Czytaj książkę: «Unconquerable: The Invictus Spirit»

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FIND ME UNAFRAID

The English market town of Salisbury can be a bleak place on a winter’s day. Four o’clock in the afternoon, the market traders are packing away whatever they’ve failed to sell beneath awnings flapping in the wind, people are hurrying from one place to another, coats zipped up to their necks and hands thrust deep in pockets. It doesn’t look like a place with one of the UK’s most important cathedrals, let alone somewhere so intimately connected with the world-famous Stonehenge, just up the road.

Josh Boggi has just returned from training in Mallorca. On such a grey day, and with the queue for the dentist so long he decided to abandon it altogether, he must be tempted to turn round and go straight back to the Balearics. We sit by the window of a coffee shop and he tells me his story.

His surname – soft ‘g’, to rhyme with ‘dodgy’, ‘podgy’ or ‘stodgy’, three adjectives which could hardly be less applicable to a man so decent, so fit and so dynamic – is Italian. His grandfather came over from Tuscany after World War Two with his siblings: seven brothers and one sister. They all opened restaurants in the East End of London, which in itself sounds like the pitch for a comedy film or family drama. Josh’s father served in the Royal Engineers for more than a decade, and for as long as he can remember Josh wanted to follow in his dad’s footsteps and become a sapper (a combat engineer who, among other things, lays roads, builds bridges and clears mines).

In January 2004, aged just 17, he signed up and underwent basic training – phase 1, general training, to a base level of military competence, and phase 2, specific training for the Engineers themselves. He was then selected for 9 Parachute Squadron, an airborne detachment of the corps with a history so long and distinguished that you can chart much of Britain’s wartime and post-war military history through its service records: the Dunkirk evacuations in 1940, the 1944 defence of the bridge at Arnhem, clearing the King David Hotel in Jerusalem after the 1946 Irgun bomb attack, the Falklands in 1982, rebuilding Rwandan infrastructure after the 1994 genocide, Bosnia and Kosovo in the 1990s, and of course three decades of the Troubles in Northern Ireland.

It was a history of which Josh was well aware. ‘The minute you put the uniform on you feel proud. Grown-up.’ He loved the British Army and everything it offered him. He’d always been a sporty kid, particularly keen on football (‘I was a goalie. All the nutters play there’) and ice hockey, the latter a craze sparked by seeing the Mighty Ducks movies. Now he could not only indulge his passion for sports and adrenalin but get paid for it too.

Every soldier who joins up itches for real combat, and there was plenty around for Josh. All British operations in Afghanistan went under the codename ‘Operation Herrick’, with each new order of battle receiving its own ordinal. Josh was first deployed as part of Herrick IV in 2006.

For six weeks nothing much happened. Then it all kicked off.

The 9 Squadron were sent in to Musa Qala, a dusty town in Helmand Province, to assist the Pathfinder platoon stationed there. The soldiers controlled a central compound of low cement and mud buildings surrounded by a 10ft wall, and a 10ft wall was nothing when the compound was surrounded by a maze of rubble-strewn buildings. Paradise for the Taliban militants using those buildings as cover and a nightmare for the men inside the compound, knowing they could be attacked from any direction and at any time.

Which is exactly what happened.

‘I was 19 years old,’ says Josh. ‘The moment the first bullet flew past my ear, it was like, “shit just got real”.’ Every time the British troops dropped one militant, another two would pop up. It was like a nightmare pitched at the exact intersection of the Alamo, Rorke’s Drift, a spaghetti western and a video game. The Pathfinders had been in Musa Qala some weeks already and were exhausted and jumpy, particularly at twilight – ‘the witching hour’, they called it – when they most expected the attacks to start again. They were running low on food, water and ammo, and they had no more batteries for their night vision devices. They needed resupply, but any kind of air support was out of the question: it was too easy for the Taliban to shoot down any helicopter which came near, and they’d all seen Black Hawk Down.

There was only one thing for it: a forced relief ground mission. A Danish squadron was on its way from Bastion, but it wasn’t as if the Taliban were going to wave them through with open arms. Josh’s men were tasked with clearing a way for the Danes, come hell or high water. It’s 60 miles from Bastion to Musa Qala, but it took 9 Squadron and the Danes five days to make the journey, and even then it needed fixed bayonet fighting and six 1,000lb bombs on Taliban positions before they could break into the compound itself.

