Our time in Sangin was drawing to a close.

The patrolling was relentless because we had to ensure the town and surrounding areas were as secure as possible, allowing a smooth changeover. In the coming fortnight sixteen air assault brigade was due in to take over from us.

At the beginning of our six-month tour we had taken over from the Anglians, and immediately been attacked with rockets and mortars. History now repeated itself, and the Taliban began attacking the D.C again.

They are fully aware that we do six months rotation, and these new attacks were laid on for sixteen air assault brigade. But our tour had been extended by two weeks, so it was us bearing the brunt of renewed attacks.

I was told that a team of instructors was being assembled to fly back to Camp Bastion and instruct the paras on the techniques and procedures that we had employed in our time in theatre.

My name was included on that list. As I packed my kit I was extremely excited, but this was twinned with regret that I would be leaving my troop to see out the final fortnight in Sangin without me.

On arrival in the Sapwan Qala area we spend the night, and sentries are immediately posted. We have just stirred up a hornet's nest and it is anyone's guess how the Taliban will react.

My main concern is to get the faulty machine gun back to working order - I've managed to acquire quite a few spare parts from the armourer back in the UK.

Whilst in the middle of repairing the gun one of the Viking crewman approaches us with a grim expression on his face.

He's just heard that a Marine travelling in a Viking has been killed in an explosion at Inkerman, another one of our outposts just North of Sangin.

Intelligence suggested that fighters from a village known as Sapwan Qala were travelling North and attacking another one of our outposts at Kajaki.

We received orders stating that Bravo company was to operate a sweep and search.

Unlike the operation to take Musa Qala, we were to work independently.

The only assets we had as a company group were three 105mm artillery guns and a reconnaissance group.

The Vikings had arrived at the D.C the previous evening and had been loaded with enough stores to last the three days that the operation was intended to last.

At first light we exited the gates, heading North, to carry out the 30km journey.

By now we had been out on the ground for a week. In that time we had acted as a blocking force and also as a decoy for other forces to allow them freedom of movement.

We were already on the outskirts of Musa Qala, and ready for the final push of actually liberating it. But we then received a bizarre set of orders.

A mysterious character who went by the name of Mullah Salaam had requested our assistance. Allegedly, he had been a former Taliban leader but had recently fell out with the rest of their hierarchy.

A deal had been brokered between President Karzai and Salaam. When Musa Qala fell, Salaam would become governor, although ultimately he would be answerable to Karzai.

He still held quite a deal of sway over many people in the town, so it made sense for him to take on the role. There was one major sticking point - his former Taliban friends now wanted Salaam dead for what they saw as treason.

Our job was to escort some Afghan soldiers into his compound so that they could afford him protection until Musa Qala was in our hands.

Having spent a bitterly cold night on top of a mountain, it was welcome relief to collapse our position and leave our Russian trench.

It had just turned first light as we climbed back into our Viking vehicles and headed North to act as a decoy for other friendly forces who were operating to the East of Musa Qala.

As we slowly trundled along the Musa Qala wadi all was quiet until we came level with a wooded area, then all all hell broke loose.

My Viking was second in the convoy - we moved in single file owing to the significant mine threat - but the Taliban must have us couldn't resist ambushing us from our left flank.

They initiated the attack with Rocket Propelled Grenades, one of which hit the ground directly in front of me no more than five metres away.

Believe me when I tell you movie director Ridley Scott got it completely wrong in Black Hawk Down's RPG scenes - when they're fired at you, all you hear is a terrific bang followed a split second later by a second bang.

There is no observing the round in flight because it travels at a fantastic speed.

Next came the inevitable AK47 fire. You could hear the rounds - or bullets as they're more commonly known - ricocheting off the Viking's armour.

The commander of the Viking I was in was frantically trying to engage some of the Taliban firing positions with his point five machine gun - no mean feat in a moving vehicle with RPGs and AK47 rounds coming at you.

We had travelled roughly 500 metres and were still being engaged by the Taliban as was every vehicle in the convoy. By now I had lost count of how many RPGs had been fired at us.

