Apache

EPILOGUE

The AAC hierarchy felt quite rightly that Mathew’s family should be allowed time to grieve before the story of Jugroom Fort was made public. Colonel Sexton decreed that until then the whole rescue should remain under wraps.

The MoD asked for some gun tape clips to release to the media in due course – but a still from my footage of Hearn on Geordie’s wing as they flew into the fort was leaked in advance. Within twenty-four hours it was on every British TV news channel and in every national newspaper. The following day it was being broadcast across the world. We were astonished.

Luckily for me Op Minimise was on and we couldn’t phone home for two days. It was no easy task explaining it all to Emily.

There were no official probes into our actions at the fort. Nothing more was ever said about disciplinary proceedings. We did hear that the MoD had asked some pretty serious questions when they saw the official reports. Word filtered out that they were unhappy about the Release to Service stuff, but again, nothing was ever said to us.

There was no second attempt by 3 Commando Brigade to enter Jugroom Fort – which left Geordie with the dubious title of being the British serviceman who’d got furthest inside the place. From what I hear, he still holds it.

In the days that followed, a whole lot of stuff emerged about that extraordinary day. The Taliban’s losses had been considerable. A GCHQ intercept revealed that a senior commander was killed in the fighting. The attack had so enraged them that they hit the Garmsir DC for three whole days and nights in reprisal.

Our CO was summoned to Lashkar Gah for a good old-fashioned interview without coffee with Brigadier Jerry Thomas. It turned out he had rung the brigadier from Kandahar at the height of the crisis to tell him there would be no Apache rescue attempt. It had not gone down well. The brigadier reminded him in no uncertain terms who was in command in Helmand, on the day and again during the interview.

I felt sorry for the CO; he’d been fed incorrect information about what was happening at the fort by his headquarters in Kandahar. He’d stuck his neck out, trying to help, and got bollocked for it in the process. I didn’t care much that he’d bollocked us without asking what had happened first. We had felt betrayed by him, but in the end he’d let himself down, not us. But I struggle to forgive him for his treatment of Major Christopher James, the Boss.

We also discovered that Zulu Company’s commander, a Royal Marine major, had been relieved of his command by Colonel Magowan moments before the rescue began. He’d let the men of Zulu Company down badly. After being given a direct order to prepare the assault many hours before, he’d failed to brief his men and didn’t get the Viking vehicles prepped to cross the Helmand River.

A British company commander had not been dismissed from his post in the field for many years. Understand-ably, it prompted a huge amount of very painful soul-searching among the marines – whose officers’ leadership was traditionally second to none.

Back in the UK, a board of inquiry was established by the Royal Navy Headquarters to find out what went wrong, and why Mathew Ford died. It went into everything: the mission, the initial orders, the Zulu Company assault, why five marines were instantly shot, the sacking, and how Mathew was left behind. It took a year and seven months to complete. Its conclusions were equally painful – and staggeringly honest.

First, it found that Mathew Ford and the four other marines wounded at the fort wall could have been all shot by a Royal Marine machine-gunner on one of the rear Vikings in the Zulu Company attack column, just after 7am. The gunner heard bangs coming from through the wall, and opened fire on the gap, thinking he was doing the right thing. Contrary to what everyone thought, it wasn’t the seething masses of Taliban in the tunnels, the village or the fort that had got any of them after all; it was one lethal burst of friendly fire. The devastated young marine admitted what he’d done immediately and was sent straight home, his nerves shot to pieces.

Mathew Ford was left behind because of confusion over two Fords – Lance Corporal Mathew Ford, and Marine Ford, who was already safe by this point. That confusion existed primarily because Zulu Company were withdrawing under fire and the Sergeant Major didn’t use zap numbers – the special few letters and numbers each serviceman has that are unique to them – to report his casualties.

It also revealed the full extent of Mathew’s injuries. A total of three bullets had entered Mathew’s body; he took a round in the bicep and a round in the chest, as well as the round in the head. When we picked him up, I had only seen the head wound.

