BRITISH ARMY COMBAT MEDIC VET PART 2

 Waking Nightmares: Afghanistan 2009.

 This is my second time round here, my first tour being 8 years prior. Same conflict, very different circumstances. Last time had been Kabul, the country had only just fallen from the grasp of the Taliban and there was a strange sense of optimism then. The idea that we were doing something constructive was very apparent. ISAF were helping rebuild the city.

World Trade Centre Collapsing 9/11
(indianaexpress.com)

The Taliban had let the place go to rack and ruin, the Russian's and the puppet government faired no better, kicked out thanks to the efforts of the Americans and the Mujahidin. The Americans and the west had abandoned Afghanistan to its fate once the great Russo threat had been removed from the country.  Something the world would come to regret after years of toxic foreign policies had marginalised huge swathes to the Muslim world which led to the attacks in New York on the 11th September 2001.   

Vector Armour Vehicle
 (Wikipedia)

Today I am standing in the back of a Vector Armoured Vehicle providing top cover in the pitch-black night, in this dark place. Gone has my optimism and hope for this country, now it is replaced by my need to survive. An unsettling feeling whilst on the dirt track back alleys of Wishtan, a suburb of Sangin, in the Helmand Province of South Western Afghanistan. A far cry from Kabul, or Aldershot or home.  

Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was a face, a desperate face needing my help. A face that I felt at the time I had failed. A face that had become one of so many that we would lose that summer.  Even when I opened my eyes the face would still not leave me. 

The last few days had been a blur, I couldn't tell you how many days it had been since that fateful afternoon. All I can tell you was that I felt pretty useless as I had not slept much since then. 

On a hot day. Stopping for air. 

We were on our way to relieve 12 men from 1 Platoon A Company the 2nd Battalion the Rifles at a compound on the extreme east of Sangin, at a Patrol Base known as Salamanca. (At the time)

I hated being in that vehicle. I hated how vulnerable it made me feel travelling in what could potentially have been my own coffin. I preferred being the master of my own destiny. On foot I could get out of the way of trouble should it come. In this thing, I knew I would be practicing a bad 'Black Adder' Joke if we hit an IED. 

As it turned out that patrol was uneventful, it was my turn to take over as the medic for the PB. I got a brief handover from Shaun, the other CMT working out of Wishtan, and he headed back off with the patrol. I was almost half way through my time with 9 platoon C Company 2 Rifles. 

A Cold Winter's Morning. Staffordshire. 

Standing on the small parade square practicing drill, this was not unfamiliar to me as I had spent years with the Air Cadets, (AKA Space Cadets) doing drill. The only problem was the words of command were alien to me. The ATC's version of drill had been, largely, a much gentler affair. And, clearly, the voices were more aggressive and forthright. 

They were teaching us to move as a 'Formed Body of Men' but at this stage we were all pretty un-coordinated. So, although we were all able to move as a formed body of men, we were not necessarily moving in the same direction at the same time. 

This was my basic training, a week or so before I had been a 'civi', as far as the military were concerned the scum of the earth not worth anything. We were yet to earn the right to wear our beret's. Now I was 25038KFS Recruit Martin of the Royal Army Medical Corps. I was not human I was a 'crow.' and we wore crow hats. DPM soft baseball type hats that were reserved for crows. 

I loved the fitness and the military training however, I was soon to discover, that I wasn't going to be joining the SAS any time soon (Or ever as it turned out: 'Selection' for me, comes out of a box marked Cadbury) . I soon realised I was un-coordinated, not as fit as I could be and I was constantly injured. 18 year old me was not a very good soldier. 

One exercise, towards the end of training, we had practiced 'Harbour' drills. A harbour is where a platoon, company or larger units sleep for the night. It consists of a triangular defensive position with all soldiers facing out of the harbour with Stag positions (Guard positions) at the points. In order to ensure we can get around at night, a harbour wire was strung around the path for the soldiers to follow so no light was required. 

We set our bashers up, started our night routine, cooking our meals, cleaning weapons and getting some sleep. I am sure I was dreaming about a warm bed, hot showers, decent home cooked food when:

BANG, BANG, BOOM....Contact!! Thunder-flashes, a kind of harmless grenade, going off everywhere. Lots of noise and I am rudely awakened from my dreamlike slumber. We are in the middle of a mock artillery attack and, after so long, were hear... BUG OUT BUG OUT! This is a drill where you put on the webbing, large pack on and pick up your rifle. Stow everything else, like your sleeping system and basher into your bivi bag and throw it over your shoulder. We would then run like hell to a rendezvous point (RVP) located a safe distance away and ordered to "SORT YOURSELVES OUT AND GET READY TO FIGHT!"

We, as you can imagine, a few weeks ago we were all naïve civi's, only interested in the next pay cheque, the next pint and wondering if that girl, boy or goat you fancied would get with you. So imagine the most sorry looking bunch of people walking up with kit everywhere trying our best to look professional. One muppet had even put his rifle in his bivi bag. (He would retire as a Warrant Officer) Somehow Dad's Army looked like a much more viable career option after that. 

