Even so, it was clear to everyone that ‘at some stage during the six months we would still have to show that we carried the big stick’.
The Paras were setting off to war in a domestic political climate that was much altered from the one that existed at the start of 2006. Then, Iraq was the dominant issue in British foreign policy. Few Britons knew much about events in Afghanistan. Two years of conflict had changed that. Afghanistan replaced Iraq as a staple of the news bulletins and almost all the stories emerging from there were depressing. A perception was growing that going to Afghanistan was a bigger mistake than going to Iraq.
The government’s faith in the mission, though, remained, outwardly at least, unshaken. Ministers continued to claim progress was being made and was worth the cost in effort, expenditure and lives. On the death of the 100th British soldier to die in Afghanistan since 2002, they reached for old-fashioned words to justify the losses. The soldiers, claimed the then Defence Secretary, Des Browne, were engaged in ‘the noble cause of the twenty-first century’.
As the Paras began boarding the buses at their barracks in Colchester for the drive to Brize Norton for the eight-hour flight to Kandahar their mood was very different from the excitement and anticipation that had gripped the battalion when they had set off two years previously. They were on their way to fight an unpopular war in a faraway place where progress was measured in centimetres, to face death, injury and constant discomfort. It seemed to some of them that the campaign had reached a point where real progress would have to be made or the enterprise would sink into a pointless and demoralising test of endurance. The next six months would answer the question that was echoing in many heads. Was it all worth it?
Kandahar airfield was the NATO capital of southern Afghanistan, a gigantic logistical hub that seemed to radiate both might and hubris. It was built by American contractors in the late 1950s, then taken over by the Soviet Air Force in 1989 soon after Russia invaded Afghanistan to go to the rescue of the communist government in Kabul. From the 3-kilometre-long runway Russian jets took off to pound the mujahedin fighters who harried the invaders on the ground. The disembodied tailplanes of two burnt-out transport aircraft lay in an unused corner of the camp, all that remained of the Soviet air fleet after the rebels captured the base.
‘KAF’, as everyone called it, lay 16 kilometres south-east of Kandahar city. The town was invisible, blocked from view by a range of mountains. The only signs of the local inhabitants were the gangs of labourers who arrived each morning and the merchants who turned up on Saturdays to sell carpets, knick-knacks and fake Rolex watches at a ramshackle bazaar. Visiting the base was a risky business. The Taliban regarded any commercial dealings with the foreigners as collaboration, a charge that could bring a sentence of death. A story went round that the insurgents had presented a stallholder with the severed head of one of his children, wrapped in a sack.
The base was scattered over bare desert, the flatness broken here and there by stands of spindly, grey-green pines. The accommodation blocks, workshops, warehouses, offices and compounds had grown with the mission, spreading out along a grid of gravel roads. A stream of heavy trucks, armoured vehicles, buses and four-by-fours trundled continuously along them, churning up a fog of fine dust that never settled.
The base was under British control. There were 14,000 people at KAF, from about forty different countries. The majority were not soldiers but civilians, working for international companies that supplied many of the base services. The managerial jobs were taken mostly by Britons. The next level down was filled by workers from Poland, Romania, Lithuania and other upwardly mobile European nations. At the lower levels, washing dishes, cleaning floors and emptying the Portaloos, were small, unobtrusive men from southern India, the Philippines and Bangladesh.
Great efforts had been made to make KAF comfortable. The inhabitants ate in big food halls which served pasta, curry, steak and vegetarian specials. There was a hamburger bar, ice cream and espresso machines and plenty of fresh fruit, vegetables and salad. The social life of the base centred on a square stretch of raised decking known as the boardwalk, which was lined with cafés and shops. At one corner sat a branch of Tim Hortons, a Canadian coffee house chain founded by an ice-hockey star, where you queued for iced cappuccino, the house speciality. Near by were the Dutch and American PX stores selling electronic goods, paramilitary