Home and Back Again - The miss-adventures of Exercise African Thorn...
The one area that the British Army excelled in was its ability to put on an overseas training exercise… I learnt this as a soldier in 2007 when, prior to my journey to become an Officer, we deployed to the South African Combat Training Centre in an area called Lohatla which sits roughly in-between Kimberley and Upington in South Africa… Frankly it is in the arse-end of nowhere – I assume this was planned.
In truth, what this exercise showed me was that no matter what crazy idea you might have for training, as long as you sell it to the right people, it will happen. This was a massive lesson I took into my career which followed and something which I still aim to use today… Sell the value of the idea rather than the idea itself.
Home and Back Again – The miss-adventures of Exercise African Thorn…
Proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance…
Much like everything up until this point in the Army, something which started out with shouting merged into a massive adventure and then ended in shouting… Our exercise started months before we actually set off on it. Packing lists ruled our lives for a significant time before we stepped out the door. We checked, double checked and triple checked our kit against these lists to ensure we had everything we needed. Time, and time again, we formed half circles around our Section Commanders where they read off the list and we showed them the related item… Who says micromanagement wasn’t alive and kicking in the military…? Whilst the monotony of regular kit checks and being shouted at becomes tiresome, the fact is that if they did not happen, people would forget stuff.
Kit, holistically, is an important part of life in the Forces. To understand this, you need to understand a term which resonates with every serving man, and woman, in the Forces… “Gucci (Like the designer) kit” – In basic training you were required to train with the base, stock standard, equipment and once you are free of that, your military life is open to the world of “Gucci kit” – this is basically the term for civilian produced, high quality, replacements for your stock standard stuff… And purchase kit you did! Better boots, better warm kit, better sleeping bags – your drive for better equipment was only limited by the depth of your pockets. The general rule, in the Army, was that the more “Gucci kit” that you had, the better the soldier you were (Or that is what you hoped).
Preparation is a pillar of Army life – Weapon, kit then self is the mantra you learn to live by. After months of kit checks, multiple purchases of all the “Gucci kit” you thought you would need, bundling weapons, umpteen visits to the med centre for inoculations and more briefings than you can shake a stick at it was time to begin the trip to my home country with a Company of Infantry in tow.
A hop, skip and jump over the ocean…
What the army advertisements do not tell you is that travelling within the forces is not the type of idyllic holiday travel you might think it could be… I would actually compare it to a bad experience on a cost-effective airline traveling from a lesser known aerodrome somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I suppose the adage, “You can only rock with the c**k you got,” plays true for the RAF when it comes to Forces related travel. In 2007, we had no new troop transport planes, in fact the plane of choice back then was a VC10 – This plane had a number of wonderful features… 2 lavatories for 150 people and, my utter favourite, non-reclining rear facing chairs.
Once again, the senses were overwhelmed by the pungent aromas of a plane filled with 130 soldiers who had been fed far too much protein and beer during their last 24hrs in the UK. Sounds emanated from the cabin of the plane which were more suited for an exhibit at the local zoo. Snoring, farting, belching and the occasional song were the flavour of the flight. Between the uncomfortable chairs, the noise and the smells I would have rather been stuck in the Seventh Circle of Dante’s Hell – Violence.
The flight from the UK to South Africa was broken up into two legs which saw us land on an island which many people would not have heard of. Ascension Island is a tiny, 88m2, volcanic island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean which served as the refuel point for the US bombing raids in World War 2. I, for one, had no idea that this idyllic little paradise existed and could only imagine what it was like being stationed on it during WW2. An overnight stop allowed us to explore the island, visit the turquoise waters and start our acclimatisation for the tremendous heat which would bear down on us when we were to reach Lohatla.
A beautiful morning sunrise was interrupted by the expected shouting and visions of being stuck on the plane for another 8 hours filled me with just the right amount of dread that I expected. We were shepherded onto coaches and ferried down to the airport where the VC10 was waiting just where we had left it the day before.
God bless the rains down in Africa…
Flying over South Africa has always been one of my favourite things when I have come home. The variety of landscape always amazes me. Very rarely had I had the chance to fly in from the West coast over the Namibian desert which stretched all the way from the coast through to the barren Karoo. Mountains of moving sand which gradually embrace everything in their path – there is so much beauty in the barrenness of it all.
