Battleworn Read Free

It’s the ‘snatch’ Land Rover. It was designed for tasks in Northern Ireland and deployed disastrously to Basra, in southern Iraq, after the initial invasion. It was later shipped to Helmand, and it became the focus of media controversy after numerous incidents which resulted in fatalities in both Iraq and Afghanistan.
    It was nothing more than a money-saving choice for Helmand, and I was unlucky enough to become very familiar with the machine (and grateful not to be the interpreter sitting in the back). Its box body was not fit for the purpose: anyone sitting in the rear would often boil, even with the later addition of air conditioning. Limited armour also ensured that it would not withstand small arms for prolonged periods, let alone any type of high-energy explosive.
    Spending hours in any vehicle will give you an intimate look at all the good and bad points, and this knowledge is priceless to those buying such equipment. Trialling a military kit could be done far more effectively if the terrain on which it is trialled is similar to the place where it ends up operationally. Testing the snatch Land Rover in Lashkar Gah is a lot like throwing a child into the deep end of a swimming pool and expecting him to immediately start swimming like Michael Phelps.
    Lash is where the provincial reconstruction team (PRT) is based. They are a joint team comprised of Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) staff and civilian advisors from the Ministry of Defence (MOD). With military support, they plan the strategic development and reconstruction of the region. Based on this information, I figured we’d be out of the base for forty-eight hours maximum, and I packed my kit and equipment accordingly.
    Meanwhile, our vehicles continue to progress through the desert, the drivers peering through the thick sandstorm our convoy has whipped up. I breathe in diesel fumes mixed with the dry, musky scent of the desert. The smell of diesel and hot air instantly reminds me of time spent in Iraq in the summer of 2003. In the stifling heat, I am thirsty and my back is soaking wet. My skull bakes like pie crust inside my helmet.
    Afghanistan is landlocked in the bowl of the Hindu Kush, with mountains that go on forever. The landscape is severe but beautiful, and the place has a biblical feel to it. I served in Iraq, Kosovo, and Sierra Leone, but nowhere else is like Afghanistan – it isn’t just another country … it’s another mindset.
    Winters are bleak, and summers are marked by cloudless blue skies, with temperatures topping 140 degrees. The dry climate and harsh environment have the ability to deliver beauty in the springtime as the fields of Helmand blossom with red-pink flowers. The ‘death crop’ of southern Afghanistan is harvested from these fields. While in full flower, the opium poppies present a picture-perfect look, but for many years they have funded war and criminality.
    More than 90 per cent of the world’s heroin supply comes from poppies cultivated here. The country’s illegal drug business generates $4 billion a year – half the nation’s gross domestic product. 1 A big slice of this money buys the Taliban the guns that we are driving towards.
    These facts flit through my brain as we drive along. We often hear in briefings that thirty Taliban have been killed here, another forty there. But they just keep coming, in their kameezes and worn-out shoes. The kameez is part of the traditional way of dress for local Afghan men, its light fabric making it the perfect choice for the harsh sun of Afghanistan. It has an adopted layer system; you can add layers or take them away as you wish. In the extreme cold, Afghans use a blanket as a type of shawl; their traditional dress suits the environment perfectly. Observing their attire has caused me to wonder why we haven’t adopted a policy of using examples of the local attire during wartime, and making it work for us. We disadvantage ourselves by not thinking like the indigenous