Apache

We were told he was going to make a speech, which was why I hadn’t dreamt up an essential task for myself instead. I was curious to hear what he was going to say. Maybe he had an announcement to make; perhaps he’d tell us how long we’d be there, or where else we were headed. Whatever it was, I wanted to hear it first-hand.

Blair was on a two-day trip to the region according to a Sky News report I’d caught a glimpse of in the JHF. He’d already met Pakistan’s president Pervez Musharraf in Lahore. After us, he was going up to Kabul to meet Afghan president Hamid Karzai.

The Leader of the Opposition, David Cameron, had already beaten his rival to it; he’d come out to see us in July. Helmand had been a new and sexy war at the time, so the new and sexy politicians were all over it like a rash. They didn’t go to Iraq any more; can’t think why. True to form, Billy had elbowed his way into giving Cameron a tour of the Apache’s cockpit. He’d even strapped on his flying suit especially for the occasion, badges, sidearm and all.

Tragically for the Face, there was no chance of a one-on-one bore-athon with this bigwig. Tony Blair would say a quick hello to all of us and that would be it. Each of the brigade’s sub-units had been instructed to stand in semicircles down one long line, with samples of our kit on display to give the press photographers a nice backdrop. For most of the boys that just meant rustling up a WMIK Land Rover, a Viking tracked armoured vehicle, an ambulance or a row of sniper rifles. For our unlucky Groundies, it meant having to get up even earlier than us to push an Apache 200 metres from our runway to the Hercules strip. Then they’d have to push it all the way back again.

It was a really nippy morning – overcast, with just the odd ray of sunshine bursting momentarily through the cloud to give us some warmth. Without the sun, first thing in the morning and at that altitude, Bastion wasn’t a great place to be at that time of the year. December – only a few days away – and January were the only months that Helmand saw any proper cloud or rain.

Billy was one of the last down to the flight line.

‘Oh you prize arse,’ Geordie greeted him.

Most of us had turned up in our camouflage smocks – which were clean, uncreased and unfaded as they were seldom used and rarely washed. But not Billy; desperate to show off his wings, he was standing there shivering in his flying suit. In case any passing head of state was in doubt, he was an Apache pilot.

It was 7.09am and there we all were – a sizeable chunk of the Helmand Task Force’s firepower – lined up like prunes with nothing to do for the next fifty-one minutes. Only Nick and Charlotte were missing, air testing in Kandahar. It would have been valuable experience for Nick; he would probably be Prime Minister one day.

‘Come on Ed.’ Billy gave me a nudge. ‘Let’s check out the croissant tent.’

‘The what?’

‘Over there. I spotted it on my way down.’

A posh-looking marquee had been erected at one end of the runway. Its front flaps had been pinned open to reveal an urn of piping hot water, tea bags and jugs of filter coffee on a wooden picnic table. On a second table was the biggest tray of croissants I’d ever seen: hundreds of them, with mouth-watering fillings, steaming in the early morning air.

A couple of senior officers stood in the tent’s entrance, so a frontal assault was never going to work. Billy and I tried our luck round the back.

‘Sorry guys,’ said the master chef. ‘Definitely no one allowed in here.’

‘Come on mate, give us a croissant.’

‘I can’t. Nobody’s allowed any until Tony Blair has been in there.’

‘Why, is he going to eat all 300 of them?’

‘Look, it wasn’t my idea… Oi!’

We left him to apprehend a pair of marines trying to sneak in behind him. One was holding up the far corner of the tent while his mate tried to slide underneath it.

Back at the squadron’s place in the line, Geordie and Darwin had opened a book on who could get the longest handshake with the PM. It would mean holding on for as long as you could, even if he tried to tear himself away. They were also challenging the rest of the team to see who could ask him the oddest question and still get an answer.

‘Just make sure it’s all respectful, please. I still want a career in the army.’ The Boss hated every second of this.

‘I’ve got a belter,’ said Darwin. ‘Who’s got a camera?’

A few of the boys had brought one down.

‘Right, here’s what Geordie and I are going to do. We’ll ask Mr Blair if he doesn’t mind a picture. When he says, “Yeah, sure, chaps, where do you want me?” we’ll say, “Just there’s fine thanks, sir,” and hand him the camera. I bet he’ll be so embarrassed he’ll take the picture anyway.’