The next morning, ENDEX was called and its time to clean up the training area. We swept for spent brass, rubbish and kit. Our bivouac area was looking like the morning after Glastonbury; kit and rubbish everywhere (Not good) . I can hear our Platoon Sgt, clearly pissed off, shout: "Martin get over here!" from the other side of the encampment. She was stood along with my section commander over by what was left of my basher (which was still there). Realising I was in trouble, I sprinted over as fast as I could, but somehow I found myself on my back feeling like I was being choked to death. No, this was not some obscure military punishment, but I had discovered the harbour wire was still in place. 

The Monday after that exercise we had our first military photo's taken and there's me, with a perfect red line across my throat to be remembered in posterity. Knob head. 

After a few more weeks, I started to get a pronounced limp, which my section Corporal said it reminded him of another word, beginning with W and ending in imp. I was not sleeping and I was not performing as I was expected. 

I was not able to take part in the final combat fitness test because of my wimp, sorry, I mean limp and I was forced to get back-squaded. This meant that I was not going to pass out with my mates and I would be moved to the rehab platoon. I was absolutely gutted and ready to jack it all in. I was more disappointed in myself and felt a complete failure. I was sent home on sick leave on the day of what should have been my pass out parade and I could hear the band playing on the parade square as I marched out the front gate. 

On my return, the remedial platoon was a lot different to life in training. We had more time to kill, we had lots of PT but it took into account our injuries. It was a build up and getting us ready to re-join training. The rehab platoon instructors were a lot different from my training instructors as they were all infantry and were from the Parachute Regiment or the Stafford's.  They were more down to earth and had time to go through things in more detail which allowed us to take things in. 

It turned out I had a fractured shin, caused by the impact of running. It is known as a stress fracture because the muscles in the leg start to pull the bone apart. It took until late July before there was a space in the Army Medical Services Company for me to re-join training I had to start at week 8 (It was a ten week course.) 

RAMC TRF

I had no real problems passing this time, everything was squared away and I aced the final exercise and passed out on a warm August day. Time to become a Combat Medic. 

BRITISH ARMY COMBAT MEDIC VETERAN

How it started.

My name is John Martin, I am a retired soldier with 21 years service and 6 tours of duty of various locations across the world under my belt. I had a career of peaks and troughs with blood, sweat, toil and tears, that lead me from the relative paradise of my home town to a world of various adventures and misadventures. 

Yours Truly: Op Herrick 10 (2009)

I served as a Combat Medical Technician (CMT) in the Royal Army Medical Corps, a job role I really enjoyed, particularly when looking after people... Sometimes in the strangest of places: This is my story. 

As a boy, I always felt a little out of place around my peers, I never really got on with other kids at school, I was more tolerated than accepted.. Then, not long after my thirteenth birthday, my father took me to the local Air Training Corps Squadron in Devizes. I awkwardly joined up to the Air Cadets and I soon found something I loved to do. 

Ok, yes, the Air Cadets was meant to be all about flying but that was few and far between. I really did enjoy the flying side and having mates I could rely on was massive for me but what I loved to do was 'go on exercise'. 

I was issued with two sets of uniform, one blue and one DPM camouflage. All military surplus from some very short soldiers and airmen. Badly fitting, poorly ironed and covered in mud (usually). I remember my first camp at Tilshead   Doing night navigation and military style hide and seek. The ATC didn't get rifles to play with, just vivid imaginations. It was basically playing soldiers for slightly too old kids and teenagers. A bit like Air-soft today. 

The Air Training Corps Crest.

My first summer camp was spent at RAF Northolt about the same time Sadam Hussain invaded Kuwait and a lot of focus was put on the military. I watched the news those few months, boyishly wanting to be out there, doing something, but obviously being only a 13 year old, this was not going to happen. But it was clear I was RAF barmy and I was clearly heading in the direction of a life with Brill cream and blue hats. 

Easter versus Summer Camps.

Life as a cadet in the ATC was split between cadet nights, every Tuesday and Thursday at the TA centre and later, La Marchant Barracks,  Easter Camp and Summer Camps were Green for Spring and Blue for the summer. Our Sqn Commander Flt Lt Gordon was ex RAF, to what capacity I don't remember, but had a huge green streak in him. He used to organise these mega exercises/camps on Salisbury plain often centred around Imber Village. All sorts of military and blank weapons were bought out by the mixed bag of cadet staff and regular service people and the exercise always culminated in a relatively spectacular final 'attack'. With flares, thunder flashes and blanks going off  while the unarmed cadets try and complete some rescue task. Massively fun. 

Summer camps were awesome to, seeing what the RAF got up to, seeing what their accommodation was like, enjoying flying etc. Also enjoyed  the chance to socialise and getting to meet the fairer sex. Dancing at the camp disco, well dancing was not really the word but moving, roughly in time to the music.   

