The warrant's voice was drowned out as the seven ANA Ford Rangers zoomed into the ditch and blew past us, kicking up dust, not overly concerned with ruining the poor engineer's concentration as he tried to defuse a bomb! Dickheads!
Reg shot me a look that said I told you so, but I wasn't about to start ordering the ANA around, and I was surprised by Reggie's accusation that Stephens had been doing just that with his ANA. I told the warrant what Reggie had said about the outgoing OMLT captain.
“I was going to tell you, sir, when I had the chance, but I wanted it to be just you and me.”
“Is it true?” I asked, not wanting to believe it. We weren't supposed to be in command of the ANA! I thought everyone knew that!
“I've been reading Warrant Joe's handover notes, you know, Captain Stephens's 2 I/C, and he said stuff like, ‘If your captain thinks he's on his company commander's course while he's over here, get a grip of him quick, because we're not supposed to be ordering the ANA around.’ So yeah, I guess it's true.” The warrant seemed as disappointed as me. But maybe Stephens had had no choice. If he didn't direct them, either there would have been no patrols, or there would have been the risk of friendly fire.
After the dust had settled from the ANA flying past us in the ditch, the engineer began his methodical task of locating the IED. We all watched in silence and wished him good luck. Ballsy!
We kept our eyes on the compound and the wall, but Timothy seemed to have packed up shop and lit out. Seemed to. You could never let your guard down or get complacent. One of the Paras' favourite sayings was “complacency kills.” We would relax and let our guard down only when we were back in our shacks on the base.
Everyone in 72A knew that when we were outside the wire, we stayed switched on at all times. It was hard, and in the terrible heat one's mind tended to wander, but you just got back on track and watched your arcs of fire (where you're told to watch—between one o'clock and eleven o'clock, for example), ready to engage; always trying to find potential choke points, ambush points, places where IEDs might be hidden. The list was endless. No wonder everyone was tired after a patrol. It was mentally exhausting. And the ever-present fear of a gruesome death lurking around every corner probably didn't help much either.
After about forty minutes of waiting, the engineer spoke over the radio to say he had found the IED, but that it was too dangerous to move, so he was going to BIP the device right there. He spent the next ten minutes rigging up his C4 explosives to the shell, and then told everyone to get behind cover. We all got into the ditch or behind some walls, everyone in the LAVs battened their hatches, and the CP was advised that there was going to be a controlled explosion. After they acknowledged, the engineer strung out his detonation cord from the IED, joined us in the ditch, and then gave a countdown.
“Moment of truth, Warrant. Get your fifty bucks ready to hand over!” I put my right finger into my ear. Before we left the FOB, I had put a good-luck earplug into my left ear, knowing I wouldn't have time to put it in when the fun and games started. Then I cranked the volume to high on my earpiece, so I could still hear the radio traffic. I made that my SOP from then on.
“Bite me,” the warrant haughtily snapped back.
“Hey, Sergeant,” I said. “What type of IED was it, anyway?”
“Howitzer shell, but I'm a little busy right now, sir!”
BANG! Rocks and dust flew outward from the explosion in all directions.
We peeked over the top of the ditch to see grey smoke billowing out of the hole where the howitzer shell, the smoke-howitzer shell, had been. C'mon, big money!
“Huh,” I said, in my best smug voice. “I wonder what that amazing grey, smoke-like substance wafting lazily out of the shell could be? Oh what, pray tell, could it possibly be?”
“How many times has that smart mouth of yours got you into trouble?” the warrant asked with absolutely zero trace of a smile on his salty face.
“Too many times to count. Now pay up, Marky Mark!” But I wasn't really going to take his money. I remembered what Lieutenant Winters said in Band of Brothers: “Don't ever put yourself in a position where you can take from the men.” I agreed with that sentiment.
“I'll get you when we're back in Sper; unlike you, I'm not a compulsive gambling alcoholic, so I don't carry copious amounts of money around with me on a patrol.”
