had been fighting in Helmand and Kandahar provinces all their lives. Soviet soldiers in the 1980s used to call them the dhuki – the ghosts. They’d arrive without warning, strike hard, and disappear into thin air.
Their tactics were as militarily adept as they were audacious. They were always up for a close-quarter battle; they were a world away from the ‘shoot and scoot’ insurgents of Iraq. Encirclement was their favourite tactic, even when they were outnumbered; they’d trap their enemy in a killing zone and then do their best to wipe them out. They wouldn’t withdraw unless it was absolutely obvious they were beaten – and sometimes not even then.
If you shot a Taliban warrior, one 5.56-mm bullet wouldn’t do. You’d have to put two or three in him. A lot of them were so smacked out they didn’t even feel the rounds. Their commanders kept them well supplied. And they didn’t do helicopter evacuations or trauma theatres on twenty-four-hour standby; they barely didfirst aid. If their men got shot, they died – so they just kept on coming.
APACHE TRIV … US 1ST … YEAH
‘What’s that, Mr Macy?’
‘Apache Trivia, sir. Their aircraft asks ours a question. You ask them one in return. The first crew to get an answer wrong makes the brews in the JHF.’
The rows over whose turn it was to make the brews had been horrendous before Apache Triv. It had become a bit of a tradition on our homebound flights. We always routed back to Bastion over the desert, where there was no threat to worry about. We could relax a little during the forty-five kilometres from Gereshk.
Carl went first. As the aircraft know-all, it was his favourite game. I always asked the weaponeering questions and Billy generally kept to flying questions, but Carl didn’t limit himself to the defensive aide suite. It was his Apache Triv downfall.
You were allowed to find the answer in your Flight Reference Cards, but the trick was to come up with a question they didn’t cover.
Carl adopted his smuggest tone. ‘Check Data.’
WHATS THE MAX OIL TEMP FOR THE NOSE GEARBOX … CARL
‘Hang on Boss, don’t say a word …’ I knew that one was in the Cards. Carl had screwed up, or was trying to be kind to the Boss. I grabbed them from the dashboard alcove.
134 DEGREES … ED
‘Check Data.’
DEGREES … WHAT …
CENTIGRADE … P**S BOY
CORRECT … JAMMY BUGGER
Our turn.
FLECHETTES … WHAT DISTANCE THEY COME OUT … +/– 50M … ED
The reply was instantaneous.
900M … CARL
Bollocks.
860M ACTUALLY … IN THE BRACKET … ED
Billy asked their second. It was immediate elimination now.
WHAT IS UNDER PANEL L330 … BILLY
‘What? Tell me that’s an in-house joke …’
‘Nope. That’s Billy for you, Boss. All I know is “L” means left-hand side.’
‘I had to learn this crap in the States. Whatever it is, it’s 330 inches back from the nose.’
It must have been a panel opening about halfway back.
‘That stinks.’ The Boss was indignant. ‘I bet he looked under some random panel before the sortie just so he could ask a bone question like that.’
It was exactly what Billy did. Regularly. It would be so obscure we’d never guess it.
‘You have control, I know what’s under it, Mr M.’
The Boss pounded his keyboard with his sausage fingers.
UNDER L330 IT SAYS … SCISSORS … PAPER … RANK … YOU LOSE … BOSS
WRONG … WRONG … WRONG … U2R THE P**S BOYS
‘I’ll make the brews Mr M, don’t worry. I’m the new boy.’
We were five minutes off from Camp Bastion.
‘Five Zero, Five One, we will lead you in.’
‘Copied.’
We crossed the A01 Highway at 3,000 feet.
‘Descending.’
Every descent was tactical. We never knew who was watching us or with what. I pushed the cyclic hard forward and lowered the collective, sinking the aircraft to the ground nose first. We dropped like a brick. With 500 feet to go, I pulled the cyclic back hard to throw the nose up against the wind, slamming a massive
Their tactics were as militarily adept as they were audacious. They were always up for a close-quarter battle; they were a world away from the ‘shoot and scoot’ insurgents of Iraq. Encirclement was their favourite tactic, even when they were outnumbered; they’d trap their enemy in a killing zone and then do their best to wipe them out. They wouldn’t withdraw unless it was absolutely obvious they were beaten – and sometimes not even then.
If you shot a Taliban warrior, one 5.56-mm bullet wouldn’t do. You’d have to put two or three in him. A lot of them were so smacked out they didn’t even feel the rounds. Their commanders kept them well supplied. And they didn’t do helicopter evacuations or trauma theatres on twenty-four-hour standby; they barely didfirst aid. If their men got shot, they died – so they just kept on coming.
APACHE TRIV … US 1ST … YEAH
‘What’s that, Mr Macy?’
‘Apache Trivia, sir. Their aircraft asks ours a question. You ask them one in return. The first crew to get an answer wrong makes the brews in the JHF.’
The rows over whose turn it was to make the brews had been horrendous before Apache Triv. It had become a bit of a tradition on our homebound flights. We always routed back to Bastion over the desert, where there was no threat to worry about. We could relax a little during the forty-five kilometres from Gereshk.
Carl went first. As the aircraft know-all, it was his favourite game. I always asked the weaponeering questions and Billy generally kept to flying questions, but Carl didn’t limit himself to the defensive aide suite. It was his Apache Triv downfall.
You were allowed to find the answer in your Flight Reference Cards, but the trick was to come up with a question they didn’t cover.
Carl adopted his smuggest tone. ‘Check Data.’
WHATS THE MAX OIL TEMP FOR THE NOSE GEARBOX … CARL
‘Hang on Boss, don’t say a word …’ I knew that one was in the Cards. Carl had screwed up, or was trying to be kind to the Boss. I grabbed them from the dashboard alcove.
134 DEGREES … ED
‘Check Data.’
DEGREES … WHAT …
CENTIGRADE … P**S BOY
CORRECT … JAMMY BUGGER
Our turn.
FLECHETTES … WHAT DISTANCE THEY COME OUT … +/– 50M … ED
The reply was instantaneous.
900M … CARL
Bollocks.
860M ACTUALLY … IN THE BRACKET … ED
Billy asked their second. It was immediate elimination now.
WHAT IS UNDER PANEL L330 … BILLY
‘What? Tell me that’s an in-house joke …’
‘Nope. That’s Billy for you, Boss. All I know is “L” means left-hand side.’
‘I had to learn this crap in the States. Whatever it is, it’s 330 inches back from the nose.’
It must have been a panel opening about halfway back.
‘That stinks.’ The Boss was indignant. ‘I bet he looked under some random panel before the sortie just so he could ask a bone question like that.’
It was exactly what Billy did. Regularly. It would be so obscure we’d never guess it.
‘You have control, I know what’s under it, Mr M.’
The Boss pounded his keyboard with his sausage fingers.
UNDER L330 IT SAYS … SCISSORS … PAPER … RANK … YOU LOSE … BOSS
WRONG … WRONG … WRONG … U2R THE P**S BOYS
‘I’ll make the brews Mr M, don’t worry. I’m the new boy.’
We were five minutes off from Camp Bastion.
‘Five Zero, Five One, we will lead you in.’
‘Copied.’
We crossed the A01 Highway at 3,000 feet.
‘Descending.’
Every descent was tactical. We never knew who was watching us or with what. I pushed the cyclic hard forward and lowered the collective, sinking the aircraft to the ground nose first. We dropped like a brick. With 500 feet to go, I pulled the cyclic back hard to throw the nose up against the wind, slamming a massive
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