RCAF Chipmunk. 

That said, it wasn't with out it struggles and tragedies: In the summer of 1993, I was on camp at RAF St Athan, I went flying in an RAF Chipmunk aircraft with a officer called Group Capt. Roger Sweatman.(RAF) He allowed 16 year old me to take the controls of the aeroplane, with lots of assistance, I did my first (and only) set of aerobatics. I did my own versions of a stall turn, barrel role and I managed to hit Zero G while doing a loop the loop. With his help I was also at the controls to land it. 

Sadly, the next day a good friend of mine got in the same aircraft (assumed), with the same pilot and crashed while attempting a non-engine landing. The pilot was killed and my friend was maimed for life. Rest in Peace Sir.

I also suffered a lot with bullying during this time, I hadn't learnt to stand up for myself and my social awkwardness was compounded by this. I would regularly find myself excluded socially which hurt a lot. But as I remember, things improved after a lad said the wrong thing to me one day and I snapped. The next thing I remember was being pulled off him and my form tutor taking me into the office while the other lad was lead off, nose bleeding after being rudely introduced to my right knee, to the school nurses office.

The following year, now aged 17, I had a big summer, I had two camps, one at RAF Gibraltar and the other at RAF Halton. Gib, as we called it was an amazing eye opener; for starters our first landing had to be aborted after touch down because of 'pedestrian' on the run way.  We were pretty much left to our own devices outside of 'work time' we explored the island and enjoyed drinking in the local bars and get very burnt on the beach. We were all treated, essentially as adults. A really nice feeling.  We also got a privileged look inside the 'Rock' and see all the defences inside and the hospital. I found the Rock Apes fascinating. Both types. 

RAF Halton was a little different, this was where I started to realise I had out grown the cadets. This camp was the coveted ATC Leadership course that few cadets got to attend. Here we learned about leadership, self-discipline and were taught about the basics of giving orders. 'SMEAC' as I recall. Situation, Mission, Execution, Any Questions, Comms? (I think. Its been 25 years.) anyway, I loved the routine of drill, exercises, fitness and more but blue wasn't going to be my colour.  

While with the cadets I was introduced to a former Search and Rescue helicopter pilot called Mr Brown: he would teach navigation, principles of flight and many other skills.  One day, he told me about how search and rescue operated. If they got a call out, but did not know the exact point of rescue, they would launch anyway and head in that general direction. They would get updates on route. This was a throw away story however it stuck with me and many years later, this would be my source on inspiration for helping change the way the British Army changed their Casualty Evacuation procedures. This I will explain in more detail in a later episode.

Again, 1994 was not without its tragedies, a good friend and one of our senior cadets: Cadet Flight Sgt Stephen Churchill started to act completely out of character and becoming really uncoordinated. We would later find out that Stephen had contracted the new variant Creutzelt-Jakob Disease (CJD). The incurable dementia like disease spread from infected bovine meats. He would pass away at the age of 19 the following year while I was still in Basic training. 

Heading into September and I turned 18, I needed a plan for myself:  I enrolled with the YTS Scheme and started doing training in estate management. One day at collage and four days of sweeping up leaves on an estate just outside of town. At the same time, I had a plan to join the Army and, having signed on the dotted line, I trained as hard as I could, running to work and back. The military being my main goal but keeping the other job as a back up. 

I did my Army selection at the Army Training Regiment Pirbright, a place I would later spend a long time at with two postings there. It was a daunting and cold place in early winter. The medical was a surprise, especially the cough and drop. It was before the days of the Human Rights Act or a need for personal privacy. We were all lined up in front of the doctor in our boxer/briefs and we were told to drop 'em.  

Next was our fitness test, this was pass or fail and consisted of: a three mile run in two halves - 1.5 miles as a squad and 1.5 miles individual. We had ten and a half minutes to complete it.  50 Push ups, 50 sit ups and 10 ten pull ups all within a set time limit. (Learn more about the modern British Army Fitness test here )

We were shown around the living accommodation and it was nothing like the RAF accommodation I had seen in the previous couple of years. Everything had a damp feel to it, all the recruits looked tired and all smoked and a few pretended they did as at the time, smokers got smoke breaks... those who didn't, cleared up rubbish. 

That evening we had a meet and greet with a beer. We all introduced ourselves and said why we all wanted to join the Army... I made something up along the lines of  "I wanted to make a difference" which seemed to impress the instructors. 

The next morning we were woken up early and put through our paces with initiative tests which meant moving objects from A to B via an obstacle surrounded by make believe mines. This was very similar to what I had previously experienced on the leadership course at RAF Halton so it was a breeze accept the shark infested custard had been replaced with a more serious object.

Early on the 9th Jan 1995, my Dad drove me to Chippenham Railway Station and waved me goodbye as I set off on my next big adventure... Basic Training: Destination unknown.... OK, ATR Litchfield, but that sounds less dramatic. 

Follow this Link to Part two of my Blog: