We'd spent nearly five hours in the brutal heat and everyone was done in. We formed up into our standard two columns, and I told Ali to gently ask the still ill-tempered Aziz if he would have done anything on the cordon differently. He wasn't sure what I meant, since we had found the device, saved the children, rendered the IED inert—a job well done, as far as he was concerned. I told him that Allah must love him very much, because he could've been blown up from jumping up and down on top of the IED.
“Inshallah [if Allah wills it]. If Allah wanted me to die, I would have died,” he said and shrugged.
“I know,” I politely countered. “But you took a helluva chance, climbing on top of it like that.” Clearly, I'm not getting through to this guy . . .
“Inshallah,” he said and shrugged again, still not sure what I was getting at. I felt my blood rising, and even though I'm a pretty even-tempered guy, his laissez-faire attitude was starting to get to me. I wanted to grab him by his ears and shout in his face, “You put all of us at risk with your little temper tantrum, you stupid idiot!” but stopped myself, thinking that probably wouldn't be well received. The warrant could see I was losing my patience, so he walked over to me and gently put his hand on my shoulder.
“Let it go, sir. It's done now; we'll know better for next time,” he calmly said, out of earshot of the ANA.
“Numbnuts doesn't even get that the rest of us were danger close and could've been killed too!” I angrily whispered back.
“Next time we'll give him a thousand-metre standoff, now that we know he's suicidal,” the warrant laughed.
I laughed with him and started to cool down. “There won't be a next time. I quit! I've seen enough crazy crap in the last two days to last me a lifetime. I'm tapping out, Warrant!”
Like a patient father he said, “As your life coach, I strongly suggest you breathe in deeply and feel the nice, burning-warm air sting your lungs. Then say woo-saaaa five times, and take a nice, long sip of burning-hot water, to heat you up from the inside. You'll feel better in no time—you'll see!”
I radioed the CP, wanting to say, “Thanks for nothing!” but instead, took it on the chin and reported our locstat, saying we were done and coming back in. I gave Aziz his space and joked with Fourneau on the way back in.
The ANA engineers took the pressure cooker IED to the UXO/IED sandbag hut next to the watchtower, and I radioed the CP to tell them the ANA had dropped off a TNT gift for them. I thanked Aziz for coming out to play, and told him how impressed I was with his team's fortitude. To be able to do all of that on zero water intake, in that terrible heat, was truly impressive. He seemed to appreciate my comments, and we parted ways, agreeing to meet after supper to discuss tomorrow's patrol.
We cleared our weapons by taking the loaded rounds out of the chambers of the barrels, and I asked Fourneau to get a picture of me. There wasn't a spot on me that wasn't soaked through with sweat. I entered our building and changed my clothes and scrubbed my pits down with baby wet wipes, what we used to call in The Parachute Regiment a “3 Para shower.” I asked if anyone had anything to add to my report, but no one had any comments. We walked over to the OMLT building and immediately raided the fridge for cold drinks and Freezies.
We had all lost pounds of water, and our faces looked drawn and thin. I thought about the ANA as I chugged down water, apple juice, and iced tea and felt incredibly sorry for them, knowing they weren't allowed to drink anything until sundown. Hardcore.
I wrote my report, but omitted the argument between myself and Major Bane, and Stompin' Tom's big debut. I sent the warrant to find out what Aziz had done with the suspects. The Wizard came back to say that he was quietly questioning them in his HQ, and “that he would not require our assistance.” I was sure it wasn't because anything untoward was happening, but rather that he didn't want us to find out that he had no clue how to properly question “persons of interest.”
One by one, my teammates borrowed the satellite phone from the outgoing crew and went off to call home. It would be our first communication with our loved ones back home in over a week. I kept working on the report, and when I was finished I asked the warrant to join me; I wanted him with me when I confronted Major Bane regarding his apparent live-and-let-live policy regarding Timothy. I desperately needed some good answers as to why the Taliban IED planters weren't being slaughtered by our world-class snipers. Then I asked Hetsa to find the sniper sergeant and ask him to please join the warrant and me in the briefing room at the HQ. There will be a reckoning.
