Bootsy lovingly tends the grave, a ten-minute walk from the family’s home. Joan visits it daily, and Ina comes down from Dundee every few weeks. Delivering a red rose, she often lies down beside Mathew, and tells him about her life.
Back at Dishforth three months after our return, Billy, Geordie, Nick and I were asked to go down to 3 Commando Brigade’s HQ, Stonehouse Barracks in Plymouth, to meet Prince Philip. As Captain-General of the Royal Marines, he wanted to hear about their Helmand tour. We were told they wanted to thank us for our contribution at Jugroom Fort.
We were met at the landing site by two staff cars and whisked off to the officers’ mess, where a plethora of majors and colonels were waiting in a line.
‘What’s going on here?’ Billy whispered, as confused as I was. This kind of welcoming committee was mighty unusual for a few ageing warrant officers and a junior captain.
I shook Colonel Magowan’s hand. He just grinned at me.
‘Let me explain why you’re really here,’ said the brigade’s chief of staff. ‘Which one of you is which?’ He turned to me.
‘What’s your name?’
‘WO1 Macy, Sir.’
‘No, you’re WO1 Macy MC. Congratulations.’ He shook my hand. He turned to Geordie.
‘Staff Casey, sir.’
‘Now it’s Staff Sgt Casey MC.’
The chief of staff repeated the performance for Billy and Nick, who were both awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. Billy’s DFC had arrived after all, and when he was least expecting it.
They explained that Geordie and I had got our awards for what we did on the ground at Jugroom, while Billy and Nick got theirs for bravery in the air. Military Crosses had never been given to Army Air Corps personnel before; we weren’t supposed to fight on the ground. The champagne came out from behind the bar and flowed in true Royal Marine style.
Finally we were ushered into a large hall along with nearly a hundred marines to meet Prince Philip. He’d come down to Stonehouse to congratulate everyone on the Operational Honours List due for publication the following day.
‘And these are the pilots who flew into the Jugroom Fort to rescue Lance Corporal Ford,’ the 3 Commando Brigade commander told the Prince when our turn came. The old Duke surveyed the four of us with a furrowed brow and issued his trademark grunt.
‘Yes…’ he said. ‘Are you all mad?’
A week later, Emily gave birth to a healthy baby boy.
In December, I was asked to Buckingham Palace, along with Geordie, Billy, Nick and Dave Rigg.
I was only allowed three guests but managed to take Emily, my son and daughter – and the baby strapped to the nearest grab handle. It was the first time in my entire military career I’d worn ceremonial Blues. It would also be my last – I was getting out of the army in a few weeks and I was already on resettlement leave.
We stood near the end of a very long investiture line in the palace’s giant ballroom, exchanging discreet banter. Dave Rigg got the biggest ribbing for leaving his rifle at the fort.
As we shuffled forward, waiting for our turn to come, I realised I’d never stand in uniform beside Billy, Geordie and Nick again. I knew then what I’d miss about the army. Not the pomp and ceremony, nor the laurels if you did something right (and definitely not the bollockings when we went too far). I’d miss serving alongside my friends.
Dave Rigg went first. Then it was my turn to approach the dark red dais. I wasn’t at all nervous, and to the disdain of the equerry I gave my family a wave before setting off.
‘And you must be the pilot,’ Her Majesty said, as I took the final step towards her. She was handed my Military Cross. ‘Were you very scared?’ This was a real honour. She hadn’t said more than two words to most of the folk before us.
‘Not really ma’am, it was all so fast…’
She wanted to know what happened, so I told her. I tried to keep it as concise as possible as she hung the cross on my left breast pocket. The Queen patted it flat for me and stepped back slightly, lifting her eyebrows as I spoke and nodding gently. After twenty seconds I realised I was rabbiting on a bit, so I ended my story quickly.
‘You must have been very proud of what you tried to do,’ she said.
‘Today is my proudest day ever ma’am,’ I responded.
‘Not because I’m meeting you…’ No I didn’t mean that… ‘because I’ve been given the chance to bring my family to meet my Queen.’
Her polite smile widened into a grin and then in to a delightful chuckle. I must stop chatting…
‘This is my last day in uniform ever ma’am. It’s the greatest day of my life.’ I knew I was losing it, and she did too.
The Queen started to laugh and thankfully placed her hand in mine for the final shake. It was soft but firm and before I knew what was happening she’d thrust it forward, forcing me to take a step back – a well-practised manoeuvre to signal that the audience was over, and it was Geordie’s turn in the limelight. As I walked backwards away from her, the Queen continued to chuckle.
Billy, Geordie, Nick and I and our families went to a hotel round the corner to celebrate.
There was no hiding what had happened from the kids. Mine wanted to know why the Queen only spoke to the four of us and, more importantly, what I had said to make her laugh. My daughter guessed it straight away. ‘I bet she asked you a question and then regretted it. She did, didn’t she, Dad?’
I officially left the British Army in January 2008 after twenty-three years’ service and 3,930 helicopter flying hours, 645 of them in an Apache. I was a born soldier and fighting from the cockpit of an Apache helicopter on operations was the pinnacle of my career.
It was also the last straw. As much as I love the army, the machine and the amazing years it gave me, sooner or later, being away from your family and the worry they go through gets to us all.
The squadron looks very different now; I wasn’t the only one to leave after that tour. Now, eighteen months on from the second tour, none of the original Apache pilots are serving with 656 Squadron.
Very shortly, Trigger and two of the four that joined us at the end of 2006 will take thirteen new pilots back out to Camp Bastion for the squadron’s third tour of southern Afghanistan. They are lucky people: no pilot could ask for a better leader in the field than the Boss.
Charlotte is his Ops Officer, but plans to leave the army after one final tour of the Helmand to ‘make some money’. She will.
Nick went over to 664 Squadron as their Ops Officer and did a third Helmand tour in the summer of 2008. He plans to stay in and I hope he goes as far as we all predicted; the Army Air Corps needs heroes.
FOG left the army at the same time as I did, to fly MD Explorers for the Police.
Darwin, Geordie and Carl were promoted to WO2; Darwin completed his instructional courses and now teaches students to fly Apaches at Middle Wallop; and Geordie was posted to a specialist military unit to fly civilian helicopters. The two are still incorrigible whenever they are together.
Promotion came too late for Carl and we lost him to the Australian Army. He emigrated to fly the Tiger attack helicopter for the Australian Defence Force and the shrewd Aussies promoted him to captain too.
Billy took a commission and is now a captain, serving as the Assistant Regimental QHI of another Army Air Corps regiment. It’s one more step closer to his ultimate dream – to be the most senior pilot in the Corps. He deserves that too.
Because of what we did in Afghanistan, we were told there would always be a threat to us back home in the UK. The more we do, the more the Taliban and their sympathisers hate us; it’s the price of success. It’s why the MoD affords Apache pilots the same protection as Special Forces; our real names or photographs are never publicly released without our signed permission.