It has been some time since my last blog post.

Since then, my career has taken an interesting turn for the best, I am one step closer to getting as fully fit as possible and I bought a dog. The little bastard. 

I also felt like a little break from the blog. I had imposed my own weekly deadline and I'm a stickler for quality over quantity. 

But perhaps its time for me to continue. There's still plenty of my story to be told and it might be best to get it written down before I forget it all.

But maybe it's because my Battalion are now all but deployed to Helmand Province for a second time and I feel like I should be out there with them. It breaks my heart that I'm not with my Brothers.

Despite everything that's happened, I feel like I have some scores to settle. Not just for me, but for those that didn't come home and the others that didn't come home in one piece.

In the coming weeks, I'll continue my story from where I left off.

I hope you enjoy it.

I Am A Warrior

I am a Warrior.

I Live to Fight and Fight to Live.

I am a Lion

My Kingdom is The Desert, I am King of all I see.

I Live in a Pride of Brothers.

We Live, Fight and Die Together.

We are Rifleman.

We are Kings among Men.

Arriving In Afghanistan.

At the time of posting, it is 3 years to the day since I deployed on Op. Herrick 11.

But “A” Company's arrival in Afghanistan didn't go exactly how I thought it would.

I didn't really know what to expect, but sitting in an RAF base for 12 hours while half of the Company went ahead wasn't really the start to the tour I had imagined.

We arrived at South Cerney Air base in the early morning gloom on the 7th of October, 2009.

Before moving on to Brize Norton, where the flights "in country" leave from, units are processed and deposit their baggage there. Upon arriving we were told of the delay.

While it was a anticlimax, I hadn't slept for a while and the delay meant I could call my family again and get my head down.

South Cerney is probably the worst camp I've ever been on and I'm glad we didn't spent any longer there than we had to. We were taken to Brize Norton via coach with only our hand luggage in tow.

You might think that a strange term for me to use, but ’Brize is a strange mix of what you might expect from a “military airport" and a civilian one. It even has an overpriced cafe and shop.

Yet it has this not too subtle Military thread running though it, as you might imagine.

We were delayed another couple of hours before being called forward to pass through security.

Yes, security. Metal detectors, x ray machine- the lot.

Brize has that “small airport" feel, where you pass through the gate directly onto the Tarmac towards your aircraft. Through the windows, we could see a long row of the Tristar planes like the one we would soon board. The nerves had settled, to be replaced with that desire just to get the hell underway.

Finally we were called forward. We filed out on to the Tarmac towards the plane, up the steps and on board. At last, we were underway.

An RAF Tristar

The Tristar itself was another mix of the military and the civilian. It was clearly a military aircraft, stripped back and utilitarian.

But things like the in flight meals; exactly the same as a commercial flight but instead of everything saying “BA” it read RAF. They were even served to us by stewards and stewardesses dressed in those all in one flight suits. Logical but bizarre.

7 hours later during the dead of the Afghan night, we arrived at Kandahar Air Field or KAF.

During the decent, the plane is totally blacked out. Something you don't do on a commercial flight is don your helmet and body armour. There was a risk of the plane being shot down, however small.

But mainly it was in case the aircraft came under fire while it was taxiing or while we disembarked.

The risk was due to indirect fire from rockets or mortars. Both routinely plagued KAF.

The descent lasted forever. And it was unnerving to say the least. Literally in the dark as to what might happen to us.

Yet we landed safely and exited the plane without incident.

It was warm, even late into the night and the air was charged with dust-something I would become very familiar with over the next 5 months. Lit by giant floodlights, we boarded two ageing coaches and were taken to be processed.

Our journey wasn't over yet. We still had another flight ahead of us to reach Camp Bastion over the provincial border.

Our RSOI accomodation.

After a couple of hours of arrival protocol we boarded a C-130 Hercules and finally landed in Helmand province.

It had taken 2 flights, 19 hours and a whole load of coaches to reach our destination. By the time we reached our accommodation, it was the early hours.

We were greeted with somber news as we collected our kit. On the firing ranges just outside the wire, a soldier from 3 Rifles was killed and two wounded in an IED strike. We were shocked. Bastion is meant to be almost untouchable.

The “Camp” is a fortress. Made up of giant HESCO building blocks and ISO containers, with a perimeter of over 40 miles, punctuated with guard towers.

The next morning we awoke to our first real taste of being in Afghan. The heat, the dust and the sound of helicopters coming and going- this was it.