As we walked toward the HQ I asked the Wizard how things were back home and he said everything was fine. I was happy to hear it, and looked forward to calling my wife, Amélie, that night. Hopefully I'd be able to say the same.
We entered the HQ building and grabbed some Freezies before making our grand entrance. Nothing like a little liquid-sugar courage.
We entered the briefing room, and I politely asked the major if he, his CSM, my 2 I/C, and the sniper sergeant could discuss some ongoing issues. He seemed to fidget and looked visibly distressed as he thought about it for ten seconds, and then finally agreed. He asked a corporal to go and grab his CSM and then to not disturb us. The sniper sergeant arrived and joined the Wizard and me on one side of the table, and the major and his CSM sat down on the other. The line in the proverbial sand had been drawn between the shoot/don't shoot factions at Strong Point Sperwhan Ghar, although I wasn't sure which side Bane's CSM was on.
The major began by saying, “So, what seems to be the problem, Captain Semroo?” Would it kill people to get my name right?!
“Well, sir, first off, thanks for taking the time to discuss some things that have been troubling me lately.”
“And what exactly has been troubling you lately?”
“Sir, I get it. I'm the new guy. We've only just arrived, I get that. But in the short time I've been here, it seems obvious to me that the snipers have been asking for permission to kill IED planters, and they're constantly being denied permission.”
“And what if they're wrong?” the major interrupted.
“They haven't been wrong. Not once. They've said they've got someone planting an IED and they've been denied permission to shoot—by you.” And there it was! We all stared at each other across the table.
“Okay, Captain. How can you tell me, with one hundred per cent certainty, that they're right?” Holy crap, was he for real?
“Because they have a very good, proven track record, sir. They haven't been wrong, not once, and with all due respect, sir, we're fighting a war, so there's no such thing as ‘one hundred per cent certainty.’”
The major snapped, “You can spare us your lectures on war, Captain.” He was pissed, but I knew I had to strike while the iron was still hot. All right Rob, time to put on your barracks-room lawyer suspenders!
“Sir, if you're looking for one hundred per cent certainty, let's look at the burden of proof. The first strike against the planters is we know the guys working in the middle of Route Brown at three in the morning aren't employed by the local city council to do road repairs. Second strike against them: they're not wearing the red lights that every farmer has been told to have on when they work in their fields at night, for fear of being killed by us if they don't! And, of course, they're not working in a field, but in the middle of Route Brown. Strike three: they're carrying what looks like howitzer shells and digging in the middle of the road at three in the morning, right between the same culverts where ten other times in a row, they've buried IEDs. They're not pirates searching for buried treasure in the middle of Route Brown!”
The major tried to interrupt me but I was in the zone and really rolling. “The fourth strike against them is whenever we launch parachute flares or fire illumination rounds to light them up, they run, take cover, and hide until the round burns out in the sky. Then they go back to work, burying howitzeresque shells in the middle of the road. Very suspicious. Fifth strike: they're stringing det-cord wire, from said device, over to t
he side of the road, and then burying the wire. Sixth strike against them is they're stringing the wire to a trigger point fifty metres away, where they'll have eyes on the device. Seventh strike is they're sitting there, and waiting. For hours on end. Waiting for us, or some ANA patrol to bumble along so they can kill them. Eighth and final strike against them, with which I am now intimately familiar, is they will turn and burn; they will run away from you, even when armed men are calling to them to come over and talk, when you've found their magic string.”
The major wasn't buying it, but the CSM seemed to be agreeing with me.