The bicep wound wasn’t serious. The pathologist ruled that the chest wound was very serious, but there was a chance that Mathew could have survived it had he received immediate medical help. The chest wound was almost certainly caused by the machine-gunner – the round was analysed and found to be 7.62-mm NATO issue. The pathologist also said the head wound would have killed Mathew ‘almost instantaneously’. It was impossible to ascertain whether that bullet had been fired by friendly or enemy forces, as it had fragmented on entry.

Who fired that third bullet, the head wound bullet and when it was fired are the crucial questions. This is what is most sad of all: if the head bullet had been fired by the marine machine-gunner, what I don’t understand is how Mathew could still have been warm on the thermal camera throughout our guarding him, and then still warm more than three and a half hours later when I got to him at 10.40am. There was a ground temperature of five degrees Celsius at the fort that morning – low enough to turn a body cold pretty quickly. He burned white hot on Billy’s FLIR screen lying there all the time.

It’s an anomaly that suggests that Mathew’s head wound could have been caused by a (possibly) ricochet Taliban bullet fired later – perhaps a lot later. If Zulu Company had picked Mathew up before they withdrew, or if we’d got to him earlier, could any of us have saved his life? The answer, none of us will ever know.

That wasn’t all the board revealed. Remarkably, it quite clearly also established that, despite their series of serious errors, the chaos at the fort was to a substantial extent not Zulu Company’s fault. It was found that the company hadn’t been trained back in the UK for war fighting in Afghanistan. Their sacked commander hadn’t done the company commander’s course, and was only put in charge of them four weeks before they left for Afghanistan. And the sub-unit hadn’t even conducted live firing training together – the most basic of all company tasks.

Zulu Company were given the relatively benign job of security patrolling in Kabul for the tour and even this was asking too much from a unit that had not prepared for war fighting in Afghanistan.

Knowing that, it’s little wonder that the rookie machine-gunner accidentally shot his own men, that the sergeant major didn’t use zap numbers during this attack, and that the company commander couldn’t give the leadership needed. I feel very sorry for all three of those men; they carry round a terrible weight, unfairly.

At the start of the tour, Brigadier Thomas had asked the MoD for an extra manoeuvre battlegroup to carry out everything that was expected of 3 Commando Brigade in Helmand – especially securing Garmsir and carrying out Operation Glacier. Despite countless promises from the Prime Minister about commanders in Afghanistan getting everything they asked for, his request was flatly refused. Instead, the brigadier was told to make do with what he already had, and generate any extra attack forces from his existing establishment. In other words, if Garmsir was to be held he had little choice but to send undertrained men into the most ferocious battle.

Knowing all of that, it’s hard not to form a pretty depressing conclusion about Jugroom Fort: Mathew Ford probably died because the government gave the guys on the ground far too little and asked of them far too much.

Operation Glacier continued, with the three further planned attacks passing off as intended.

Glacier 3 set out to smash a relay post – the Cruciform – for enemy fighters five kilometres south of Garmsir. But the attacking force arrived to find it had already been vacated; there were not enough men in the area to man it and fight the DC – strong evidence that the enemy’s command chain was already in tatters.

Glacier 4 and 5 were both ground assaults launched from the DC southwards. The Taliban remnants marshalled into the killing fields, exactly where Colonel Magowan wanted them – all he had to do was come and get them. Hundreds of marines and Afghan National Army soldiers, backed by Apaches and fast air, swept through two kilometres of abandoned farmland, destroying everything in their way. With nowhere to run to, the Taliban were routed.

The Garmsir DC was never retaken by the Taliban. The enemy’s southern MSR was totally severed, and many hundreds of them were killed. Most important of all, Glacier had bought the marines the time they so desperately needed to consolidate. Yet its benefits could only ever be temporary. With the Task Force never being afforded enough troops to hold any of the ground the marines had fought so hard to win, the Taliban eventually reorganised and regrouped in the south – as Colonel Magowan predicted.

Jugroom Fort was reinfiltrated, and at the time of writing, the Taliban are still there. By the spring, sporadic fighting had returned to Garmsir; killing two of the Grenadier Guardsmen who inherited the DC when the marines left in April. By late summer the hard fighting had resumed. After the guardsmen, it was the Household Cavalry Regiment’s turn – and that’s where Prince Harry earned his military spurs. He was a JTAC in Garmsir for two months, operating under the callsign Widow Six Seven. The publicity shots showed him firing a .5 calibre machine gun off JTAC Hill, which meant that by Christmas 2007 – after ten months of regrouping – the Taliban, yet again, weren’t far from the DC’s gates.