Hell of an introduction to war.

It was Josh’s first tour of Afghanistan, but it wouldn’t be his last. He went on Herrick VIII in 2008 and again on Herrick XIII in 2010, when he was deployed to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Khar Nikah. On the last day of the year, New Year’s Eve, Josh was second-in-command of a search team sent out to clear a suspected Taliban compound. It was a patrol which, if not exactly routine, was hardly uncommon: get out, perform the task, get back in again. Simple enough.

But for Josh it all felt off, right from the start. Not by much – more a sense that the world had slightly tilted on its axis, that things were slightly out of alignment – but not by much was quite enough when it came to a place like Khar Nikah and the narrow margins between safety and danger, between life and death.

They went out of a different gate than usual.

Narrow margins.

The muezzin was calling the faithful to prayer at sunrise as always, but for once the ululations sounded menacing and ominous, sending a slow cold sweat crawling down Josh’s spine.

Narrow margins.

Josh concentrated on the basics. Tread in the footsteps of the bloke in front of you. Keep your distance. Keep your eyes open. Keep looking. Never get complacent, not for a second. A second is all it takes. No one on Herrick XIII underestimated the Taliban. They were very good fighters (certainly those blokes who’d served in Iraq as well rated them far more highly than the Iraqi insurgents), their predecessors had seen off everyone from the Soviet Army back through the British in Victorian times and beyond, and they could rely not just on each other but also on what the Westerners called ‘Tier Two’ – those who weren’t proper Taliban but helped them out with supplies, cover and so on.

The 9 Squadron liked to Grand National rather than mousehole: that is, they preferred to climb over walls rather than blast their way through them. Grand Nationalling was quicker, saved materiel and was less likely to advertise their presence. The problem with Grand Nationalling was that if the Taliban saw you doing it they’d shoot, and it was hard to shoot back when scrambling over a wall. So this time Josh’s men went the explosive route: two half-bar mines and in through the breach point. Each time they marked the safe area, where they’d swept for mines, with white lines either side.

Narrow margins.

Mine, prime, breach … Mine, prime, breach … Watch the white lines.

The day slightly off; that strange sense of foreboding.

Josh took a step to the side … Just one.

One was quite enough.

A beautiful cloudless day in the Golden State, warm enough for Sarah Rudder to be sitting outside by the pool even though it’s not yet mid-morning. An all-American scene for an all-American girl, even one who grew up a long way from California: in the northern English town of Chorley, Lancashire, to be precise, where she played for Chorley Ladies’ premier league soccer team and was top scorer for three seasons running. The Mia Hamm of Chorley? She laughs. ‘Exactly that!’

But her heart was always in America, and from the age of 12 even more specifically set on the US Marine Corps. She’d seen them performing a silent drill, a dizzyingly slick routine of weapon handling, spinning and tossing performed without a word – the weapons in question being rifles with fixed bayonets, which provide obvious incentives not to mess up the catches. What captivated young Sarah was not just the beauty of such split-second timing but everything that came with it: the endless practice to make perfect, the discipline and confidence to execute it so flawlessly when it mattered, the absolute trust you had to have in your comrades and they in you.

She enlisted in the Marines as soon as she was legally able, in 2000 at the age of 17. But it wasn’t plain sailing. She twisted an ankle so badly that she needed surgery, and on the way to hospital in Maryland for a post-operative check-up she was involved in a car crash which left her with a broken nose, ribs and scapula. But Marines are made of stern stuff, and Sarah was no exception. She was back in training as quickly as possible, and within a year was promoted from Private First Class to Lance Corporal.

Her promotion ceremony took place on a day as piercingly blue and bright as the one on which she’s telling me her story: a late summer’s day in Arlington County, at Marine Corps HQ, just opposite the Pentagon, 18-year-old Sarah, smart and proud in her dress uniform, her entire career ahead of her and the world at her feet. Friends and families in the audience, glowing as they choked back happy tears of pride.

An all-American day for the all-American girl.