We now started RSOI-Reception, Staging, Onward Movement and Integration.

The length of the course depended on your trade and as Infanteers we would do the longest, most in depth one. We would spend around a week in Bastion before moving on to our FOB in Sangin.

Over the week we practised all the skills we had learnt during PDT in the UK.

Practicing compound clearance ops.

The key difference was applying them to them to ground and practising them in conditions we could expect when we moved forward.

 We zeroed our weapons on the ranges, searched for dummy IEDs in the Afghan soil, mounted miniature patrols, practised a FOB defence and had a lot of PowerPoint presentations.

I can't stress the importance of that week. Above all it gave us the confidence we needed in our skills.

One of things I enjoyed about Bastion was interacting with soldiers from other counties. Like the Americans, Dutch and Estonians, swapping war stories and kit.

We even ventured twice into “Camp Leatherneck”, the U.S side of Bastion.

Once to visit the PX, kind of like a NAAFI, which was a far cry from what we had on our side- you name it and you could buy it in there. In the middle of the desert.

The second time was to try the American cookhouse. Just as you'd imagine, it was big and garish and everything was super sized. 

U.S soldiers zeroing their weapons.

One of  our lads asked “How many choices are we allowed?”

The man behind the counter looked perplexed and replied; 

“As many as you want”.

Over all it was a pretty relaxed time. We had long days but were left alone once they finished.

There was plenty of contact back home via the Internet or phone and coffee shops and even a Pizza Hut for when we had downtime.

But this was not how our war was destined to be fought.

As they days passed we moved close to going out side the wire for real. To FOB Inkerman on the edge of the green zone, bereft of creature comforts and fighting  almost day in and day out.

Our time in bastion drew to a close. Obviously I was nervous and so were the lads, but we felt something different, too.

 We were on the verge of doing something we had trained so long for. here we were, ready to do our jobs for real-ready to fight.

Myself outside the entrance to 'Leatherneck.

The meaning of that fight was different for every man. While for me it was a fight against terrorism, keeping the UK safe. The Afghan and Iraq veterans among us knew the real reason we would fight and so would I, soon enough.

 When the day came to leave, each platoon would move forward to FOB Inkerman separately, in its own aircraft.

My platoon (“2”) stood waiting, weighed down with kit on the edge of the helicopter port at around 1pm.

There were Chinooks, Apaches, Blackhawks and Lynx's all  landing and taking off in front of us.

Directed towards a waiting Chinook, with it's twin rotors turning, we walked through the down-wash from the rotors, the heat from the engines and up the ramp.

The landing zone at Inkerman was outside of the base, unsecured and therefore classified as “Red”.

I was one of the last on-board. Which meant I would be one of the first off.

4 Rifles Pre Deployment Training.

4RIFLES can trace its linage back to the original 95th Rifles formed in 1802, and 
The "Experimental Corps. of Riflemen" before them, formed in 1800.

Formerly 2nd Battalion, The Royal Green Jackets, they have come full circle becoming The Rifles in 2007 with the amalgamation of the entire Light Division into one "super regiment". 
5 years on from the amalgamation and the battalion has a healthy mix of "new generation" Riflemen, those from the other Light Div regiments and 2RGJ itself.

The battalion holds true to "The Rifleman's Ethos"; their relaxed demeanour and lack of uniformity meant, as 2RGJ, they were often called "slack jackets" by other units. 

We call it "relaxed professionalism". 
At the end of our Pre Deployment Training (PDT), the only things we were criticised for, were our haircuts/sideburns and only wearing t-shirts underneath our body armour. 
As our Company Serjeant Major quite rightly said;

"If that's the only thing you can pick them up for, I'm happy."

The Rifles are the largest Infantry regiment in the Army with 7 Battalions, 5 regular and 2 Territorial.
Due to the Regiment's size and our variety of roles, there is always at least one Rifles battalion in Afghanistan at any one time. 

That is why we have taken so many casualties, warranting the formation of a dedicated charity, Care For Casualties.

Since our formation in 2007, 64 names have been added to The Roll Of Honour. 

                BULLDOG APC.
I chose the 4th battalion, mainly due to its mechanised role. The irony is that as the BULLDOG armoured vehicle was unsuitable for our tour of Afghanistan, we converted to a "Light Role" battalion. 

Two weeks after passing out from ITC Catterick, I arrived at Bulford Camp near Tidworth on Salisbury Plain. 

