



Friday

IN THE crisp night air, some guys are playing hockey in a rink decorated with maple leaves, watched by an appreciative crowd armed with Tim Hortons coffee and doughnuts. An ordinary scene anywhere in Canada, you might think. Except this is Kandahar, the Taliban's former capital. Only here would Tim Hortons put up a sign explaining that the outlet will close if there is a warning of an attack, and reopen a quarter of an hour after the all-clear.

An extra shot with that, sir?

The deployment in Afghanistan is a much bigger deal for Canada than it is for the Americans or the Brits. The Canadians stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day, but for most of the past 50 years they turned themselves into the ultimate “soft” power, deploying their soldiers mainly for peacekeeping.

In Kandahar they have gone back to being a fighting force, and have lost more than 40 lives in the process.

If the Brits have been having a hard time in Helmand, it is the Canadians in Kandahar province who fought the decisive battle of Nato's war so far, leading a brigade-sized assault on Taliban positions in the Panjwayi valley last autumn.

The Canadians are the first contingent to bring main battle tanks to Afghanistan. The French-speaking men of the Vandoos regiment in Panjwayi look even bigger and meaner than the Royal Marines in Kajaki.

The operation is hugely controversial at home. A Canadian Senate report this month said: “Anyone expecting to see the emergence in Afghanistan within the next several decades of a recognisable modern democracy capable of delivering justice and amenities to its people is dreaming in Technicolor.”

Yet among the soldiers there is a sense of relief at getting rid of the blue helmets and white paint from their armoured vehicles. There is even some macho mocking of the Dutch in the neighbouring province of Uruzgan: “Wooden shoes, wouldn't shoot,” they quip.

The Canadian recreation room is filled with messages from home, whether patriotic slogans such as “Thankx for fighting for my freedom”, or apprehensive advice such as “Duck, please duck”.

Corporal Dan Haynes, of the Royal Canadian Regiment, says: “I have come into some intense situations, but I pulled through and I can say I've had fun.” Did it feel strange to have Canada fighting a war rather than keeping the peace? “It's all part of the pre-peacekeeping part of things," he replied. You have to defeat the Taliban before you can do peacekeeping.

Canadian journalists are far more dedicated to reporting the actions of their soldiers than are the Brits. A group of correspondents is permanently embedded, inhabiting a group of tents at NATO's base in Kandahar. They generously allow our band of visiting correspondents to pump them for information and use their internet communications.

If you go out into the countryside, they advise, it would be safer to dress up in Afghan clothes. Fortunately there is a local carpet and souvenir seller on base who sells us a purple salwar kameez (the traditional dress of tunic and loose trousers) with a little embroidered cap. I decide to forgo a turban, fearing ridicule. Still, my colleagues are not entirely satisfied, saying the clothes are too clean to pass for local. I use my new shirt to dust down the tent.

Thus disguised, we walk off the base half an hour later. The Taliban may or may not be fooled, but there is now the danger of being shot by Nato soldiers, for whom one salwar kameez looks like another. At the final checkpoint, the soldiers look bemused by the gesticulations of the tall, pale Afghan workers walking past them. Still, our Afghan fixers waiting in cars outside seem delighted. Being seen with foreigners can be a death sentence. “It is good you changed clothes,” says Nour, beaming “But please take the caps off. They are only worn by children―or by American special forces.”

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Thursday

AFTER two days of battle rations in Helmand, the canteen at NATO headquarters in Kabul is a bountiful feast. There are almost as many meals here as there are nationalities (37) in the international force―pasta for the Mediterraneans, curry for the Asians, smoked ham for the Germans, hamburgers for the Americans and a salad bar for the multinational veggies. Around the tables, little ghettos of French, Italian, Turkish, American, Canadian and many other unidentifiable soldiers form spontaneously.

We have come to interview their boss, Lieutenant-General David Richards, a British commander who is finishing his tour of duty. We journalists have an unavoidable tendency to judge the quality of people we meet by whether they a) speak English and b) speak to journalists. General Richards does both willingly, and is therefore classified as a military genius.

