By Ralph Barnett

THE STARK reality of the daily dangers facing military personnel—and civilians—operating in the troubled Helmand province area of Afghanistan was brought home to me and the group of regional journalists I had travelled there with as we prepared to bid farewell to the country.

I had accepted an invitation to visit the country to see how the men of Arbroath-based 45 Commando were coping with their tour of duty in the area and, as we disembarked at Kandahar from the first military passenger flight into the city’s airport for several years, the omens were not good.

Only hours before, three members of 45 Commando were injured in a suicide bomb attack as they escorted a NATO convoy in Kandahar and, as our week travelling around Afghanistan went on, word trickled back to us of further bad news.

Due to the way these things are controlled, the outside world knew before we did about the tragic death of 45 Commando Marine Jonathan Wigley at Garmsir, although the military grapevine had informed us that coalition casualties had been suffered during a prolonged battle against un- expectedly strong Taliban resistance in the area.

Having come through our own seven day “tour of duty” unscathed—but not unmoved by the experience—we were beginning to relax and wind down as we enjoyed our last meal before boarding the RAF Tristar for the flight home via the NATO base at Akrotiri, Cyprus.

The first hint that all was not well came as we finished our main course in the tented dining hall and a vague “thump” was heard, followed by the wail of a siren.

Having been briefed on how to respond to just such an alarm, the journalistic party put down their eating utensils and prepared to make a tactical withdrawal to the nearby tent where our MoD issue helmets and body armour were piled.

The reaction of our uniformed hosts, however, was to look at us in mild amusement—and carry on with their meal. Although our RAF “minder” stood up, it was only to make his way to the galley for a portion of mandarin cheesecake.

After the all-clear sounded —it appeared to have been a false alarm—and we were able to relax again, we had a brief tour of the American/ Canadian run “boardwalk” area of the Kandahar airfield camp—a rather incongruous square of facilities including the sort of things no North American serviceman or woman can do without while representing Uncle Sam and the Maple Leaf flag far from home—Burger King, Pizza Hut, Subway and Tim Horton’s coffee and cookie shop.

It was as we marvelled at the triumph of western consumerism in the heart of war-ravaged Afghanistan that the alarm was raised again.

This time, however, the reaction was entirely different as there was a clearly audible explosion from somewhere within the camp boundaries and we—as well as an international tide of US, Canadian, Australian, Romanian, Macedonian, Estonian, Dutch, Danish and British service personnel—hurried to the nearest hard cover.

Quick response teams in stripped-down and heavily-armed WIMIC Land Rovers sped out of the camp in search of the source of what was believed to have been a missile of some kind while the skies outside the perimeter were illuminated by parachute flares fired by the British and Romanian mortar crews who maintain a night-time alert.

Apache attack helicopters were scrambled and snipers concealed in the surrounding countryside were alerted to the possibility of targets.

After what seemed like an age waiting for something— anything—to happen, the all-clear was sounded again and everyone resumed what they had been doing.

Unconfirmed reports suggested that possibly two rockets or improvised mortar rounds had been launched by Taliban insurgents into the camp but there were no reports of any injuries or significant damage.

A source told me that the devices were occasionally fired into the camp but, with no guidance to speak of, they would generally only pose a threat to life and limb if you happened to be standing within a few yards of the impact and were struck by shrapnel or stone fragments thrown up by the blast.

I have to admit I did not find that terribly comforting.

Sources, again unofficial and unconfirmed, hinted that one rocket had landed only a short distance from the boardwalk where I had been taking the night air and that the other struck somewhere near the airfield.

So it was with more than a little trepidation that, after checking in our dusty luggage, the assembled press corps made its way to the worryingly large, white and obvious Tristar parked on the runway apron. As the aircraft unleashed its full power and sped up the runway for take-off—with its passengers in total darkness and wearing helmets and body armour—I know I wasn’t the only one silently wondering if we were heading home to be reunited with our loved ones or, heaven forbid, about to become the lead story on the following day’s front pages.

As our skilled pilot gained height and performed the evasive manoeuvres we were familiar with from our landing seven days earlier, we gradually relaxed.

Our tight-lipped expressions were replaced by relieved grins as we wondered what all the fuss had been about.

But I, for one, am not ashamed to admit that, for a wee while at least, I was scared.

While I feel privileged to have had the opportunity to visit the troubled country and see at first hand the sterling work being done by the guys from 45 Commando—and the other nations of the International Stability and Assistance Force—I am also glad my tour was for seven days rather than six months.