The warrant called out to him, “If you see something green and shaped like a cone, whatever you do, don't kick it!”
“Yes,” I smiled, “that's some good advice. But I'm not going to lie to you, Warrant. I'm a bit embarrassed that three-quarters of our platoon nonchalantly bumbled over an RPG warhead, and none of us noticed it sticking out of the dirt!”
“I know,” the warrant said, not laughing anymore. “All we would've heard was a huge boom behind us, and we'd turn around to find two Afghans missing, and ten unconscious and bleeding out!”
“Yes, almost a ‘bad day in Kentucky!’” Un-fucking-lucky! The sun was under the horizon now; it was becoming dark very quickly, and the Afghans were getting bored. A dangerous combination: bored Afghans and unexploded ordnance. A nasty feeling started bouncing around in my mind as Hetsa jogged over to us.
“You were right, sir. The guy at the front gate was totally pissed when I asked him. He said he told the CP there was an unexploded RPG warhead and he could see it, so he went over and marked it with an illumination stick.” I looked over at the UXO, but I couldn't see an illum stick. Someone had probably kicked that one too!
Hetsa continued, “He also didn't say jack about any dead Taliban and a motorcycle or an RPG launcher. The only thing he told them was about the unexploded RPG warhead, on the western slope, inside the actual base.”
“Let this be a lesson to all of us,” I said in my officer voice. “The best, most active listeners in the world do not get the CP radio-shift duties!” I looked over at the Afghans. Poor bastards, I thought, they haven't had anything to eat or drink all day. I called Ali and Sergeant Major Khan over to me, and politely thanked the CSM for bringing his men out, but there had been a miscommunication between the front gate and the CP. We were called to find the warhead, not an RPG launcher attached to a corpse rapidly undergoing rigor mortis.
“Thanks a lot for your help, but we'll take it from here; you guys can go back and have supper now. Thanks again.” Before I'd even finished translating, the ANA were on their way back up the hill. I thanked Ali for all of his hard work and cut him loose, too. I didn't have to tell him twice.
The Canadians quickly formed a four-man cordon around the UXO, so that no one would be overwhelmed by the same deadly curiosity that had been infecting the ANA these last few days. After the last Afghan passed, we walked down the hill, got behind the cover of the blast walls, and hunkered down.
“Honestly guys,” I asked no one in particular, “someone please tell me, what the Sam Fuck is going on around here?” Although everyone laughed, you could tell no one found the joke particularly funny. I thought about it for a second, and realized that it wasn't maliciousness on anyone's part; that was just how war played out sometimes. There was a reason the term fog of war had been around for centuries. Some things didn't change, and as technology increased, the problem only got worse.
The CP spoke over my radio again, and told us we'd have to wait out. An American chopper was scheduled to land at Sperwhan, so the engineers weren't allowed to BIP the UXO. So we waited. And waited. To keep team morale up I would act as the chair over nonsensical debates, like whether or not the actor Haley Joel Osment would successfully transition from child prodigy to serious adult thespian. The debate was fairly even: some of us cited precedent for such a thing, others felt it wouldn't happen for him. But I had faith.
The Black Hawk chopper arrived, landed, and took off again, and still we sat there with our backs to the hill, with no end in sight. Another hour passed, and finally the Canadian engineers arrived and took over our protective cordon. We thanked them profusely and marched back to our shack, where we dumped kit, topped up our water, and then went off for “Hollywood” showers, in which, as a special treat, you kept the water running and didn't shut it off after you'd lathered up. I figured we deserved it.
Later that night, as I typed up numerous reports, I heard a rap on the door. I got up, eager to get away from the screen blindness I was suffering from, and answered it. If I thought that day couldn't have gotten any more surreal, I underestimated fate's sense of humour.
Next to Ali stood Mr. Snippy-snip, the young ANA engineer, standing in his best clubbing outfit, with hair neatly slicked back and shoes polished, looking surprisingly smart. He said something in rapid-fire Dari.
Ali smiled. “He says ‘You promised.’” And with that, the engineer stuck out his hand, palm up.
“So I did! Tell him to wait one.” I laughed and went back to my bed space to take my Leatherman tool off my combat-painted belt. I smiled and handed it to him and said, “Be careful,” and “May Allah watch over you.” I was going to add, “because you are certainly not long for this earth,” but I didn't want to jinx him. He thanked me, and walked away into the night.
The next morning I approached the battle group store man and told him exactly how I came to be missing one times issued “Leatherman tool, the.” He just laughed, walked to the back, grabbed a new one, and handed it over to me.
“Lost in combat, sir.”
Chapter 7
We said goodbye to the fighting cowboys of the PPCLI as they packed up and began to depart Sperwhan. I took Stephens aside and thanked him again for his briefings and dedication to making sure we would be okay. I hoped I would do half as good a job as he had, with my handover. Some RGs arrived from Masum to pick them up; we walked them over, they wished us luck and then took off. And as per, completely blanketed us in dust, just for old times' sake.
“Seriously, what the hell is the matter with those clowns?” I demanded.
“It's just their way, sir—don't take it personally,” Longview replied, as he wiped himself down from the coating he'd received. I took the boys over to meet Captain Shafiq Ullah, the ANA First Company OC, who had arrived late the night before. I happened to be awake—I couldn't sleep in the heat—so I had grabbed Ali and the ANA captain and we talked for a bit. He seemed a decent-enough guy, but like all Afghans, he was wary of the new OMLT team—afraid we would be trolling for a fight and would ultimately get him and his ANA killed. I didn't go into our activities of the last few days for fear of making him think I was another Captain Rich (call sign “Bad Karma”) . . . I didn't want him to think trouble was attracted to me, although after the last few days, I was starting to wonder about that myself.
