About 3 kilometres north of Musa Qa'leh district centre (DC) is Patrol Base (PB) Woqab.

The dusty and isolated PB is just 250 metres from the forward line of enemy troops and through the Sanger (defensive observation post) binoculars you can see the compound where Taliban forces are believed to hide their weapons and ammunition.

In daylight, patrols very rarely venture as far as the line of trees that mark of the enemy position and in darkness they catiously creep as close as they can for fear of sparking an unnecessary engagement, certain to draw enemy fire.

I joined B company from the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers on the 3km foot patrol back to what the young men had come to call “home.”

We set off from Musa Qa'leh just before dusk and made our way through the bazaar situated less than 50 metres away from the DC. The bazaar, almost certainly containing Taliban forces, is a small market with roller shutters sectioning off the different stalls and is a haven for suicide bombers.

As the men of B company made their way cautiously through it I was given a reminder of why everyone was on edge.

As we snaked through the area, saying hello to the locals as we went by, a motorcycle revved its engine and immediately put the company on edge. In front of me 28-year-old Lieutenant James Piper immediately swung around to see where the noise had come from.

Lt Piper said: “You just have to be careful when walking through the bazaar. Although they tend not to place IEDs here, because of the locals, it has been known for suicide bombers to roar up on bikes.”

As we set off I watched the heavily armed men I was travelling with, carrying their day sacks, ammunition, weapons and a host of other kit, I realised that while police officers and firemen constantly moan about how much they get paid, no amount of money would ever be enough for the job these men do.

On a daily basis they put their lives on the line, carry enormous amounts of weight in sweltering heat and do a job most people would never consider, with a smile and a laugh.

As we made our way out of the bazaar we found ourselves among the local people, their compounds and the freshly harvested fields they work in from dusk till dawn.

The Afghans looked on, some in amazement, some with contempt but some simply with curiosity as the 30 man patrol worked its way back home.

We crossed irrigation channels dug out of the rock hard mud, flooding fields with fresh water from the Wadi for their next crops, stopping every kilometre or so the rest of the patrol could catch up and make sure they way was clear of IEDs and Taliban fighters.

The children, playing contently with make-shift kites and stones, rushed to the soldiers asking for chocolate and sweets, smiling and laughing as the machine gun wielding young men joked with them.

Making our way around the desert compounds, after an hour or two we finally rounded a corner littered with marijuana plants and I got my first glimpse of PB Woqab.

The small and isolated PB, carved out of the middle of a former Taliban compound, was bordered on one side by a canal that the hot and sweaty men took every opportunity to throw themselves into.

Their comrades, those that had remained in the base, laughed and joked with the men that had returned.

They felt more at ease here than the DC and Camp Bastion which they called Slipper City because of its Pizza Hut, fresh food and amenities which they likened to Butlin's I was brought over a 24-hour ration pack which the men lived off and invited to sit down and “scoff” with Corporal “Windy” Miller.

The Mancunian had become disillusioned with the Army but had rejoined a few years later after working on a Greek Island as a club rep.

Cpl Miller said: “I joined when I was 16 like and that was all I knew. It was great to get away from the life and do something else but I just wanted to get back in.”

I awoke in the morning and made my way up to the Sanger where 19-year-old fusilier Scott Clarke was on stag.

We sat and watched over the position where Taliban soldiers were believed to be hiding, watching the base through 'dickers' who would relay movements to the Taliban through mobile phones and radios.

Fusilier Clarke said: “It's nice to get up here sometimes but it does hurt your arse when you have been sitting in the same position for two hours.

“Down with the lads you don't really get any time to yourself but up here you can think about home and the people you miss.”

Suddenly we heard two loud pops which we later found out were mortars being fired in the direction of the DC.

Although I only spent a day with the lads from B Company I was welcomed into their circle and sat chatting and playing cards with them before I left.

The gallows humour, a famous trait of British Army, had not been lost here and even though they lived on rations, drank water filtered from the canal and had very little creature comforts they were happier being here than the DC and worried about being in Camp Bastion for any length of time.

I came away thinking that the British Army, for the enlisted soldiers at least, was they last place that men could truly be at one with each other. They mocked each other for their accents, heritage, race, abilities and hair colour, but lived like brothers and would put their lives on the line for one another at any given moment.

Out there they were free from the political correct world gone mad in Britain and made do with what they had, they constantly fought the heat, dehydration, hunger and boredom but could still laugh, joke and mock each other, they were true heroes everyone of them.

• For more from our reporter Harry Miller in Afghanistan, click here