“Hey, you never know when we'll be OTR [on the run] for our lives, a battalion of Taliban hot on our heels, and the only thing that's going to save us is my hundred Yankee dollars for a taxi ride into KAF!”
“Mr. Engineer,” I said, speaking to the sergeant before the warrant could get out of earshot. “Well done. But for the record, would you say that was a smoke shell, or an artillery shell?” The warrant started walking away. I shouted after him, “Hey, Warrant, you gotta hear this!”
“It was definitely a smoke shell, sir.”
“Thanks for that. But good job out there, and I'm sorry about those ANA pricks; nothing like helping a guy concentrate, eh?”
“Sad as it is, I've had worse. Yeah, let's mount up. See you back there.”
“Yep, first beer's on me. Well, near-beer, of the decidedly non-alcoholic type.”
I walked over to Lieutenant Aziz and said, “Now that they've blown up the IED, and since we still have the LAVs to provide us with covering fire, if we follow this wall here,” I showed him the point on my highly detailed satellite map, “I think we could sneak up on the Taliban behind the wall. What do you think?”
“No, I do not think so,” he said through Ali, who looked a bit embarrassed.
“Okay . . .” Mentor, Rob, mentor. “Can I ask why not?”
“I think they would have left by now, so we might as well leave.”
“Well, that may be the case, but we could at least go and see where they were setting up, to see what they could see.”
“No, that would be too dangerous. Many times, they plant IEDs at their trigger places,” Ali said for the good lieutenant, “and they hope we will come and see where they were.”
“I see. So, that's it then . . . we might as well head back?”
“Yes, let us go back now,” Aziz said, and started to walk back down the ditch toward Sperwhan, speaking into his radio.
I was a bit frustrated, but I didn't want to get into an argument with him in front of his men, and certainly not on our first patrol. Especially since he could've made a lot of excuses for not coming out to play guns. So I guess I should be grateful, really. I thought to myself, WWDCD, Rob? What would Don Cheadle do?
I looked over at the big hole in the middle of the road. Even though it was only a smoke shell, if Timothy had detonated it when a driver—or worse, when someone on foot—passed over it, it still could've ripped their legs off.
I talked over the PRR. “All right boys, put your out-of-office messages on, shut down your computers, kill the office lights—we're heading home.” I knew the warrant was still watching his arcs, but this was Fourneau and Hetsa's first real patrol, first IED, first shooting, first BIP, first come-on—hell, it was their first tour! So I said over the PRR, “Stay switched on boys, this is the most dangerous time, when we head back in to the ranch.” I didn't want to play the part of Captain Obvious, but this was one of the most dangerous times on a patrol: when we could see the barn, and all we thought about was getting back to our stable.
I spoke over the battle group net. “Two, this is Seven Two Alpha, we've closed the book on this one, our call sign is coming back to Sperwhan Ghar now, over.”
“Two, roger, good work, see you when you're back, over.”
“Alpha, roger out.” Not a bad day out, I thought to myself. We stopped an IED from hurting anyone, we didn't get suckered in by their come-on, and we let them know we'd respond quickly to try and kill/capture them. All in all, not a bad day's work.
The LAVs did eighteen-point turns and then flew past us on their way back in, again kicking up a hellacious amount of dust. What is it with these gu
ys? Hasn't that one gotten old by now?
Our two columns joined up just before the gate, then we marched single file through the barricade. I waited until we were past the ANA and Canadians at the watchtower and behind the blast wall for cover before I radioed the CP that call sign 72A was complete, back in Sperwhan Ghar, and had nothing further to report.
We marched up the hill, and I thanked Lieutenant Aziz for coming to help and for his excellent work on the ground. He swelled a bit when Ali finished translating. I had been told that stroking ANA egos was a big part of the job. Unpleasant, but necessary. I told him I would like to come over to his HQ tonight to plan tomorrow's patrol and he said to turn up after supper. We shook hands and parted ways.