A sudden roar so close and loud it made everyone jump. They were military people and they knew – they thought they knew – what that sound was: a ceremonial fly-by, a fighter jet opening up its throttles to make pure thunder. But fly-bys don’t tend to take place in the nation’s capital on a Tuesday morning.

A silver streak past their vision, an impact which shook their building like an earthquake, and then a fireball climbing high and fast in roiling clouds of orange and black. All in a matter of seconds before anyone knew what was happening.

It was 9.37 a.m. on 11 September 2001, and American Airlines 77 had just crashed into the Pentagon.

Newly promoted Lance Corporal Rudder and her colleagues swung into action. They sprinted across to the Pentagon and began performing basic triage on the injured: the walking wounded they sent to base corpsmen, the more serious they loaded onto tarp stretchers for the paramedics to take to hospital. Then they began to help the firefighters any and every way they could: bottled water for when they came out of the inferno gasping with thirst, new socks to replace the sweat-soaked ones inside their heavy boots.

Sarah did 12 hours’ duty at the Pentagon, another 12 on patrol at Marine HQ, and then back to the Pentagon, where she had to pick her way through the mountains of flags and flowers left there. Running on adrenalin, she didn’t sleep for three days straight. On the second day, when the building had been declared safe – or safe enough – she and her best friend, Ashley, joined the search and rescue team. They donned hazmat protective body suits and went inside, to the hideous twisted ruins, where the 757 had hit at a speed of more than 500mph. Their official mission was to locate and bring out ‘non-survivors’, a deliberately anodyne term which scarcely hints at the horrific sights Sarah and Ashley saw in there.

More than a decade and a half later, the California sun is not warm enough to keep her from shuddering as she remembers. ‘The smell. Urgh! God, that smell … The smell of death. We had to sleep with the windows and doors open to try and get rid of it. The clothes we were wearing, we burned them, but it didn’t do any good. The smell was still there in our skin.’

Even though her scapula was still healing, she’d taken her sling off – she couldn’t do any lifting with it on. She and Ashley loaded corpse after corpse onto stretchers and brought them out: these people had families, and Sarah wanted them to have someone to bury. She lost count of how many bodies they handled. While walking backwards with one of them, Sarah got her left ankle stuck in a concrete barrier, which then fell and crushed it. Somehow she worked herself free, and was glad to find the damage didn’t seem too bad. It wasn’t hurting too much, and nor was her scapula.

That night, back at Marine HQ, her foot was so swollen that she couldn’t get her boot off. And now the adrenalin was subsiding, her ankle was hurting, hurting really badly. Her scapula didn’t feel too flash either, but her ankle was worse. It would get better, though. Wouldn’t it?

It wouldn’t. And it wouldn’t be the end of her problems either. For Sarah Rudder, as for so many of her fellow countrymen in one way and another, 9/11 wasn’t an end to anything. It was just the beginning.

Stephan Moreau joined the Canadian Navy because of a drunken bet.

Well, in a manner of speaking. He’d been out with some friends in a bar and, after a few drinks, told them that he wanted to serve his country and was going to the recruiting centre first thing the next morning. They laughed it off at the time and probably didn’t even remember it the next morning. But Stephan did.

He wasn’t one of those guys who’d always wanted to be in the military, the kind who left high school one day and joined up the next. He was 27 when he walked into the recruiting centre that morning in 2000: old enough to have done things with his life he knew now weren’t for him, old enough to know what he really wanted.

He’d been brought up in Quebec City as the only child of a single mother, and sometimes the absence of a father grated – ‘My mom did a great job, but something was missing. She was working so much that I had to learn to be independent and deal with my own problems. My character was definitely shaped by having to look after myself.’

It was shaped by sports, too. Stephan enjoyed baseball and athletics, but like so many Canadian kids, his real passion was hockey. ‘It was hockey all the time. Outside rink in the winter after school and road hockey in the summer. I was shorter than most of the guys, but my speed and my feistiness made up for it.’

His hero, Calgary Flames winger Theoren ‘Theo’ Fleury, was cut from the same mould. At only 5’6” Fleury had been told repeatedly that he was too small for the big time, but his determination meant he ended up playing more than 1,000 games in the National Hockey League.

