A SOLDIER'S DIARY:This is a flight like no other. All those on board are wearing desert fatigues, carrying helmets and body armour. Along the side of the cabin, in rows, are the empty stretchers for returning the wounded from theatre. But spirits are high as the soldiers joke about the quality of the in-flight service. We are finally on our way and with that comes a sense of relief, writes Paddy Bury.
Thoughts can now focus on the task in hand. Some of us even manage to sleep. As we approach Afghanistan, the pilot warns us to don our body armour and helmets. For the final few minutes, we will be in missile range of the Taliban. The plane creaks as it dives steeply towards the ground. Through the port hole, I see an Apache attack helicopter hovering in the distance. And then we're down.
We disembark into a night world of kerosene fumes and flashing safety sirens that illuminate the dust clouds. It doesn't feel too hot. We move to a holding area and get our kit. The sergeants are barking commands, organising the troops into neat formations for the helicopter ride. We wait some more and fall asleep.
With the pale blue hue of dawn comes our first sight of Afghanistan. Rocky. Dusty. Barren. The heat begins to rise, and, although, it is still March, there is an ominous ferocity to the sun. It is not our friend.
From over our shoulders comes the low whicka-whocka of the approaching helicopters. They touch down on the dirt pads, sending slow, enveloping tidal waves of dust toward us.
Dust pours down the back of any exposed necks, chests and into eyes. A hand gives us the signal to board and we move through the downdraft quickly, past the heat of the engines and into the relative quiet of the cabin. The engine's pitch roars and we watch the ground disappear. To our left, huge mountain ranges can be seen. To our right: desert. Apaches buzz around like lethal hornets, ready to sting anything that has a go.
As we descend, I lose sight of the mountains and we become surrounded by a desert moonscape. We arrive in Camp Bastion, one of the main operating bases for British forces in Afghanistan and home to some 4,000 troops. It is huge.
A sprawling suburb of reinforced concrete walls, HQs, accommodation blocks and vehicle parks. It is in the middle of nowhere. We pack our kit for tomorrow's training, discuss how we will go about things with the corporals and sergeants, talk and joke with the soldiers and eventually get some sleep. During the night, the roar of aircraft and helicopter engines rolls through the desert like a ferocious thunderstorm. We sleep fitfully.
For the next three days and nights, we train hard. Storming purpose-built Afghan compounds. Breaking contact from ambushes. Casualty evacuations. Calling in air support. Spotting explosive devices in the ground.
Remind and revise. Remind and revise.
The adrenaline is up from the live ammunition compound clearances. We all understand that this is only one small step from the real thing. We get a little more familiar with the alien landscape. And almost as soon as it starts, our final period of training is over.
The last leg of our journey takes us by helicopter the 80km (50 miles) from Bastion to the town of Sangin, where Ranger Company will spend the next six months. It is a town we have heard much of over the past few months, a town where men from 1st Royal Irish and indeed from my platoon have fought and died before.
I approach with mixed emotions, my heart in my mouth and my head repeating and repeating what will happen if we land in a hot landing zone. We touch down. Into the fire...
Lieut Paddy Bury from Wicklow remains on duty in Helmand province, Afghanistan