I was becoming frustrated at not being able to give any assistance to the commander because the only weapon system that was employable in this situation was his, and to disembark from the armoured Viking would have been lunacy.

We would definitely have taken many casualties.

We headed East to get away from the ambush. There was high ground to our front about 1,500 metres away. Here we could utilise our machine guns to great effect and have the added bonus of being out of range of the weapons the Taliban were using against us.

Once on the high ground, without prompting from me, the lads set about establishing the gun line with a renewed sense of urgency.

Inside of two minutes the gun controllers had shouted to me that they were ready for tasking. I gave a target indication of where the Taliban firing positions were, and seconds later our rounds were finding their targets.

It had been so quick to set up that some of the convoy were still in the wadi as we rained down heavy fire on our attackers.

The Taliban had also used a substantial compound from which to engage us, so an airstrike was called. A short while later a 500 lb bomb levelled their vantage point, bringing an end to the fighting.

It had been a torrid two-hour engagement, although it had felt more like five minutes.

How we had got away unscathed from this ambush was a mystery to me. I just hoped our luck would hold out for the remainder of the tour. Once it had all sunk in, I was absolutely exhausted.

When the adrenalin rush leaves you, it's only then that you realise just how much it takes out of a person.

In all, we had expended 12,000 rounds. I learned this as it was passed over the radio net, and the sergeant major who holds the re-supply on his vehicle gave us an instant re-supply.

If the Taliban fight this hard 20 kilometres from Musa Qala, how hard will they fight for the town itself?

Just before our predecessors left Sangin we spoke of operations past and present. It was common knowledge amongst all serving in Afghanistan that Musa Qala was a Taliban stronghold.

One of the Anglians told me: "If you get tasked to seize Musa Qala they'll make a movie about it!"

I knew what his point was. It would be a titanic struggle. And I had an inkling that it was big on our agenda.

Nothing was set in stone - until we were gathered together and our OC told us that as a direct request of President Kharzai, we were to wrestle Musa Qala from the Taliban's vice-like grip.

That same evening you could hear the rumbling of tracks on sandstone streets. It was a Viking troop carrier heading for our base.

Vikings are the Royal Marines' amphibious armoured personnel carriers, and there are roughly 12 of these to a troop. They're twin-cabbed and have a machine gun mounted on a cupola of the front cab.

Manned by a commander and a drive, they're heavily armoured and extremely manoeuvrable, even over the rugged terrain in Helmand. We were to be Viking-borne on many occasions over the course of the 10 days that it took us to re-take Musa Qala.

Having just finished sentry I eventually find a breakfast of 'boil in the bag' bacon and beans. It has already became clear in the few hours that we have occupied the building that we were not alone here.

We're house-sharing with quite a few mice who have taken quite a fancy to our rations. They soon take quite a few casualties once we introduce some local cats to the household. But in hindsight maybe we should have kept the mice.

By the end of the tour no-one can face the rations any more!

Shortly after breakfast we receive orders for the first in a series of familiarisation patrols that we have to conduct. Patrolling is a fundamental part of what we do, and the reasons for it are many.

SANGIN, Afghanistan

On arrival at our new home for six months - the Sangin District Centre, or DC as we come to know it - I'm directed to the fire support group tower.

It's a three-storey building, where we sleep on the ground floor and carry out sentry duty on the top. Our weapons include an array of machine guns.

The DC is split in half by the river Helmand, and the only crossing point is a rudimentary bridge. This is where we'll wash both ourselves and our clothes for the duration of the tour. The Helmand flows from Kajaki dam, another outpost manned by the men of 40 commando Royal Marines.

It is of the utmost importance because the dam provides the only electrical power source in the Sangin valley.

We assume guard duties immediately because the majority of men from the Royal Anglian Regiment, who we have taken over from, flew out on the same Chinook we arrived on.

There are several sangars (fortified positions) dotted around the perimeter of the DC, and a further two on the roofs of the main buildings, one of which is my troops' responsibility to man.

We employ a rota system so each man carries out two hours on duty then has four hours off. This is carried out constantly and for the remainder of the tour. After all, the only security we have is that we can provide ourselves.