What job would allow Stephan to keep up his sport? Stephan’s uncle had been in the Air Force, and ‘he told me that 50 per cent of the time he was playing sports there! The military training was easy, especially boot camp. I was fit and I already had the discipline from playing hockey.’

He moved pretty much all the way across the country, from Quebec City in the east to Victoria in the west, and was stationed at CFB Esquimalt, Canada’s main Pacific Coast naval base. It was a great place to live: right by the ocean, where he had always found his peace.

He served as Leading Seaman and Naval Communicator on the HMCS Algonquin, a destroyer which had been built in 1973, the year of Stephan’s birth. The Canadian Armed Forces were busy after 9/11, and the Algonquin was no exception. Stephan patrolled the Gulf of Oman, checking out suspect vessels and boarding them, if necessary – ‘We were the first warship to intercept terrorists. I’ll always remember the buzz on the ship when we caught them.’

For those first four years on board the Algonquin, Stephan was happy: doing a job he loved and was good at, and feeling as though he was making a difference.

Then, in 2004, he was sent on a training exercise.

Those exercises were tough – three hours of sleep a night for three weeks, the dreaded red-hatted Sea Training Instructors waking everyone up in the middle of the night or making them start an exercise 20 minutes after going to sleep, that kind of thing – but of course that was the whole point of them. They were designed to test the sailors’ reactions and decision-making when they felt like zombies.

In case of fire, sailors were supposed to wear a rebreathing system called Chemox. Speed in getting the equipment on was vital, so this was one of the crucial drills they practised. The first four men to the zone were to start putting on firefighter uniforms, the next four there were to help them. Stephan was one of the second four, so he began helping his friend, Joe.

Chemox used canisters full of chemicals. Stephan slotted the canister into the apparatus. There was a flash and a bang, and suddenly the canister was alight and was spewing toxic fumes and black smoke and flames into Joe’s mouth and down into his lungs. He was screaming and Stephan and his colleagues were tearing the gear off him as fast as they could. But the apparatus was hard to undo, and in their desperation they got in each other’s way. Even so it only took a few seconds, but a few seconds is a long, long time when a man is yelling for his life.

‘It was screaming like I never heard before, it was awful.’

Joe was put on a helicopter and medevaced to hospital. Amazingly, given how horrific the incident had been, he recovered.

Stephan was not so lucky.

The vast shopping centre of Westfield Stratford City is almost empty at 9.30 in the morning. Most of its habitual clientele are either at work or still asleep. For Maurillia Simpson, 9.30 is the end of her day rather than the beginning. She works in the control room which ensures the security not just of the mall but also of the Olympic Park next door, and this week she’s on night shifts.

‘Simi’ – everyone calls her Simi – was born and brought up in San Fernando, Trinidad’s largest city, but for as long as she can remember she wanted to be in the British Army. There was no specific reason for this, no father in the services or anything like that – no father around at all for that matter, since Simi was brought up by her mum, a pre-school teacher, and her seamstress grandmother.

In 1985, the Queen came to San Fernando on an official visit. Simi was 10 years old at the time and her school was one of those chosen to line the route. Along came the Queen, smiling and waving the royal wave.

‘I was convinced she was waving at me!’ Simi says. ‘Absolutely convinced. So I shouted, “I’m going to live where you live one day!”, and the next thing I remember is this bang on the back of my neck from my teacher, trying to get me to shut up!’

Simi left home at 16 and went to Cascade, a suburb of Port-of-Spain, where she worked menial jobs and lodged with a family who became more or less her surrogate parents. She passed the exams for the Trinidad and Tobago Defence Force, but never got the call to begin training. But she was undaunted: those twin dreams of being in the British Army and living where the Queen lived still burned fiercely in her.

She landed at Heathrow on a freezing February day in 1999. ‘This shows you how green I was, since I was dressed in shorts, T-shirt and shades. I had no idea where England was. I thought it was another part of the Caribbean, a quick island hop away, just like home. Then I looked out of the window of the plane and there were all these people in thick coats and you could see their breath in the cold air. I refused to get off the plane! “This is not England,” I said. “Yes it is,” the crew said. I wanted just to stay in my seat till the plane turned round and went back to Trini again. But of course I couldn’t do that. Eventually the crew gave me about six spare blankets and I wrapped them all around me and shuffled into the terminal. I was staying with my auntie in Southall, and when I got there the first thing I said was, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

‘“Tell you what?”