Military types love their TLAs (three-letter acronyms). General Richards has coined a five-letter strategy: “R,D,G,P and S”, standing respectively for reconstruction, development, governance, Pakistan and security. It's hardly catchy, but does the job of summarising his strategy against the Taliban which, he says, depends for its success on making progress in all five dimensions “synergistically”.

Much of the interview, though, is more personal. He defends his record in overseeing NATO's violent deployment to southern Afghanistan last year, distances himself from tactics of static defence adopted by the British in Helmand last summer, justifies a decision to strike a deal to extricate British forces from the town of Musa Qala, warns the Americans against poppy eradication, and, in a thinly-veiled way, tries to tie the hands of his American successor, General Dan McNeill.

The new commander's nickname, “Bomber” McNeill, inspires little confidence

Relations between the Americans and the British are poor. Many in NATO worry privately that the new commander will be much too “kinetic”―too keen to use force, too reluctant to get involved in the messy, complicated, unglamorous business that the gurus of counter-insurgency call “armed social work”.

The new commander's nickname, “Bomber” McNeill, inspires little confidence among the veterans of Kabul. General Richards believes that an active information strategy―talking to the media―is as important as killing Taliban. But General McNeill is a different sort of leader. He sent word to NATO staff that he would not do any interviews on arrival.

Nor would he copy General Richards's “Prism group”, a body of exotic travellers, academics and other civilians whose job has been to offer alternative advice and facilitate access to a wider range of Afghans. Dinner with General Richards was akin to attending the court of a philosopher king. General McNeill, apparently, will rely on a small staff of army colonels.

They may not thank him, though. In a country of bearded men and burqa-clad women, the Prism group has offered a rare locus for ordinary, mixed, polite and intelligent society.

In the evenings, many members of the Prism group and NATO command, with journalists and other expatriates, are to be found in a handful of meeting places in Kabul that serve alcohol. These are hidden from sight, and protected by armed guards. Inside, they try to recreate the ambience of a British pub or a French restaurant.

Since the arrival of foreign forces there has also been a lively trade in “Chinese restaurants” that double up as brothels.

Few people in Kabul want the return of the Taliban. There has been progress of a kind. Now the city can grapple with the modern ill of traffic jams. The markets are full of goods and people to buy them. Many seem happy for international forces to stay. But the foreigners' degenerate ways have not gone unnoticed. “They are encouraging people to drink alcohol,” says one veteran Afghan journalist, “but they are stopping Afghans from growing poppies that provide livelihoods for their families.”

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Wednesday

THE Royal Marines decide to take us to the sharp end of the war, in a town called Kajaki in northern Helmand. Marines mutter cryptically about things “kicking off” in Kajaki, but offer no details.

Arrival there is by helicopter, after dark to reduce the chances of being shot down. We land at a hilltop position overlooking the Kajaki dam, on the Helmand river. No sooner have we exited the Chinook than things do indeed “kick off”. The Brits are blasting away with mortars, and shout at us to get down. A nearby position had received an incoming round shortly before we landed, probably from an old Soviet Dushka anti-aircraft gun. The mortar line was responding.

The Athens of Afghanistan

As things quieten down, and we wait for our transport to the more sheltered base of the hill, we have tea with some of the hilltop lads. Officially, the Royal Marines don't do “body counts”, but up here they have a scoreboard with a stick figure for each Talib confirmed killed: ten on January 13th, four on the 16th, three on the 17th, six on the 19th, six on the 23rd and two on the 24th.

We are introduced to Royal Marine argot. Tea is “wets”. Accommodation is a “grot”. Something difficult, exciting, scary or strenuous is “emotional”. Something simple is “no dramas”. The Brits hold a line of peaks known as Athens, Normandy and Sparrow Hawk, and they have relabelled the surrounding countryside with tags such as Nipple Hill, Balcony House, Banana Lay-by and Bandit Lane. A big local wadi, or dry riverbed, is called the M1, after a British motorway.

Later that evening we get a fireworks display as we are tucking into our boil-bags for supper. A British Javelin rocket streaks through the sky, followed by tracer rounds from a machine gun on Sparrow Hawk. A large boom denotes the detonation of a 1,000kg bomb dropped by an RAF Harrier (at least they arrive in time). An American B-1B bomber is on station to follow up.