“So, in my opinion, since we're all smart people at this table, I would think that as a team of professional soldiers dedicated to killing or capturing the enemy so that one day we can all go home again, we could all agree that two or three men, without red lights on, dressed in loose, flowing man-jammies that won't restrict them in their Ben Johnson wind sprints, who peek out from behind cover to make sure the coast is clear, then come out of cover, and begin to dig frantically in the same place where multiple—multiple—IEDs have been planted in the past, then bury a fucking howitzer shell in the hole they just dug, then take cover and hide when illumination rounds light up their handiwork, and later bury the wire and string it out to a point fifty metres away where they've got eyes on, and then wait for someone to turn up, are in all likelihood fucking Taliban planting IEDs on Route Brown!”
The major looked at me coldly, but I wasn't finished. “I would respectfully suggest, sir, that when you take those individual pieces of evidence and connect them together as a whole, we would hopefully all draw the same conclusions: namely that we've got IED bomb-planters working on Route Brown to try and kill us, and not city road workers doing pothole repairs, again, at three in the morning.”
After a good minute's silence, the major quietly asked, “And what if they're wrong?”
I was rapidly losing my patience with his obstinacy. “I mean no disrespect, sir, when I say, if we're going to play the what if game, then we probably have no right being here. But the snipers haven't been wrong, sir, not once.”
The major continued, “And if they're wrong, then what? An investigation? The last thing I want, Semrow, is an NIS investigation into an illegal shooting . . . .”
There it is. Finally! You don't want to give your snipers permission to shoot, because you're afraid of being investigated by the Canadian Forces National Investigation Service (a military police investigative branch). I thought to myself, Brutal . . . what the hell am I supposed to say to that?
Longview seemed shocked by the major's admission, the sniper sergeant was furious, the CSM lowered his eyes to the table, and I sighed loudly as I said, “Sir, every time you don't give the snipers permission to shoot, the long and the short of it is, you put my team, the ANA, the engineers, the QRF . . . you put all of us at risk. Ask Warrant Longview, sir; yesterday and today were freaking gong shows, and the ANA are going to get us all killed if we have to keep going out and cordoning off IEDs when the Taliban should have been shot the second they marched out from cover carrying howitzer cannon shells and began burying them in the middle of the—”
“Thank you, Captain; that will be all. You're dismissed,” the major snapped.
“Sir, please, I just—”
“You're DISMISSED!” He shouted across the table.
I stood up, stared at the major for a few seconds, and then turned and left the briefing room, the warrant and sergeant falling into step beside me.
We walked about ten feet. I hesitated, mid-stride, and was about to turn around when the warrant wisely said, “Keep walking, sir,” and gripped me firmly by the elbow. It wasn't a suggestion, and he had a damn strong grip!
We walked outside into the searing heat. I put on my sunglasses, and let out a long, drawn-out sigh.
“Well, sir,” the sergeant said with empathy in his eyes, “it was a good try and you were right, but there's no getting through to him. We're all super frustrated. We thought this was going to be a good go, the best tour we'd ever get, but it's been—”
I don't normally cut people off, but it was too much for me just then, and I couldn't bear to listen. “I hear ya, Sergeant. Thanks for backing us up today. I'm sorry for what you guys have had to deal with, I really am. But we tried, and at the end of the day, that's all a man can do: his best to get through to people and make 'em see the light. No joy, but not for lack of effort on our part. Thanks again.” We shook hands and he slowly began the long walk back up to the top of the hill.
Longview and I walked over to the house of international pancakes and army scoff and grabbed a couple of free coffees. The warrant said they were his treat, but I didn't feel like laughing. I stared into my mug of joe and thought about what had just happened.
I knew Major Bane wasn't evil. Gutless? For sure. He was so worried about making the wrong call, and then being investigated by the CFNIS, that he wouldn't accept the responsibility that came with his job. That responsibility forced him at times to take certain risks and make tough calls. No one would want to be in the position of, “Sir, we're waiting; do we kill him or not?” But Bane just couldn't seem to trust anyone to do their job properly and present him with enough evidence. I thought that for a guy like him, no amount of evidence would have ever been enough. For him, it seemed that putting other soldiers at extreme risk was not as troubling as making the wrong call and shooting someone who didn't have it coming. Although it should've been obvious to everyone present that “they” certainly had it coming!