Standing "at ease" at Kiwi barracks guardroom, I got a taste of the "relaxed professionalism" of my new battalion:

"Stop f*cking standing like that, you're not in Catterick now!" 

I was knocked for six a few days later I was threatened with being "banged out" as I  kept putting "Cpl." at the end of every sentence. Another throwback from training in Catterick.

Quickly, the tempo of a battalion gearing up for a tour of Afghanistan hit me as we began our Pre Deployment training.

Shooting is very important to us, as Rifles battalions and as individual Riflemen. 
We spent a many a day on the ranges, becoming qualified in as many weapon systems as possible, as well as perfecting our shooting with the weapons we would take on tour.
Soldiers "Tabbing" to improve their fitness.
The hierarchy saw this as an opportunity to kill 3 birds with one stone; 
To improve our general fitness, to get us used to the heavy "Osprey" body armour and to work on our shooting saw us tabbing to and from the ranges each time.

Later on during the training program, we undertook the 24 mile tab which was luckily split into two "12 milers" over two days. I didn't stretch properly after the first, which made the second much harder than it needed to be. 

And we were almost constantly on exercise. 
2 weeks on, 1-2 weeks off; It continued like this for almost the whole 6 months before we deployed. By the time we did deploy, I had been training almost constantly for a year.

But being way too keen for my own good, I enjoyed it.
I was learning new skills and getting to grips with new weapons and equipment I had only seen before in films.
Riding in helicopters, MASTIFF and JACKAL armoured vehicles-all things we never did in training. 

Then there were counter IED drills. These were perhaps the most necessary skills we would need for our tour. But they were things we resented having to learn. 

It's a terribly underhand and cowardly way to fight. But an effective one. I have no problem respecting an enemy that fights by the same rules and code as I do, but The Taliban are not soldiers, they are insurgents. Nothing more.

And they know, from experience fighting us at the beginning of this latest Afghan conflict, that they cannot defeat us in conventional battle. 

British soldier using a Vallon.

Getting to grips with the "Vallon" mine detector and "Op.Barma" the IED search drill was essential.

On my second day, I was given a Vallon and pushed out the back of a land rover and told to "Barma" a choke point.

"Obama?" I said, "Like the president?"

That didn't go down well.

We also practised medical drills almost incessantly. 

Not just how to treat battlefield casualties but also how best to extract them with the high IED threat. 

In 2009 6 Riflemen from 2RIFLES lost 6 Riflemen in one day to IEDs. 

5 men that were extracting a casualty suffered an IED strike, killing them all. 

And simulating the horrific results of an IED was essential if we were going to be able to treat IED victims, under fire if necessary. 
For this real "traumatic" amputees-IED survivors are made up so their injures resemble how they would have at the point of wounding. 

Their authentic cries of pain, plenty of fake blood and writhing around as you try to treat them, makes shockingly realistic training. 

Yet, it was one of the most valuable parts of the whole PDT process. 

Soldiers clear the route toward an  IED victim.

When I saw it for real a few months later, I was able to focus on the job in hand and not the nature of the injuries.

We also undertook an exercise at Stanford Battle Area in Norfolk, also known as STANTA. 

Established in 1942, when the need for training in simulated "Nazi village" arose, it is home now to a 12.5 acre replica of an Afghan village.

It is populated by real Afghans, as well as ex Gurkha soldiers. It even has a system that pumps out smells like rotten meat and sewage. 
Shortly after I arrived at my battalion Abi, my girlfriend at the time (she's my bloody wife now), moved over from Gran Canaria to Brighton. The weekends I had free were spent there with her and at last we began to have a not-so-long distance relationship.

But with the end of every exercise, the countdown to deployment continued.

             The village at STANTA.

Putting on our desert combats for the first time was when it really hit home that we were going.

(Although, you'd think all the training would have done it)

In the final weeks before we deployed, we had endless kit checks, lessons and final kit issues for things like dog tags and brand new weapon optics. It was a busy period. 

We had a long weekend before the off. I said goodbye to my family that still lived in the UK (having seen my parents and youngest sister back in Lanzarote, a few weeks earlier) and spent the rest of the time with Abi in Brighton. 

We were due to fly on the 8th of October 2009, and leave for Brize Norton in the early hours. 

The night before, in our platoon accommodation, no one slept. 

We sat around in the common areas talking, some of the lads drank or went out into town; making the most of the time before the months of enforced sobriety to come. 

We asked the Iraq veterans among us last minute questions and spoke to our families for the last time.