The target was Balcony House, from where the Taliban had fired their anti-aircraft gun. “Balcony House has no more balcony,” said one officer. There were two confirmed Taliban sentries killed. Clearly, NATO has awesome technology and firepower at its disposal, and can win any engagement. But it does not have the forces to hold territory.

At Kajaki there is a single company of Royal Marines (roughly 100 men) controlling a radius of about five kilometres, with the questionable help of a small detachment of Afghan police and a private militia. The nearest Afghan villages have been abandoned. Beyond that, it is Taliban country.

The ultimate aim of the operation here is to promote a vital reconstruction project, the refurbishment of a hydroelectric power station at the dam to provide more power to southern Afghanistan. To do that, about 70 kilometres of road have to be secured, with a six-kilometre corridor on either side free of Taliban, so that a new turbine can be brought up.

That job alone could occupy a battalion, even the full brigade strength of the British forces in Helmand. The alternative is to cut deals with local tribes, persuading them to keep the road safe in return for the promise of jobs.

Something along these lines was tried in the nearby town of Musa Qala, where the British gave control to local elders and withdrew in October, after fierce battles involving paratroopers in the summer.

The Brits told us this was a “model” to be followed. The Americans saw it as craven surrender to the Taliban, and at Kajaki both the Brits and their Afghan allies had little doubt about where the Taliban were coming from: Musa Qala.

Just before we left Afghanistan, the Musa Qala deal collapsed. The Taliban seized full control of the town and bulldozed parts of the local police station. Sooner or later, the Brits would have to go back in, and they would be back at square one.

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Tuesday

SOME people like driving when they travel abroad, others prefer cycling or even walking. I find there is no better way of seeing Afghanistan than from a Chinook helicopter. The breathtaking view from the open back door is obscured only by the silhouette of the rear gunner. On a good day the floor is also opened up so you can see the ground whizzing past the under-slung load. It is so noisy you need not make small talk with your neighbour. The only drawback is a draught of cold air as the chopper gains altitude

From the air, Helmand province is a small version of Egypt: an expanse of desert with river shimmering through it. Occasionally mountains rise up from the flatness, rather as a child might draw them.

The favoured mode of transport here is helicopter or Hercules transport plane. British and NATO forces rule the air. On the ground, though, it is another story. It may look featureless, uninhabited terrain, but it is for the most part Taliban country. British helicopter pilots fly low and furiously fast, weaving like slalom skiers, rotors skimming the ground as if this were a giant grass-cutter. The Chinooks usually fly in pairs, with an Apache helicopter gunship as escort.

All this is exhilarating, but it belies the fundamental weakness of NATO's position in Afghanistan. A new American manual explains that the key to success in counter-insurgency is to provide security for the local population. Down in Helmand, the Brits worry mainly about securing themselves.

I begin to think of south Lebanon, where the Israelis were driven off the roads―and, once flying helicopters became dangerous, they were driven out of the country altogether. If the Taliban ever find an effective way of shooting down NATO helicopters, as the mujahideen did for Soviet ones in the 1980s (they used American Stinger missiles), then the mission will be doomed.

We may encounter turbulence

The main British base is at Camp Bastion, a city of tents and shipping containers in the desert, far away from any hostile population and with infinite fields of fire to intercept hostile attackers. Once upon a time it was the Americans who were mocked for obsessive “force protection”. But the British government knows that every British casualty in Afghanistan will erode support at home for the deployment.

After a chilly night in Kandahar (the RAF lost our luggage and sleeping bags) our first real stop is Lashkar Gah, Helmand's provincial capital. This is the geographical heart of the British strategy. British officials describe it as an “oasis” of stability, and tell us of their plans to radiate into the countryside with reconstruction and development.

Stability is a relative term in Helmand. British officials can move only in high-speed convoys of armoured SUVs, pushing traffic out of the way. When we go to interview residents in the market (where the Brits have built a new tin-roofed area) we are surrounded by big white blokes with wrap-around glasses and guns.

The locals, though, are not shy about complaining that the fighting in the surrounding districts has made things worse ever since the Brits arrived. We find little evidence of hearts and minds being won over.