We landed in Bloemfontein South African Air Force Base and were welcomed by a menagerie of South African Army personnel which came in all shapes and sizes – round is still a size. It was an almost comical interaction between our hierarchy and the various officers of the SANDF (South African National Defence Force)… I imagine that, regardless of how well planned the exercise was, there was some administration error on the SANDF side and the information that we would be arriving with 200 5.56mm automatic-rifles (SA80-A2), 12 7.62mm general purpose machine guns (GPMG), 12 81mm mortars and enough ammunition to take over a small country had somehow missed the desk of the air-force base’s commander. After longer than I would have hoped, the issue was cleared up and we were on our way West to the South African Army Combat Training Centre Lohatla.
The road was long and the SANDF supplied coaches were, as expected, well used and in need of some serious TLC. The 2-hour journey took us through many desolate areas interspersed with small farms. The fact that people could survive, and live, in such harsh areas made me think back to my time in Iraq observing the locals and how they lived. It always amazed me, and still does, how resilient the human race can be when faced with hardship.
Far in the distance thunder clouds congregate. I imagined the ground welcoming the water, insects and animals coming out of their burrows to bask as the cool droplets gave a brief respite from the harsh sun. These brief storms are a common feature of the open plains of Africa – it is the phenomenon Toto sang about all those years ago.
The day the earth stood still…
The tactical exercise was set to be run over 6 days. These 6 days consisted of a number of repeating activities:
- Establish a patrol harbour.
- Conduct reconnaissance patrol (We want to see where the enemy is).
- Report back to patrol harbour with information.
- Conduct Orders (The mechanism by which you are briefed on what is going to happen).
- Conduct fighting patrol (We want to advance and engage the enemy).
- Conduct extraction.
- Move to new patrol harbour location.
In real terms, the way we were training was not aimed holistically at the wars we were currently fighting (Iraq, Afghanistan, etc.), it was targeted at a traditional battlefield where there were defined “good” and “bad” guys – This was the one thing I think I always struggled with during my time in the Forces. We were expected to see battle as very digital – Either a 1 = Good or a 0 = Bad. We also trained where actual rules applied – this was not the case when we inevitably came face to face with an enemy on Operations. Military forces were governed by the law of armed conflict (LOAC) and the people who we fought, ultimately, were not. The “grey” areas of life behind a gun on operations were always the hardest to come to terms with.
It was 12:15 on the last full day of exercise and I was sat in a shallow trench, which we had dug through the night, covered by a poncho on sentry duty. With the temperatures hitting well above 45 degrees Celsius the decision was made that sentry check-ins would be done every 20 minutes. As I peered out into the baking desert landscape, my vision was obscured by the constant stream of sweat which poured from my brow. I blinked and awoke to the strange sensation of being carried on someone’s shoulders. It was my Platoon Sergeant.
I had missed a check in, and another. By the 3rd check-in, someone had been dispatched to investigate my lack of reply only to find me head first in the sand. I had been calling for more water on the radio, but the comms were iffy at best, but none came. My body succumbed to the heat and lack of water and I piled into the ground. I was now being CASEVAC’d (Casualty evacuation) back to the medical vehicle.
In the back of the converted field ambulance sat our 2 support nurses from the Royal Army Medical Corps. They took me in, strapped me into the stretcher, and started pouring water on me to try and cool my core down. “Take his shirt off,” the one nurse ordered. It was done. The cool waters rushed over me coaxing the heat from by body. “Let’s get his boots and trousers off,” was the next step… Oh no, it was on this day that I chose not to wear underwear… In a daze I tried to communicate this to them, but it was too late. They freed me in all my glory – I could only mutter “I am sorry,” very quietly whilst they clambered to put my pants back on.
I arrived back in camp and after 5 litres of IV fluids later, some normality had started to come back to my body. By that stage, 2 others had been brought in and the exercise was promptly halted. This was the first, and last time, I would find myself in a military hospital of any kind – fortunately.
The Great Escape…
“Mardon,” my Platoon Sergeant beckoned me over… “You and Noks have a mission to do!”. I was both intrigued and terrified at what was going to come next. “You two need to find us a way off this camp. Go and speak to your Afrikaans Lt. Colonel and see what he can organise for us.”
To give you some context, there were only a few rules that we were given by our Company Commander and associated Officers… No drinking, unless given approval. No exploring of the wider camp. And most importantly, you are NOT, in ANY circumstance, to leave the camp…
Don’t get me wrong, I had always thought that I could push a rule to a breaking point without actually breaking it – but this was a hard sell even to me.
