Sweating the Metal: Flying Under Fire. A Chinook Pilot's Blistering Account of Life, Death and Dust in Afghanistan

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I check my watch; we’ve been sitting ‘turning and burning’ – rotors spinning, burning fuel – on the pan at Camp Bastion, for fifty minutes now.

Early afternoon – Helmand Province in May – and the outside air temperature display on the instrument panel says it’s 50°C. The Chinook’s windscreen takes the full glare, turning the cockpit into a greenhouse where the ambient temperature is nudging 65°C. Hot doesn’t even come close; there’s no frame of reference for this.

A bead of sweat trickles from underneath my helmet and into my eye. I’ve had enough; I radio control…

‘Bastion Ops, Black Cat Two Two. Where’s the armourer?’ I ask.

‘Black Cat Two Two, Bastion Ops. Should be with you now.’

I twist and look over my left shoulder and see him walking up the ramp; I motion for him to sit on the jump seat. Bob Ruffles, my No.2 crewman, assists the armourer and plugs his helmet into the comms.

‘Okay, this is what we’ve got,’ I tell him. ‘We landed at Gereshk to refuel with our formation leader an hour ago, and his cab had a massive fuel leak. It’s completely soaked his Defensive Aids Suite, so his flares are now bathed in it. We’ll fly you to Gereshk so you can replace them. We’ll be back for you after our next sortie – about forty-five minutes.’

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