The Brits tell us that Lashkar Gah has suffered no mortar or rocket attacks, no road-side bombs, and “only” seven suicide bombers. The eighth blows himself up a few minutes after we pass the governor's compound. The armoured SUVs and the guys with guns will be busy for a while yet.

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Monday

NEVER more will I associate the word “military” with “efficiency”. We are supposed to fly to Afghanistan care of Britain's Royal Air Force, but when we turn up at Brize Norton, west of Oxford, we are told our flight has been cancelled for lack of crew. When we turn up the following day at 10am we are told the flight is full because it has to take on the previous day's stranded passengers, and journalists are “not a priority”. A few calls to the Ministry of Defence soon set the record straight. No doubt some poor Royal Marines are told to come back tomorrow. Let's hope they don't catch up with us in Afghanistan.

Brize Norton is a throwback to a different era of air travel. Unlike Heathrow airport, it has no swanky shopping mall, only a stationer's shop and a little coffee-bar that has run out of hot dogs. Goodies on sale include spare bootlaces, insect repellent, camouflage paint and other essentials for the combat soldier.

My eye is drawn to a display case of “prohibited items” for military flights (shown below). Remember the nail clippers and cigarette lighters that are imperiously confiscated from ordinary passengers in civilian airports? Here they worry about commando knives, machetes, pistols, ammunition and knuckle-dusters; the kind of thing a Royal Marine might forget to leave at home. At least bottles of water are OK. Flak-jackets and helmets are compulsory in the cabin, to be worn on landing in the Afghan war zone. We are soon to discover, however, that the more immediate threat to our lives is not the Taliban, but the appalling state of the RAF's fleet of 30-year-old Tristar transport planes.

The buses to the plane are loaded according to rank. Colonels and lieutenant-colonels go first, followed by officers, and then other ranks. We journalists appoint ourselves majors, in the hope of getting decent seats. Just as we are about to reach the aircraft, though, the retreat is sounded. The plane has developed a technical fault and we must wait some more.

We finally make it on board on hour or so later, only to face more delays. One of the anti-missile defence turrets has broken down, and the captain must obtain permission to fly finally from the higher-ups.

It is dusk by the time we take off. In the galley, crew members have pinned up a map showing our intended progress with hand-written crosses. Somewhere over the Caucasus there is one marked “point of no return”. Beyond that, explains a crew member, “if anything goes wrong we don't have enough fuel to go back”. The plane would have to limp on to Kandahar, or negotiate for permission to land in a possibly less-than-hospitable country along the way. I am assured it would not be the first time this has happened.

But useful on a long flight

Everybody in the British forces, I discover, has an RAF horror story to tell. Transport delays are commonplace, eating up valuable R&R leave. One soldier recalls how, instead of closing the doors before take-off, the crew accidentally inflated the escape chute. Another recounts how his plane hit the runway too hard on landing and damaged its tail. Even the crew members are keen to retell their experiences of flying in these rust-buckets.

Not long ago Tony Blair delivered a speech explaining why Britain still had to exert hard power around the world. If so, he'd better order some new planes. British cabinet ministers long ago stopped using the RAF transport fleet, preferring the Queen's Flight, or even posh private charters. But they still send the boys to war in clapped-out aircraft. The captain tells us that, in the case of a loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop down. But above my head I see only a hole. The ceiling panel has come off, revealing the inner guts of the fuselage. Spare parts, apparently, are hard to come by.

Still, we make it into Afghan air space without mishap―only to hear, as we circle Kandahar, the captain announcing that we will not be landing after all. Another turret has broken down, and we must divert to an American base at al-Udeid, in Qatar.

It proves to be an American city in the desert, complete with outlets for Pizza Hut, Baskin Robbins and Burger King. The British reception tent has dusty camp beds and some tea on offer; the American chow-hall offers pancakes and bacon, the air-conditioned accommodation tents have lovely bunk beds with orthopaedic mattresses. A British NCO briefs us on our behaviour on base. The Royal Marines must honour the British uniform, and compliment their American hosts whenever possible. “You will be subject to American military discipline,” he bellows, “they arrest you first and ask questions later.” Forget the special relationship. For America, Britain is just the poor relation.