I spoke to my parents over the phone and even Abi's family phoned me, one by one, to wish me luck and say goodbye. 

When the time came to leave, we walked across from our Company lines on Ward Barracks in small groups, to our battalion HQ on Kiwi Barracks, where the coaches would collect us. 

It was not dissimilar to the scene in "We Were Soldiers" when they slowly arrive and board their transports to leave for Vietnam. 

We gathered out side Btn HQ, chatting nervously, waiting for everyone to arrive. 
We had no weapons, as they had been bundled up to be stored in the hold of the RAF Tristar that would fly us the 4,500 miles to Kandahar Airfield.

It felt like we were stood there for hours, in the early morning gloom. I remember seeing the coaches arrive and thinking "This is it".

There were no rousing speeches by our officers or raucous cries as we boarded the coaches. 
It's not the way we do things. Just a simple nominal roll call and a "Let's go".

A Company of 4th Battalion, The Rifles was going to war.

Little did we realise that when the Company came home almost 7 months later, we would do so with 6 of our brothers dead and over 30% of our company wounded.

No amount of training could have prepared us for the reality of what was waiting for us.

The School of Infantry.

In October 2008, around 50 recruits were inducted into Rifles Training Platoon 1, or Rifles1.

6 months later 28 Riflemen passed out of The Infantry Training Centre ( ITC ), Catterick.

To this day, 25% of us are dead or wounded.

It takes 182 days to create an Infanteer.

While ITC is physically demanding to the extreme, the hardest part for me was the length of the course.It's a progressive course, and like every course in the Army it's designed to be passed.

The first 6 weeks are designed to break you. This is where the vast majority of recruits drop out, or are dropped from the course.

Many, like myself, were leaving home to join the Army and the culture shock was a big one.

In those first six weeks you work up to 18 hours, 7 days a week. There is no respite. 

You are not allowed off camp, or even allowed to walk freely around it. Mobile phones are collected in the mornings and often not returned in the evening.

Training to be an Infanteer involves so much more than many people think.

For every practical lesson we did there was a theory one. We had weekly military knowledge tests and all of our notes were copied out into "best books".

Map reading, comms training, vehicle recognition, and becoming totally proficient with 4 weapon systems; we would need to pass tests on all of the above to continue the course.

6 months sounds like a long time, and it is, but the amount a recruit has to learn about his trade is barely crammed in.

And it is a trade, despite what anyone says.

Then there's the physical side of life.

Infantry soldiers also need to have a high level of fitness.

We carry heavy loads in Afghanistan, anywhere up to 60kgs of gear depending on the task.

We are expected to assault enemy positions, and there is little else that takes it out of you in quite the same way.

But a high level of fitness also saves lives. Many soldiers ,including friends of mine, who have lost limbs have only survived the massive blood loss because of their strong cardiovascular system. 

Assault courses, cross country runs, loaded marches and "Battle PT" took place daily, often twice daily.

For these first six weeks you do not wear a beret or cap badge. 

Me, during a demo for Families Day.

They sit in your locker, proudly on display, to remind you what you are working for.

At the end of week four, there is a families day, where you put on demonstrations for your relatives, to show them what you are learning. You are then allowed off camp for one night.

At the end of week six you take your "beret test".

The platoon must pass a drill test along with an in depth locker inspection by the officers of the Training Company. Re-shows for poor drill are not uncommon, and Rifles1 narrowly avoided one.

But at the end of our sixth week, we lined up in the corridor of our accommodation and were presented with our berets by the platoon commander and saluted him for the first time.

We had only completed just over a quarter of our training, but we had passed the first major milestone. 

Around 3/4's of our dropouts had had done so before this point.

Now our training really began. 

The instructors had broken us, it was time to build us back up again- in their own special way.

"Back-squadding" was now on the cards for anyone that did not meet their high standards. 

This meant being sent to a training platoon further behind you in the course.

Now I look back on it, time flew past. But during the course itself, it seemed to slow to a crawl. The weeks dragged by, but slowly but surely we began to turn into soldiers.

I'd love to go into detail about my time in Catterick, but there's just too much to fit into a blog post.

One for the book maybe.

At week 12 we took our shooting test, and were allowed to wear our regimental stable belt. 

We also had our Sword ("bayonet" to most people) training. 

This was especially brutal, to prepare us for having to assault an enemy position with nothing but a sword. 

It lasted all day, constantly being "beasted" to keep our aggression up.