As we walked over to our building and began clearing our weapons, I called the boys in for a huddle. “Really good job, guys; nicely done. Good teamwork, good communication. High-fives all around!” I said as we slapped hands in the air. I'd told them at the start of the tour that I was going to bring the high-five back to Afghanistan, and thereby speed up our ultimate victory. I asked the team if they had any points for me to add to the patrol report that, as the officer, it was my job to write.
Hetsa reminded the warrant and me not to stand around too much together, for fear of one RPG killing both of us, and then he and Fourneau would have no comms (communications) with higher headquarters. I thought it was a valid point. Sometimes though, I explained, it was necessary to have a face to face.
“Like when you're betting money on smoke shells or not?” Fourneau cheekily asked.
“Exactly,” I said back. He was right, so there was no getting away from it. The warrant shot him a look that could easily kill, but I let it pass. I was happy we were all okay and had done some good. They had no other points, so we took off our gear to let it dry out on the little wooden crucifixes, and as per, my kit was absolutely soaked. They all looked at me as I stripped off my vest, to see my shirt drenched all the way down to the sleeves.
“Fear will do that to a man,” I smirked. “That, and hyperhidrosis! I'm going over to say hi to the PPCLI muppets and tell 'em how awesome we are!”
I knocked on their door but didn't hear a “C'mon in.” Odd. But I had to go in to write my patrol report on the encrypted computer and send it to Masum. So I let myself in, and saw all of Stephens's team in the middle of the room, drinking Coke and iced tea, and just sitting at the table in soft chairs, staring into space.
I was a bit giddy because I still had some adrenalin monkeys riding on my back. I was happy to be alive after my first patrol, instead of dead, like in so many of the training scenarios, so I said, “We made it,” with a big grin on my face. “We're all alive.” But my smile quickly faded as I realized something was terribly wrong. No one laughed; no one had even looked up.
“Some of our friends didn't make it,” Stephens quietly said, not with a reproachful tone, but with a heartfelt sadness to his words. “We know three were killed for sure and a bunch more wounded. We're on comms lockdown, so no calls home, no e-mails. You'll have to tell your guys.”
I felt sick to my stomach, especially after what I'd just said. “Guys, I'm sorry—we hadn't heard. I'm really sorry. I'll come back later to write my report.” I quietly walked out the way I'd come in, cursing myself for being such an ass. What the hell did I think was going on to the north, with chopper gunships and artillery firing over our heads? When I was making that comment—we're in the war now—my fellow soldiers had probably already been killed.
I walked into my building where the boys were still on a high, but one look at my face and their mood became sombre. I let them know as gently as possible, and we all slumped down on our beds, not really saying anything.
A good leader would've known what to say, but I was numb. Our country was at war: we had already lost soldiers and, sadly, I knew we would lose more. But when you're there, in that place, and you got the news that someone was killed, whether you knew them personally or not, it still hurt. You felt terrible for the soldier's family, you felt bad for his or her friends. We had such a small military, where so many people knew each other by name, that these weren't faceless soldiers. Warrant Longview probably knew all of them.
And as strange as it may sound, I felt bad for my country. Everyone back home was so supportive, constantly encouraging us, and backing us all the way, so I knew these soldiers' deaths would deal the whole country a devastating blow.
And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't help but wonder: When is it going to be my turn? Am I going to die here? Like that?
I looked at the guys, sitting on their beds, probably with the same thoughts running through their heads. I wanted them to know something.
“Guys,” I quietly said, and waited until they were looking at me. “After something like this, I'm supposed to set up chairs in a circle and give everyone a chance to talk about their feelings, but I'm not going to do that. All of you guys know that if you want to talk—about anything—I'm available, any time. But I will say this: we will honour their memory the best way that we can, and that's by going outside the wire tomorrow. That's how we'll honour them: by carrying on with the mission.”
Their deaths brought it all home to us. And the feeling was a little too real.
Chapter 5
At the next morning's BUB, Major Bane told us that Corporal Seggie, Private Horn, and Corporal Grenon, all from 2 PPCLI, had been killed the day before, during a patrol. In the ensuing firefight, five other Canadians were also wounded.