656 Squadron went home at the end of February 2007, the day of my departure coinciding exactly with Glacier’s finale. But I couldn’t leave without having to sit down for one final ammo tally with Kev Blundell. The Boss and the CO wanted the statistical data for 9 Regiment Army Air Corps’ final tour of Afghanistan before handing over to 3 Regiment. Only by working out the cost of particular operations and how much the individuals fire, can we plan for future operations.

Kev told me I’d personally fired more ammunition on this tour than the entire squadron had in the whole of the previous summer – some £2.5 million worth of weaponry. To be precise: twenty-six Hellfire missiles, fifty-four Flechette rockets and 4,120 cannon rounds.

The Koshtay raid proved to be (and still is) the most expensive single British Apache sortie in history. In our thirty-two minutes over the target area, we expended £1,060,794.20 of ammunition; or £33,149.82 every minute.

The fastest rate of fire award rightfully went to Charlotte and Tony. They put down £426,353.36 worth in six minutes over Jugroom, protecting us in and then out of the fort with Mathew Ford. They still hold that record today, and I can’t see it ever being beaten.

When we got home, I had to confess to Emily that I had returned from the fort with my life but no angel. Emily likes to think she served her purpose and wasn’t needed any more. My daughter insists she guided Mathew on his way. I’m a realist, so know what I believe: she remains MIA.

We got a chance to look at the newspaper coverage our families had kept for us. We found out more about Mathew and what sort of a guy he was. I think I would have really liked him.

He was the oldest of three brothers and known to everyone as an outgoing but gentle giant. Mathew’s mother Joan initially talked him out of his lifelong ambition to join the forces; she persuaded him to become a car mechanic instead. After seven years in the local garage, he decided to sign up anyway, telling Joan: ‘I’ve done what you wanted; now it’s my turn.’ Joan gave him her complete support, and told Mathew she was hugely proud of him when he earned his green beret. Joan didn’t want him to go to Afghanistan, his first combat tour. Mathew reassured her, telling her he’d be all right.

He was buried on 1 February – seven days after he was due to fly home from Afghanistan – with full military honours in St Andrew’s Church in Immingham, north-east Lincolnshire, the town where he’d grown up. He was thirty years old.

On a still, cold morning beneath a blue sky, his hearse was driven through Immingham at walking pace so the hundreds of mourners who lined the route could see him as he passed. His coffin was draped in a Union Flag and decorated with flower arrangements: ‘Son’, ‘Brother’ and ‘Maff’.

A bearer party from 45 Commando carried Mathew into the church, with Joan, Dad Bootsy Lewis and his fiancée Ina Reid following behind.

Mathew and Ina lived together in Dundee, where Ina was studying for her degree. They had met three years before – shortly after Mathew was posted to 45 Commando, based at RM Condor in nearby Arbroath – and instantly fallen in love. After almost six years of service, Mathew was planning on getting out of the Marines to settle down and have a family with her. He wanted to be a fireman or a policeman, but most of all he wanted to be a daddy.

The church was so full that many had to stand outside where loudspeakers relayed the service. The priest read out a message from Ina.

Mathew is buried in the new section of the graveyard and a bench has been placed opposite his grave for the many visitors that come and pay their respects for a man that made the ultimate sacrifice for us all.

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.

I take sensible but not overly paranoid precautions to protect myself and my family. All my post goes to a special PO Box, I don’t vote, and I don’t have any contracts. My name doesn’t appear on any register or bill and I don’t even own my own home – I’m pretty much invisible. To anyone who wants to find me, I’m untraceable. Which does make getting a residents’ parking permit a pain in the arse.

But I’m not the sort of person to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder or worrying if some radical extremist will wake me up in the middle of the night with a 9-mm silenced pistol. Truth be told, I rarely give it a second thought. The one thing my service taught me is that life’s too short to worry.