Daily patrols move through a beautiful but alien landscape, where one wrong step can detonate the enemy's favoured weapon, writes Lieut Paddy Bury
THE GREEN zone is as beautiful as it is dangerous. A chequered mass of green fields, irrigation canals, trees and compounds, it sprawls out east from the Helmand river for about a mile. The Helmand is the lifeblood of the area, and for thousands of years its watery arteries have brought fertility to an otherwise arid land. The locals have worked hard to channel the surplus water through their fields and now are about to reap the rewards of another season's hard work.
In mid-April, the pink and white opium poppies cultivated in the fields will be harvested and sold to the opium factories, where the base product for heroin will be made. Once harvested, the poppy will be replaced with quick-growing maize that will soar to head height in a month. As the heat rises, the mountain snows melt and the water levels rise, the green zone comes alive. Everywhere green life bursts up toward the sun. The landscape, already alien, shifts and morphs every week, negating map and memory. Through this the men of Ranger Company, 1st Battalion, the Royal Irish Regiment, must patrol almost every day.
In the stifling heat and close terrain, space becomes condensed. From our base, we project our combat power as far as we can, but in the green zone this can mean sometimes as little as three kilometres. Further out than that, the Taliban, if they subdue the locals, can roam free. Thus the fluid frontline between two opposing forces is often only the distance from your house to the shops. In between are villages that are pro-ISAF, pro-Taliban and indifferent. One wrong turn in the green zone can see the patrol end up in a hostile village only 500m from our base. Another turn and we are greeted with smiles and waves.
The locals are generally very friendly. Despite some fighting in their back yards, they have seen improvements in the Sangin area in the last year. The bazaar is busy, a school has opened, security has improved and therefore when we patrol into the green zone children rush out to speak to us. "Give us a pen," they say in Pashtu. "Where are you from?" "Irelandia," my linguist replies, pointing to the green shamrock on his helmet. Often people come forward to give us information on the Taliban and warn us if we are at risk. When we patrol with the Afghan national police or Afghan national army they act as a sixth sense for us, easily assessing the "atmospherics" on the ground as they are familiar with the area. But we are all still at risk.
The enemy's favoured weapon in the green zone is the improvised explosive device, a deadly mechanism of wires and charges, often attached to old artillery shells. One wrong step in the tangled, soaking foliage and you may never take another. So, eyes on stalks, our point men weave their way forward, looking for anything suspicious, staying alert. We traipse through streams, keep eyes peeled for gunmen, and still muster a "salaam alaykum" and a smile as we pass a family watching us in wonder.
The locals live a simple life and time passes slowly for them. They are well versed in the annals of war and before something happens, women and children can be seen moving away from where the Taliban and ourselves converge.
They will wait in a safe wadi and return once the fighting has finished, unfazed. We want to keep the locals onside, and offer compensation if their homes are damaged.
If they are involved in a traffic accident or stray into an old minefield, we give them the best medical treatment available, the same as we give our own comrades. But the Taliban can blend into the local population and we must balance interaction with caution.
Previously, suicide bombers have sprung from mosques to attack the police and mentally handicapped children have been used as mules to try to blow us up. We stop and search fighting-age males on motorbikes, slow kids pushing wheelbarrows full of sacks and ask males to lift their dishdasha as they approach us. As a smiling Afghan bares his belly there are often laughs for all involved.
Lieut Bury is from Wicklow and remains on duty in Helmand province, Afghanistan