And since when did we have to talk about evidence? All that talk of evidence would've made someone think we were lawyers discussing a police action and not soldiers talking tactics. But that was the reality of the current war, where every battle group lieutenant colonel had a JAG (Judge Advocate General) lawyer standing next to him, watching the same real-time video feed from a UAV, and advising him whether or not to give the shoot order. I'd even heard that sometimes the lawyers were more aggressive than the lieutenant colonels!
But the snipers weren't psychopaths. They weren't going to shoot someone just to be the first kids on their block with a confirmed kill. They used the burden-of-proof method like I'd mentioned, and after enough evidence came in, it was up to the major to make the call, or a more trusting officer would have given the snipers the permission to shoot or not shoot beforehand. That was entirely up to the major in charge. But Bane refused to let the snipers do their job, every time. And when he refused, he put guys like me and my team, who would then be tasked to go out there and cordon off the IED, at terrible risk. I suppose the prison warden in Cool Hand Luke had gotten it right when he said, “Some men, you just can't reach.”
The warrant let me ponder for a while the deep mysteries of trying to fight a war in the age of political correctness, and then he quietly said he wasn't happy with me. I asked why, and he said, “Sir, you keep coming on strong like that, and you're going to get replaced, and we don't want that to happen. We've only just got you to the point now where we can read your simple mind and manipulate you nicely, but what if we get someone smarter who won't do as he's told?” He slapped me roughly on the back, spilling my coffee.
I half-smiled and said “You're a wise man, Wizard, and one day, I'm sure you'll have a seat on the Jedi Council. Of course, you're also much uglier than me, but certainly wiser.”
“When you've got the TI I've had, sir, you'll be ugly too!” We laughed and walked back to our shack, not really saying much after that.
It was one of those laugh or cry situations. That's that, then. No further discussion. Timothy will keep laughing at us as he plants his IEDs with impunity, knowing that no one will ever be allowed to put a high-powered round through his brainpan. And one day, sooner or later, he'll get lucky.
Chapter 6
Ali came up to us, looking very concerned, and told us the ANA had just received a delegation of elders from the village who wanted their two teenagers back. The ANA said, “Um . . . no,�
�� and told the elders to leave. I took Ali over to see Lieutenant Aziz, who said he was almost done with them; they weren't guilty, they were just a couple of scared kids. I looked them over: they were fine, just like how we'd found them. I said I thought if he had no evidence or anything to suggest they were Taliban, then it would be for the best if he let them go. He agreed and said he would in a few minutes. I excused myself to go and track down a sat phone. My ninja sixth sense told me there was no point in writing my report just yet, the gods of war still had a few surprises in store for us. Might as well try and call the missus.
I walked into Stephens's shack, found the phone, and walked over to the sandbag gun emplacement by the western edge of the base to call home. Back in Kabul in 2002, I got to call home twice. Once, Amélie was on the Internet (before the days of high speed), so I only got the answering machine. It was still great to hear her voice, but understandably, not quite as much fun as talking to her. The second time, she was on the phone with her mom, so again, I got to leave a message.
This time, however, she picked up on the first ring, and we immediately began telling each other how much we missed and loved each other. She wanted to know right away if it was safe where I was, and I lied through my buckteeth, telling her we were doing great and nothing ever happened in our sector, that all was quiet on our front, and there was nothing to worry about, nothing at all.
I felt terrible for being less than completely honest, but I would rather live with myself than know I caused her sleepless nights, afraid for my life. I remembered the words of the great twentieth-century existentialist Homer J. Simpson, who said, “It takes two to lie. One to lie, and one to listen.” I would confess later, when I was back home again and could look her in the eye to better explain myself. But she was far too switched on to be fooled by my pathetic efforts to string her along. She knew what was really going on, but she graciously let me get away with it.
The Taliban Don't Wave Page 12