Major Bane then apologized to the sniper sergeant because the major had forgotten to get the different types of authorization (called 421, 422, and 429) from the lieutenant colonel the other day, and that's why he couldn't let the snipers kill the IED planters yesterday. The lieutenant colonel in charge of the battle group had to make the call about killing or not killing suspected Taliban in situations like we experienced yesterday. He could keep the 421/422/429 authorization in his own back pocket, or he could give it to his majors, who in turn could give the shoot/don't shoot authorization down to their platoon commanders, snipers, whomever. Or like Major Bane was doing, he could keep the authorization all to himself and make everyone ask for it. But the major, as part of his duties, had to request it daily from his lieutenant colonel. And since the major forgot, he wasn't allowed to let the snipers shoot until he got the permission from higher up. His little oopsy-pie could've cost all of us our lives—especially when the ANA soldiers liked to walk right up to the IEDs.
Then, as though reading my mind, he said, “Oops. My bad,” smiled, and quickly changed the subject.
The voice of my inner drill sergeant (which sounded remarkably like my nemesis from 2 Para, Sergeant MacVitty) shouted his less-than-kind opinion of the good major inside my head. Sometimes, when something terribly idiotic or stressful happened in my life, the sergeant's cruel voice would make a guest appearance.
The major then explained some more things, and finally the sniper sergeant couldn't take it anymore and said, “And what about the IED on the haystack now, sir?” The way he pronounced sir, it sounded more like cur. Wait a minute . . . what IED?
“Well, Captain Simran and his ANA can get out there and cordon it off,” the major flippantly replied, mispronouncing my name. What the hell?
I rudely interrupted to explain that no one had told me anything about an IED, and I had no idea what they were talking about. Major Bane then patiently explained that an IED had been planted in the haystack at around 0500 hours, just this morning, and someone would now have to go and cordon it off and wait for the Canadian engineers. I said I was very curious as to why I was just finding out about this now, and equally curious as to why our snipers hadn't shaved off the top three inches of Timothy's head when he tried to plant the IED. A painfully awkward silence followed my question. No one spoke, someone nervously coughed, and Warrant Longview saved me from losing my temper and flat out demanding an answer by letting himself into the briefing room and whispering into my ea
r, “I just heard. Fuck me! But now there are kids playing on the IED. We gotta go.”
I stood up and told the group of officers and senior NCOs that children were now playing on the IED. I said we would finish this talk later, but right now, I had to go. I didn't wait for approval or further discussion.
“Holy crap, sir!” the warrant said as we jogged back to our building.
“Tell me about it. Unbelievable! Okay, same drill as yesterday. Assemble the Avengers, and I'll go muckle onto the Justice League.”
Again, just like yesterday, I found Ali, together we found Aziz, and he graciously agreed, again, to go and cordon off an IED, which again (in my opinion) should never have been planted in the first place. I ran into my bed space, shouted, “Dress me, Hetsa,” and spun around so he could help with my tac vest.
I spoke quickly to my group of like-minded individuals, “It's Groundhog Day boys, but not the funny movie variety. Same drill; snipers will have eyes on; they'll talk us near it; we'll cordon and watch for wires and come-ons; and more importantly, make good and sure the ANA standing next to you don't go up to the device for a look-see! Questions?” The boys were professionals; they had none and knew the drill, so we left our building on the double. I knocked on Stephens's door to tell his guys we were going out again for the same drill as yesterday. They all said “Give 'em hell!” and wished us luck.
Just then a sniper from the top of the hill sprinted down to us and quickly handed me a small map he'd made on a piece of paper. It was a great sketch. It had the culverts, the haystack just off to the right of culvert one, and the ever-present, critical “north-pointer” arrow. Angrily he started to cast blame for it all, but I wasn't going to get into that now, and certainly not with him.
Officer issues are meant to travel up the chain of command, not down. He told me that I would have to hurry, there were now six kids playing on the haystack. I thanked him and he took off again, sprinting back up the hill. I handed Longview the map, telling him to make sure the dirty Hungo and the Fornicator got to see it too.
The Taliban Don't Wave Page 10