‘“Tell me that this place is so darn cold.”

‘“I thought you knew!” she said. “It’s not exactly a secret.”’

The very next day Simi went to join the British Army, swaddled in as many layers as she could find in her aunt’s house. The nearest recruiting centre was miles away in Edgware, Barnet, but she found it, and by the time she returned to Southall that evening she had signed up to be a driver and communications specialist for the Royal Logistics Corps – contingent on passing basic training, of course.

She was 24 years old and this was her life’s dream. That evening, Simi was the happiest person in London.

It wouldn’t always be as easy, of course. ‘The culture of the Army was very hard,’ says Simi. ‘There are times when you have to defend who you are and where you’re from. When I joined I was the only black female in my regiment and I was older than the other NCOs [non-commissioned officers]. They couldn’t understand what I was doing there or why I wanted to be there.’

Perhaps paradoxically, things got better in combat zones, where there’s always a certain purity to life: there are only two types of people out there, the ones trying to kill you and the ones trying to keep you alive. Simi did three tours of Iraq with 2/8 Engineer Regiment, including the invasion in 2003 and the final troop withdrawal in 2009. She ‘felt a real purpose’ out there, particularly when it came to the humanitarian side of aid work and infrastructure reconstruction – water, electricity, schools, bridges. She was also an object of curiosity for many Iraqis, who had never seen a black woman before and ‘always wanted to touch my hair and my skin’.

And she had her fair share of near-misses too. One night she led a 12-vehicle resupply convoy to the Black Watch regiment near Amarah, south-eastern Iraq: ‘Black Watch were undercover, so you get to a certain distance and then they call you in on the radio. I saw a soldier come out. He must have been a sergeant major or a staff sergeant. He waved his hands, signalling us, so my commanding officer told me to verge off into the desert. After we’d gone a little way they came on the radio and told us to stop immediately and don’t move. He hadn’t been signalling for us to go that way – he was trying to tell us it was a literal minefield! My commanding officer said, “Private Simpson, put the tyres of the truck exactly where I tell you, just like you learned in training.” At that point I thought: “Why did I have that dream when I was seven years old?”’

But that was small beer compared to the moment in Basra on Simi’s second tour in 2007, when she saw two mortar shells flying towards her. She just about had time to shout ‘Incoming!’ before the mortars hit the wall next to her, bringing it down on top of her.

‘I didn’t know if I was dead or alive. I started to sing an old gospel song, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow”, the one my surrogate mum used to sing to me in Cascade. I was thinking of her, I was trying to say goodbye.’

Buried under the rubble, her songbird voice cracking through effort and fear, Simi forced the words out.

His eye was indeed on the sparrow, because even as she sang, Simi could hear voices, colleagues calling her name: ‘“Simi,” they were shouting, “we’re not going to leave you, we’re going to dig you out.”’

Having survived the worst that Iraq could throw at her, Simi figured – perhaps understandably – that her next deployment to Germany would be easier. She was sent there in 2010 before a tour to Afghanistan and threw herself into training: she was always efficient, always on time, never late.

Just for one day, she should have been late.

Just once wouldn’t have harmed. Just once might have saved her. She was coming back to base on her bicycle one night, bang on time as usual. Even a few seconds late would have changed everything.

She hardly saw him. Those mortars in Basra had taken an age to arrive in comparison. A local driver running a red light. No time for Simi to react. Just him and her, car and bike, and the squeal of tangled metal as they collided.

Fighting in Afghanistan is a seasonal affair. It eases off in the winter when the mountain passes are snowbound and ramps up again in the spring and summer. The latter, of course, brings its own problems to troops on the ground. The intense heat, well into three figures Fahrenheit, means soldiers have to carry vast amounts of water with them, and it can also play havoc with electronic equipment such as radios and microwave radar. Even tyre pressures have to be adjusted downwards to prevent blowouts.