The instructors asked "What makes the grass grow?" and 30 screaming voices answered:

"BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD!".
The aggression that poured out me that day would only be equalled in actual battle.

I had Christmas leave, and returned home. I had not seen Abi (my wife) or my family for months.

I would only see them twice in that 6 month period. I didn't feel much different in myself, but to them, the changes were apparent.

My bed towards the end of training
Luckily, I'm a fan.

Upon returning, training settled into a steady rhythm.

Most other cap badges,and even other Rifles Platoons, allowed their recruits to have "luxuries" like duvets and TVs.
While it doesn't sound like much, it makes a big difference to morale.

We had no such luxuries. Duvets were eventually allowed towards the end of the course.

But with a catch.

We had been having weekly interviews with our section commanders, so they could give us feedback on our progress. 

From around the half way mark, I was told that the "Best Recruit" award at the end of the course was mine to lose. This was a surprise to me as I was convinced I was going to be dropped.

I couldn't tell you why, but towards the last month of the course I went off the boil. 

Perhaps as I had adapted quite well at the beginning of training, all of the stress and changes I was going through caught up with me. 

I would not win the award, and I regret it immensely. Not for me as such, as things like that aren't really my thing. 

But I had been thinking about the moment on my pass out parade that I could surprise Abi and my family by marching out with the other award winners and see the pride on their faces.

Our final exercise came and went; two weeks in the Scottish highlands and after this point, baring illness or injury, we would pass out. 

The last two weeks was almost purely practising drill for our pass off parade. This was something Rifles1 still had not got very good at.

"Killers Not Drillers" we told ourselves.

We wound down, packed our things and handed our kit back in. 

As the parade drew closer, couldn't quite believe I had made it.

6 months is a long time and our training was tough. 

We were told, at the very end that the staff had tried something different with us.

We had joined shortly after an undercover reporter, posing as a recruit, has exposed various things about the training process. 

They tried a new style of training with us, one not reliant on discipline by force.

We had been truly tough to break, they told us. But through their superb training and our force of will, Rifles1 was one of the best platoons to pass out ITC Catterick in long time.

Rifles1 on parade in No.2 dress.

On a freeing morning in Yorkshire, we took our place on the parade square, with a shot of Port to calm the nerves. 

We stood next to the other platoons of our intake; those belonging the other Infantry Regiments.

Our tiny platoon standing out with our uniforms and unique drill. 

But also by our attitude, our pride at what we had become.

We marched onto that square as recruits and we doubled off as Riflemen.

A few weeks earlier, we had learnt which battalion we would be posted.

Not dissimilar to the scene from "Full Metal Jacket" I learnt I would go, as I had wanted, to our 4th Battalion.

By passing out, I now knew I would deploy to Afghanistan later that year. 

Another 6 months of Pre deployment training awaited me at my unit.

I told my family I was going on exercise to Norway; I had no idea how to tell them I was going to war.

Rifles1 said its goodbyes. Most of the platoon went to either 3 or 4 Rifles for the up coming tour.

There were guys I would later see in Camp Bastion preparing to go "outside the wire". 

Some I would see again on the battlefield.

There were others I'd see over a year later in Headley Court; horrifically wounded.

Others I would never see again.

Rifles1 doing "The Double Off" the parade square.

A Little Bit About Me

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a soldier.

Not in the way you see a contestant on the X Factor saying they've been singing since they were 20 minutes old, but I genuinely can't remember a time when I didn't want to join The Army.

I've gone through various phases, as most people do when they are growing up: astronaut, fireman, Jedi. All the classics.

But it always came back to soldiering.

One of my earliest memories was going to The Royal Variety Performance, and seeing a demonstration put on by the Royal Armoured Corp. Seeing and hearing the main gun on a Challenger tank fire scared the hell out of me, but it must have stirred something inside me.

The only thing ever to rival being a soldier was becoming a truck driver.
Not very glamorous, I know.
Some people come from military families, I come from a haulage family.

Both of my Grandfathers were drivers, my Dad was (and still is, the nutcase. He even drove to Iraq once, with a lorry full of mattresses ) and my Mum worked for her Father's haulage firm.
I grew up around trucks, in them, even. I've been lucky enough to travel all around the UK and Europe. Both trucks and the industry still fascinate me.

I'm from a small village in Essex, ( unfortunately one that features on that god awful TV programme, but I'll leave it there) and I lived there until the age of 13.
I was a good kid, I think. I struggled with dyslexia growing up, but never let it beat me.
I spent most of those 13 years running round in camouflage and generally being a nuisance.

