After Kajaki, we hit Now Zad, then back to Camp Bastion, south down to Lashkar Gah where the Chinook had passengers to pick up, Bastion again, and finally back up to Forward Operating Base Robinson near Sangin.
The clouds finally began to clear on our last leg over the desert, treating us to a perfect blood orange sunset.
‘I can see clearly now the rain has gone…’ I started to sing.
There was never going to be a better moment.
‘Five Zero, Five One; there’s something rattling by my door. Check the nearside of my aircraft with your TADS, will you?’
Billy pulled level with us and Trigger swung his Day TV camera onto our cockpit.
‘Ho, ho, ho!’
I’d taken off my helmet for a few seconds and pulled on a red and white Father Christmas hat to give them a wave. For the first time since we’d got up it began to feel like Christmas Day.
We were back too late for turkey and stuffing in the cookhouse, so we scrubbed up and joined the squadron party. It was being held in our newly acquired recreation tent. A stage and makeshift bar were set up, the place was rigged out with tinsel and a sparkly silver tree, and we all piled in to enjoy a rare drink.
Alcohol was banned for all British troops across Helmand. On Christmas night a special exception was made and everyone was allowed two cans of beer. Only the four IRT / HRF pilots had to stay dry. They went to the party in full flying rig ready for the call-out if it came. Luckily, it didn’t.
Every section performed a sketch, taking the mickey out of all the squadron characters. These could go on for hours, but the good ones were comic genius. Instead of a sketch, 2 Flight played us a film they’d spent countless hours crafting, a pastiche of Top Gun with footage from the movie edited in.
The highlight of the evening was Darwin’s Kangaroo Court; all the better because he had no idea it was coming. As soon as the entertainment finished, he was held firmly by both arms and tried then and there. The charge: ‘Wilful betrayal of the Warrant Officers and Sergeants’ Mess by forming a secret alliance with the officers – namely, by telling them who had their Christmas presents.’ The jury agreed it was a most heinous offence. There was a prosecution, a defence and the Boss was the judge.
‘Right, bring in the guilty bastard.’ Trigger opened the proceedings. The evidence was presented with all the venom of a Stalin show trial. Darwin was left with little choice but to plead guilty.
‘Guilty is the correct plea,’ Trigger decreed. ‘You have been convicted and I hereby sentence you to wearing your flying suit and helmet throughout the whole of your next evening meal in the cookhouse.’
We sat on our cots at the end of the evening and opened our presents. The Boss joined us, and set up his camcorder so he could send the video home to his kids. We took it in turns. I opened my kids’ presents first and then Emily’s. She’d written Open Last on one; by the time I got round to it, everyone else had finished.
‘Right, Mr Macy, only one left.’ Trigger grabbed his camera. ‘I’m going to film you opening it.’
I undid the bow and unwrapped a beautiful little red box. I thought it would contain cufflinks or something, but there was a tiny Christmas stocking inside it. In the stocking was a tiny card. I couldn’t speak.
‘Come on Mr Macy, what is it? Hey guys look, is that a tear on Macy’s face? Macy’s crying!’
I rediscovered my voice. ‘I’m not crying; my eyes are sweating. And take that camera out my face.’
‘So what’s she written then?’
She’d written four words. Congratulations. We are pregnant.
I raced to the telephones. Emily was four months gone. Going back to Afghanistan wasn’t planned, and we never dreamed we’d be this lucky. She kept the whole thing a secret for as long as she could so as not to worry me.
‘Don’t worry about me, I’m just relieved I can tell my family now. Don’t do anything stupid; I don’t want to be forced to name him Ed Macy. Especially if he turns out to be a girl.’
‘Ed Macy?’
‘Yes, that’s what he’ll be called if you do something stupid. Are you carrying the angel?’
When I got back to the tent, all the others had gone to sleep. I poured myself a whisky from the emergency-only bottle I kept hidden in the bottom of my bag. I was going to be a father for the third time and I was the happiest man in Camp Bastion. That was worth a dram in the dark.
The only downside about Christmas on operations was that it finished. Afterwards, the squadron hit the usual post-big occasion blues. We were halfway through the tour, with another two months to go and no more cans of Christmas beer to look forward to. And fatigue was setting in.
The longer we were out here, the more knackered people looked. Since everything we did was devoted to saving life or taking it, the mental pressure was intense – and not only in the air. One sloppy drill by a young refueller or one of the boys loading weapons on the flight line could be catastrophic. Keeping 100 per cent focused for 100 days without a break was tough, especially if you were eighteen years old.
Everyone’s workload was horrendous because we were still brand new – we were developing and learning lessons on the Apache and changing procedures every single day. Everything had to be evaluated and reported, be it weapons functions for me, aircraft threats for Carl or the flight envelope for Billy.
Afghanistan took its toll physically too. The climate – wind, sand, heat and cold – was relentless. Young guys came back looking like men. Undisturbed sleep, as our Crew Rest Period rules required, was the last thing we got in a sleeping bag on a camp cot with perpetual aircraft noise and people coming and going all night.
Cumulative fatigue was the official name for it – burnout for short. It was hard to spot because we were all weathering at the same rate. As the tour went on, the Boss made a point of policing Crew Rest Period ever more religiously. He had to give direct orders.
‘Geordie, bed, now!’
It would be left to his 2i/c to police the Boss, who was the most reluctant of all to leave the JHF. One or two started to get a little fractious, but most were too professional for that. People became quieter, preserving their energy for the job. The senior guys had to make a real effort to keep up the banter and morale.
Little accidents could happen easily. For pilots that might mean overtorquing an engine; for Groundies, putting rockets in the wrong tubes. Billy dragged all the pilots in for a brief the day after Boxing Day, and warned them to be careful about getting bitten by the aircraft.
‘My advice is, take a little bit longer doing everything you do. You may all think you’re absolutely okay. I promise you, you’re not.’
The constant stream of VIP visits was yet another addition to our workload. It wasn’t just the political party leaders – a constant stream of defence ministers, foreign ministers, shadow defence ministers, shadow foreign ministers, military chiefs and foreign military chiefs passed through Bastion. They thought they were doing us a favour, showing their solidarity with the chaps. We could never tell them they were a pain in the arse. VIPs tied up valuable airtime and resources; they all needed to be choppered about, and of course they all wanted to crawl all over the Apaches. Even Billy started to get bored with his bigwigs speech.