We did what we were told and we spoke to the Lt. Col. One of his corporals would fetch a group of us in his minibus and take us through to Postmasburg, the local town, to sample the bars and nightlife. That evening, 12 of us boarded the vehicle with our hierarchy none the wiser and headed into town.
Postmasburg is a very Afrikaans town founded on Afrikaans values and ethics. The bulk of the inhabitants rarely meet foreign visitors and have a severe distaste for the British… I wish I knew this before we embarked on our trip.
It was 21:00 on a Friday and we arrived at the first watering hole. A large bar on the outskirts of town which, from the outside, looked and sounded like a place we definitely wanted to visit. We walked in, headed straight to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. It was then that I felt the atmosphere change.
As my colleagues drank their beers and talked amongst themselves I looked around the bar. Everyone was looking at us. On the wall they had a projector which displayed music videos which they played across the ample sound system. A song had been queued up which was now playing around the bar – De la Ray by Bok van Blerk. The whole establishment were now chanting the song, which initially I found quite cool. The enjoyment turned into panic – the song was about how the boers (South African Afrikaans farmers) rose up against the British and slaughtered them for trying to take their land. It was at this point that I grabbed the group and quickly shepherded them out the door out of fear of what would have happened had we stayed…
We went to a few more, fortunately hospitable, places that night – luck was on our side as we had no more run-ins with grumpy locals AND we got back onto camp without anyone noticing. For the whole next day all 12 of us were very cautious when the Company Sergeant Major called any meeting expecting to be told that they knew what we had done. We got away with it…
Under the African sky…
My most memorable experience of the whole exercise in South Africa was the night we got to spend out in observation posts (OP) at the local Game Reserve. We were tasked with assisting the Reserve in counting its animal population – specifically the Wildebeest. To do this we all went out in the early hours of the morning and setup our covert Ops looking over our assigned areas.
My team and I headed for a tall rocky outcrop and setup our forward OP and our rear admin area which were going to serve as home for the next 24hrs. All the optics were setup and the watch rotations began.
The day was a struggle due to the heat and the fact that no animals dared to venture out into it. That changed at dusk where herds of different beasts decided to venture out for sustenance. It was late that night, in the rear admin area, where I sat in awe staring up into the diamond encrusted sky realising how small we were in relation to the greater universe. A small thunderstorm in the distance sent arcs of lighting to the ground whilst a soft wind blew across the plain rustling the trees and bushes around me. Johnny Clegg and Savuka sang about it, but it was not until then that I had truly experienced the true beauty of what was millions of kilometres above us and all around us…
“There’s a highway of stars across the heavens,
There’s whispering song of the wind in the grass,
There’s the rolling thunder across the savanna,
A hope and dream at the edge of the sky,
And your life is a story like the wind,
Your life is a story like the wind.” – Savuka
I look back now on that moment and realise how defining that final exercise was for me as a person. Those few hours in which I got to sit and think deeply about my journey so far and all my experiences up to that point helped me settle on the direction my military career was going to move in. It was the last time I would serve as a Coldstream Guard. It was the last time I would serve as a soldier. It was the last time, for a long time, that I would sit on African soil and just be amazed by its true beauty.
African Thorn was my final hurrah with the Coldstream guards. I had made the choice to do selection for the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst where I would gain my Commission and be given the opportunity to lead soldiers. It was where I made the choice to take the fear and uncertainty of “not being good enough” and set it aside. I would rather live a life in which I have tried to further myself than wallow in an existence where I was too scared to.
If I have learnt one thing in my life it is this… We all seek to hold ourselves down with uncertainty, worry and fear. These are all things which everyone struggles with all the time. If you look at successful people, truly successful people – they have, in themselves, overcome these and strived to be better than they thought they could be and succeeded in it… This is not something unique to them, it is something we can all do! Challenge yourself, do not let doubt and worry hold you down! YOU are good enough! YOU are worthy! YOU can do anything you set your mind to if you want to do it. Go forth and conquer!
P.S. You remember the bar where all hell almost broke loose… At the end of the exercise I headed home to Durban to spend some time with my family. A group of soldiers decided to redo the escape and headed out to Postmasburg, though they did not heed my warnings… The bar erupted in an almighty brawl and the Military Police were sent in to break it up. It is safe to say that a few non-commissioned officers were relieved of their ranks and most certainly regretted their choices that night.