After visiting friends that moved to Lanzarote in the Canary Islands, my parents got it into their head to move out there and retire early. The UK road haulage industry is a stressful one, and they were both burning out because of it.
It all happened pretty quickly, but in 2001 we took the plunge and moved.

I hated it at first.
Intensely for the first year, and probably didn't begin to enjoy it for at least the first two.
Now, looking back, it was amazing to have grown up there.
My family's firm expanded to supplying the many English supermarkets and wholesalers in the Canaries. We also took the ever consignment of food by road and began moving peoples personal effects over.

I had other jobs after leaving school, but in around 2005 I began working for my family.
But the idea of joining The Army didn't leave me.

I took part in on a four day "insight course" with The Parachute Regiment when I was 17.
It didn't turn out all that well. My fitness was poor and the Paratrooper Ethos didn't really appeal to me.

So I put things on hold.
I enjoyed working with my family immensely. I think I did Ok to shrug off the stigma of being "the bosses son" and I was trusted with a lot of responsibility for my age.
I also began writing for the island's main English magazine, The Lanzarote Gazette.
I'm a big video game fan and I did a monthly games review, that got quite a good response.

But, by the end of 2007 the idea of joining resurfaced for the last time.
I began to get myself into shape and undertook another insight course with The Paras.

This time around it went pretty well.
By the end of it, I knew I wanted to join, but it wasn't going to be with The Paras. They are superb soldiers and the best airborne troops in the world (don't tell any Paras I said that) but they have a very specific ethos. Upon finishing the course, I knew it wasn't for me.

Now I was at a loss of which Infantry Regiment to join. I told the career's office to put me with the unit that would get me on tour the fastest.
According to the recruiters it was The Coldstream Guards.

As I needed to travel backwards and forwards from the Canaries, the process took a while.
One day back in Lanzarote, I did some research on the unit I would hopefully join.
As soon as I saw the ceremonial side to The Guards, I told them it wasn't for me.

Back in the UK and a week or so before my selection date, the recruiters (no doubt getting annoyed with me) asked me "What about The Rifles?".

This time when I did my research, I was annoyed I hadn't come across them myself.
The history, the ethos, the way they stood out from the crowd and dared to do things differently.It all appealed to me.
I had watched Sharpe as a kid, and when I put two and two together, it sealed the deal.

My two days of selection went well. I passed the medical but, while the doctor had a pair of rather important male organs in his hands during the "cough test" he asked:
"So, looking forward to wearing a busby?"
It didn't really seem like the time for polite conversation. Plus I thought they had me down to be a Guardsman after all.

I went on to pass all of the fitness tests, icebreakers and team tasks.
In the final interview, I was given an official offer of a place to begin training with The Rifles.
The interviewing officer shook my hand and told me:

"Don't ever give up."

 I'll never forget those words, and I've drawn on them many times.

I was given a date to start training at The School Of Infantry in Catterick, in October '08.
It was 9 weeks away, so I returned home.

I knew my parents didn't want me to join, especially with the amount of casualties we were taking in Afghanistan at the time.
But credit to them, apart from my Dad offering to give me his pick up truck if I stayed, they didn't try to stop me. Even with everything that's happened to me since, they have been nothing but supportive.

I had met my future wife earlier that year, and despite thinking I would go off to join The Army single, we began going out around 6 weeks before I left. You just can't choose, can you?

She would be a rock during training, Afghan and throughout my injury.
Along with my family, I am confident I would not be where I am today without her.

And so with my life packed into a suitcase, in late September 2008, I left Lanzarote.
I had come to adore the island, the memories and friends I made there.
Even though I am fiercely patriotic towards Britain, I will always regard it as my home.
(Don't think I wasn't wondering what the hell I was doing, freezing my arse off in 2ft snow in Yorkshire instead of being on a beach.)

One year and one day after arriving in Catterick for training, I would be in Afghanistan.
Exactly a month after that, A Company would lose our first man to enemy action.

But before all of that, I would have to get through 6 months of one of the hardest training programs The Army has to offer, The Combat Infantryman's Course.

The Battle For Echo 7-7 (Part Two)

Near death is such a cliché.

I don't know if what I experienced was my subconscious putting into action what it thought I was meant to go through, or if that's what really happens.

Either way, it could have been more interesting.