By the time October 2008 came around, Mike Goody had been in the country for six months, watching the danger and the action rise with the heat and now begin to fall away slightly. He was deployed on Herrick VIII with the RAF Regiment’s 1 Squadron. Despite its name, the regiment comprises ground troops rather than pilots: it’s a specialist airfield defence corps whose members are known as ‘rock apes’ after a 1952 incident in Aden when one officer accidentally shot another after mistaking him for a hamadryas baboon, known locally as a ‘rock ape’.

The military ran in Mike’s blood. His father had served in Northern Ireland, and his godfather, Stanley Duff, who was so close to the family that Mike simply called him ‘Uncle Stanley’, had been the youngest RAF squadron leader in World War Two – ‘He was a great man in himself, kind to all, but to me he was more than a man could ever be. I owe this man more than I could ever wish or have to give. He was one of the main reasons that I joined the Royal Air Force myself, not as a pilot like he was but as a Regiment Gunner.’

And now here Mike was, on a day which though a few degrees down on the sledgehammer heat of high summer was still pretty hot. He was on patrol around Kandahar, where the airfield served as NATO’s main base in southern Afghanistan. Sometimes it seemed less a military installation and more a small town: the perimeter fence was 30km long, and inside it were almost 20,000 soldiers and civilians from a dozen different NATO countries.

The rock apes liked to go out in soft hats rather than hard helmets whenever they could, knowing that hearts and minds were easier to win over if you weren’t dressed too much like RoboCop. It was a fine line, and they knew that even with the best will in the world they would never be able to fully convince the locals that their presence here was welcome. Whenever a patrol left the airfield they would see a sudden rash of kites in the sky: the local children signalling to the Taliban that the infidel were on the move.

Warfare starts young in Afghanistan.

And always the gnawing danger of the IED. It was a constant game of cat and mouse. Every time the Western soldiers found a way to detect or disable the devices, the Taliban changed their tactics: from pressure pads to phone signals, from phone signals to laser beams. You never left the base without thinking about them, without scanning the road for them, without doing everything you could to find them before they found you. Signs of digging, suspicious debris, a mound in the dirt that looked too exact to be natural … You never stopped looking for those things.

And sometimes you could take every precaution imaginable and still find it wasn’t enough.

Mike’s patrol were a kilometre from camp, just far enough for anyone planting an IED to have been missed by the watchtowers standing sentinel on the airfield’s perimeter. The patrol knew – because they always tried to think like the enemy – that if they were going to bury an IED somewhere, this was exactly the kind of place they’d have chosen. So they stopped and scanned the ground with metal detectors.

But when an IED is right up close to a vehicle, a metal detector won’t work on it – it’ll be too busy detecting the 4.5 tons of armoured vehicle nearby.

They put away their detectors, climbed back in the vehicles and set off again, with Mike driving the lead vehicle.

Mike was driving the lead vehicle right over the bomb.

A Skype connection across 10,000 miles, 11 hours’ time difference and about three times that in temperature, and Darlene Brown from Brisbane laughs so readily and easily it feels as though she’s in the same room as me. She’s one of those people you can never imagine not liking.

Her dad had fought in Vietnam, a veteran of the famous Battle of Long Tan in 1966, when barely 100 Aussie soldiers holed up in a monsoon-lashed rubber plantation had defeated 1,500 Viet Cong. Darlene wanted to follow in his footsteps and sign up for the Army at 16, the earliest she was allowed, but he put his foot down: the Army, he said, was ‘no place for a lady’.

Two years later, by now old enough to do what she wanted whether or not he agreed, Darlene joined the Navy. It was 1999, and right from the start she loved Navy life – loved it so much, in fact, that she volunteered for extra sea deployments in place of shore service, an attitude greatly appreciated by her senior officers.

It wasn’t until much later that the effect of such a relentless schedule would become clear.

Darlene was assigned to the frigate HMAS Adelaide as a Communications and Information Systems Officer. In the aftermath of 9/11, when all eyes were on Afghanistan, the Adelaide’s concerns were closer to home. In October 2001, 100 nautical miles north of Christmas Island, it intercepted a vessel carrying more than 200 asylum seekers.

This wasn’t the first time a Navy ship had been called into action this way, and the illegal immigrant issue was controversial, especially with a federal election only a month away. ‘We decide who comes into this country and the circumstances in which they come,’ said Prime Minister John Howard, and it seemed most Aussies agreed with him.