It is my first turn for sentry. As I make my way up to the roof I notice that someone has ironically scrawled on the wall 'Thirteen steps stay lucky'. There are, in fact, 13 steps as I count them.

But eight British soldiers have been killed on the rooftop we are now manning, the result of attacks by the Taliban.

As I look out from the tower I can't help but notice the outstanding views over the whole area.

Anyone who attempts an attack on the DC will be delivered a stern lesson in a very short space of time. Every angle and approach is covered by an array of machine guns varying in calibre.

The views, however, are magnificent. The entire area is ringed by mountains rising up out of the horizon. It truly is a sight to behold.

The town of Sangin is a different story to the mountains. It's a town that has been ravaged by war, past and present. Fifty percent of it has been rubble-ised by heavy fighting - some, I'm sure, by the Soviets but also contributed to by the British.

Having completed my two hours sentry, I make my way back down the 13 steps.

I bed down for the night with a book and finally drift off into an uneasy sleep, wondering what the coming night might bring.

Several hours go by before I am awakened by one of the lads - it's already my turn on sentry again. I light a fire to boil the ancient kettle that the Anglians have kindly left us. Ten minutes later I'm on my way, tea in hand, to the roof.

My watch shows four thirty in the morning. It's pitch black. The darkness envelopes all and everything.

Another modern wonder amongst our equipment is thermal imagery. As I scan the ground to my front, I can see everything despite the darkness. Night instantly becomes day. It's an ace in our pack that we hold over our enemy and they are very aware of it.

Once satisfied no-one is about to breach the perimeter I sit back and take a sip of tea. I try to imagine I'm sat out in my garden on a warm summer's evening but the illusion is rudely shattered with the onset of call to prayer.

It is the first time I have ever experienced it. I have heard it in films but hearing it first hand is quite unnerving. It serves as a reminder that I am, in fact, a very long way from home.

IT is still pitch-black when we exit the gates of our home base, Norton Manor camp in Taunton.

Last night Anja dropped me off at our local train station. We kissed and said our farewells.

Teary-eyed, she waved me off. It's the start of a long journey that will eventually see me arrive in Sangin, deep in Helmand province - the lawless part of Southern Afghanistan.

Travelling from the military airport Brize Norton on the RAF Tri-Star turns out to be an eight-hour flight. Thirty minutes prior to landing we are told to don body armour and helmet.

It's at this moment that the penny finally drops. It is now serious business.

Training for Op Herrick 7 (Afghanistan) starts in earnest during and we embark on shipping to travel to Denmark and Poland.

These exercises give us the opportunity to practice our skills in the use of various weapon systems, vehicles, communications, navigation, and patrolling in both urban and rural environments.

On return to the UK we have another bout of confirmatory training to prove that we are ready in all respects for the theatre of war that is Afghanistan.

As in all high-intensity counter-insurgency operations, the hearts and minds policy will prove of the utmost importance.

So, in turn, part of the training is to learn some of the local Pashtun language and also their values and culture. Afghan civilians are hired to teach us the points considered critical.

I believe learning these will dramatically increase our chances of success out in Afghanistan.

On completion of training, we receive four weeks leave, which is gratefully accepted by all. The only downside is that towards the end of leave there is an atmosphere you cannot shift.

My family know that I'm close to going, and Anja in particular is constantly reduced to tears by the news of another death or injury over in Afghanistan, knowing full well the danger I will be in.

The only things to do now before to an emotionally-charged farewell are to complete my will and hand over power of attorney to Anja.

Although only a precautionary measure, it serves as a stark reminder of just how serious our business out in Afghanistan will be.

Saying goodbye is always a difficult thing to do with your loved ones, but I constantly tell Anja and the kids how much I love them, my mom too.

My dad and I have an understanding like most blokes, I'm sure. It's just not manly to tell your dad that you love him.

This time, however, I hug him and tell him that I love him. He tells me that he loves me too.

Without wanting to sound dramatic we both know there is a chance we might not see each other again. I leave his house with tears in my eyes and hope to God that I will get chance to tell him again face to face how much I love him.