So.
There I was on the roof of compound number Echo 7-7.
There was a lull in the battle of around half an hour or so after the last contact.
This is where I continue to make the decisions that would lead to my being shot. Decisions that continue to baffle me to this day.

I became bored. I understand how that make sound strange, given it was on a battlefield, arrogant even.
I turned to Dave The Medic and asked if he wanted a turn on my Light Machine Gun. Apart from being a superb combat medic, he relished being attached to an Infantry unit and was eager to learn what ever he could about our trade.
I gave him a quick lesson on the gun, and dropped down into the roof trough beside Murph to rest.

In the coming minutes, these two men would save my life.

After a period of sitting there in cover I turned to Murph and asked if anything needed doing.
Why I did this I will never know. Anyone in the forces will know, you should never as an NCO if any work needs doing. He suggested I fill some sandbags, as we would need to shore up the compounds defences in the days to come. Again, why I was happy to do so is a mystery: 2 Platoon had filled over 2,000 building Patrol Base Blenheim.

I went in search of someone to give me a hand. I got up out of cover, and moved along the roof.
Half of it had protection up to around shoulder height and the other half less so. That's how I remember it, but as with all of this, people who were there may do so differently.

As I moved across the roof I came across a small area that the IED clearance teams had deemed to be unclear. It was a small area cordoned off with three Cyalume light sticks, arranged in a triangle. The likelihood that it was an IED was very low, but better to be safe than sorry.
I stepped over it and and continued across the roof until I reached Rifleman Carlo Apolis in cover.

I asked him if he would give me a hand. He agreed. Of course he would.

Rfn Carlo Apolis

Carlo was the most genuine and good hearted man in the Platoon.
A 28 year old South African, he joined the Army to save up and continue his education to one day open his own hotel. He was a dreamer, a budding entrepreneur.
We called him "The Silver Fox" due to the streak of grey in his closely cropped hair.

I will never be able to do the man justice.

The medium does not exist to do so.

He had some sand bags, but no entrenching tool. He suggested I look for one, yet for some reason I thought I had one packed into my almost overflowing daysack. My kit was back with my weapon, on the other side of the roof.

I began to make my way back to my daysack. I got about three quarters of the way across, over the cyalumes and into cover, before realising I didn't have one of the small, folding shovels with me after all.
I turned and began my third trip across the roof.

It was a journey I would not finish.

As I stepped over the cyalume triangle, time slowed to a glacial pace.
People always ask me what its like to get shot, but I never felt the bullet enter or exit me.
The only way I can describe what I felt is akin to what it feels like when you bang your funny bone.
That's what it's like, on a much bigger scale, to have a bullet shatter 2 vertebrae in your spine.

The bullet had entered me on the right hand side, just below my ribs and the exit wound was on the lower left side of my back.
Still in slow motion, I felt like I was being pushed up and forwards rather than to the side as you might think. This, coupled with the fact I had just stepped over a suspected IED, led me to think I had been blown up.

The time it took to hit the ground felt like an age. It was also a time of immense clarity.
I realised I would not finish the tour, would need to go to Selly Oak Hospital and to Headley Court.
It was like a fast forward preview of what was to come.

When I hit the ground, almost on top of The Boss, things returned to normal and I became aware of the growing battle for Echo 7-7.

I screamed. I'm not ashamed to say it.

It was more out of shock and surprise than any real pain.
The Boss dragged me into cover to where Dave The Medic and Murph were waiting.
I asked The Boss, that classic question every man injured on tour asks:

"Are my balls still there?!"

I remember him saying, in his poshest Sandhurst voice:

"I'm not checking your balls, Rifleman Owens." To be fair, he did have a battle to win.

I was lying on my back as they prepared to treat me. As my left leg was now paralysed due to the damage to my spine, my leg below the knee was limp. It looked to me, only being able to see my knee, that I had a stump.

I asked where my leg was and Dave told me it was still there, and that I had been shot.
Weeks later, fresh out of a coma, I would be convinced I had lost it. I blame the drugs.

They began to treat me. I was turned over and Dave began to pack the grapefruit sized exit wound in my back. It was at this point I began to hyperventilate as the bullet had ripped through my diaphragm.

The battle was raging by now.
The multiple was defending hard from the roof, pouring fire onto the enemy positions.
Murph, with his helmet cam recording everything was kneeling above me, talking and keeping me lucid. I could hardly breath. I told him this, to which he replied "You're talking now, aren't you?".

I told him, in between my rapid breaths: "Murph...don't...let...me...die".

Shortly afterwards, the first grenade came over the compound walls.
The warning cry went up and both Dave and Murph threw their bodies on top of me, shielding me from the blast. Luckily no one was hurt.

At this point, Dave had administered an "Easy IO" to the bone in my upper chest. It is a large, thick needle that when inserted into bone, allows fluids to quickly enter the body.

He would insert two, but i would hardly flinch, even as i heard and felt the needle "crack" into the bone.
This isn't me showing off, you understand. Just another example of the pain killing effects of adrenaline.

A U.S soldier with an SPG9.

The compound was now being hit with 73mm SPG9 anti tank rounds.
This was a "prestige" weapon. By deploying it, The Taliban were throwing everything they had at us.

Another grenade landed on the roof and once again, I was heroically shielded.

Now I was stabilised, they needed to get me off the roof.

The two attempts to pick me up and get me out of the roof trough were unsuccessful and met with the crack of incoming fire above us. It was at this point that Murph, in true Army style, "motivated" me to get over the roof hump myself. I began to leopard crawl, dragging my useless leg behind me with Dave and Murph helping me over.
Months later he would agonise that he might have done more damage to my spine than was necessary.

I don't believe that's the case.
Besides, without his efforts I probably wouldn't have made it off that roof alive.

There was a doorway leading downstairs, and I was passed through it.
Although there was a flight of rickety stairs, I was passed down "crowd surfing" style by the massed members of the Engineer and IED search team.

I was set down next to Carlo.

He had been shot, they told me, moments after myself.
Laying there next to him, with Dave fighting to save his life, was the first I knew of it.

We laid there, side by side but facing away from each other. Every time I turned my head to look at him, the Engineers looking after me gently turned my head away.

This is not the place to describe his injuries or the final moments of his life in vivid detail.
So I will not.

But he was dying. Dave's tan coloured Oakley gloves were stained red with Carlo's and my blood.
When he came over to work on me, I took my own off and threw them at him.
"You're going to need these more than me, now." I said.

I was so tired.
I just wanted to sleep, to close my eyes for a few minutes.
Dave was colourful in his choice of words when I did so.

It took around 45 minutes for us to be evacuated. The British Medical Emergency Response Team  (MERT) mounted in a Chinook, was already in the air to collect another casualty. It was told we were of a higher priority.
We waited. But after an unsuccessful attempt to land in to compound opposite us, they reluctantly admitted they could not land safely in the built up area we were in. The Chinook was just too big.

As Dave continued to work on Carlo, we heard the sound of approaching rotors again. We were told an American "PEDRO" team was on route.

The PEDRO is made up of medics mounted in two UH60 Blackhawks. Heavily armed and armoured, the are smaller than the Chinooks and therefore could go places the MERT could not.

Soon one of the two Blackhawks tried to land inside the compound. Even the PEDRO were too big for that. All it did was create a massive "Brown Out".

Carlos and I were placed on to makeshift stretchers and carried to the compound doors.
There was another lull in the battle at this point, no doubt due in part to the mini guns carried by the Blackhawks.
The gunners even threw grenades out of the open doors of the helicopters.

The men from A Company that cleared
and held Echo 7-7.
Murph and Dave are 2nd and 3rd men in
rear rank, respectively. The Boss is the furthest right.

The first one landed outside 7-7 and I saw Carlo be carried through the compound doors.

That was the last time I saw him.

It would be weeks before I discovered his fate.

He would die later that day.

Soon it was my turn and I was carried out and set down in that long green grass.

We were moving again, before the 'heli even landed and I felt the hot down force as we passed underneath the rotors.
I was slid on and immediately injected with Ketamine by the medic. Trust me kids, don't ever try it.

I passed in and out of conciseness on the way back to Camp Bastion, but I remember seeing the Afghan countryside flash past below us.
I even managed to realise I was riding in a helicopter that I had dreamt of, ever since seeing the film  "Black Hawk Down"

Getting shot wasn't quite worth it.

I remember arriving at Bastion. I was put into an ambulance and taken to the operating theatre.
It was inside that I began to loose consciousness for the last time.

My vision began to cloud, starting at the edges and working towards a singular point. Not unlike a head rush.

There was no with a shining light at the end and no life flashing before my eyes.
But there was another moment of extreme clarity.

And acceptance.

"So, this is dying?" I thought.

"Huh".

I woke up 12 days later.

Carlo's grave two years on.
R.I.P