We moved across the street into our new digs, the actual OMLT HQ, and were happy to finally be hanging out in an air-conditioned building. Back in the store room, we couldn't sleep at night due to the extreme heat: we'd toss and turn because we were so uncomfortable from sweating buckets in our sleep. We'd only been on the ground a week and we were already going into sleep debt.
“Am I wetting the bed again? Or is that really sweat?” I asked after peeling myself off the cot and looking down at the sweat silhouette I had left on the sheet. I would wake up each morning and literally down a litre and a half of water. Damn night terrors!
After the IED haystack, the base attack, and the UXO warhead on the slope, the next couple of patrols had been milk runs, comparatively speaking. On one patrol we got lost in a marijuana field. We patrolled through it, thinking it couldn't be any bigger than an acre. But it was as long as a football field. The stalks were eight feet high, we couldn't see each other, and I realized I was allergic to pot. My eyes were watering like crazy! As a joke, I began calling to Fourneau saying, “I can't see you; where are you?” and “I can hear them, Fourneau! They're all around me!” I remembered a movie that had terrified me as a kid, Children of the Corn, and I still cursed Roddy Striker's parents for letting us watch it at his birthday party. I thought about the heroes running through the tall stalks of corn as demented children gave chase.
Even though we were armed to the friggin' teeth and could easily have handled a bunch of knife-wielding patricidal brats from Iowa, if the Taliban had attacked us at that moment, it would've all been over. I could just see the ANA firing madly in all directions, mowing us down. Being lost in a pot field, al
though undoubtedly the dream of many Canadians from the BC interior, was a little bit creepy and surreal when it happened to you in Afghanistan.
The warrant had to find his way out, and then shout at us to call us over to him. It was all very embarrassing, and we redefined amateur hour that afternoon.
When we got back to our shacks I radioed the CP to say we were back, and I was told “Comms Lockdown.” My heart sank. Another Canadian soldier had been killed. I told the guys and a dull feeling passed over all of us. I experienced a lot of the same feelings I'd had the first time we were told “Comms Lockdown,” but now I was feeling angrier than I had before. It was hard to describe. We found out later that night that Sergeant Shipway from 2 PPCLI had been killed in action by an IED in Panjway province. Seven others had been wounded as well. I reminded the guys that if they wanted to talk, I was there for them. We cleaned our kit in silence and got ready for the morning patrol.
On that patrol, I was running down the length of a narrow grape-field wall, trying to get some definition on what was going on up ahead of us, when the wall collapsed under the combined weight of my gear and heavy musculature. At least, that was the reason I told the team. They said the wall collapsed because I was fat. Either way, I walked with a nice limp for the next two days—the fall had really jammed my knee. The warrant told me to have the doc check it, but I knew he would put me on a sick chit for the next week, and I had patrols to lead. I just got here—how would it look if I was already injured? My high school football coach's words came back to me: “Rub a little dirt on it, an' get back in the game!” I continued patrolling, but I was a pitiful sight (more so than usual), limping up and down the road.
We had done a couple of patrols to the north and east, and I noticed that something odd kept happening: whenever we approached a village or a field where there were donkeys milling about, they would immediately begin braying loudly, alerting everyone within earshot of our presence. I started calling them DEWS, for “donkey early-warning system.” Clearly the Taliban had trained the animals to act like guard dogs and alert them when we were sneaking around. It became a running joke on the tour. Whenever someone heard a donkey braying he'd shout, “DEWS! They're on to us; we've been compromised! RUN! RUN!”
We did a patrol the next morning and it turned out to be one of those foreshadowing moments. Fourneau and I were with Lieutenant Mujahedeen (whose real name was Azmar, but when we found out he'd fought the Soviets as a teenager, he quickly became “Mujahedeen”), when the lieutenant hopped over a small wall into a farmer's compound. Longview, Hetsa, and several ANA had gone the long way around as Mujahedeen and I walked up to the front gate and realized it was secured with a thick lock. With zero hesitation, he asked me to shoot off the lock. Now, that may work in movies and bad TV shows, but the only thing in real life that worked well on a thick lock was a shotgun slug round. Pistol rounds and rifle bullets didn't always cut it. And to top it off, I didn't think the farmer wanted me to shoot his lock. Not exactly “hearts and minds.”
But it didn't look like we had a choice. I was just about to get everyone out of the way and do it when Ali told me to stop because the farmer was going into his house to find the key to let us out. Longview and Hetsa damn near pissed their pants—they couldn't stop laughing at the thought of a farmer rummaging through his house, trying desperately to find an old key to let the infidels out of his compound.
After about five minutes he stomped out of his hut, let us out, and basically said, “And don't ever come back!” or words to that effect in Pashto. But the warrant and Hetsa got a good yuk out of it, seemingly at my expense, although I couldn't really have cared less. I guess shooting a lock would remain on my war to-do list.
Our OMLT company's second-in-command, a captain named Sean, radioed to inform us our OMLT OC, Major Hobbles, had arrived and was setting up in Masum. But more importantly, Major Obermann, the OC of Mike Company from 3 RCR, had finally arrived at Sperwhan, so I invited him into our OMLT HQ to give him an update on the situation so far. I explained in some detail the things I'd been up against, and didn't pull any punches regarding Major Bane. Comments like “one hundred per cent certainty” before he'd give his snipers permission to fire didn't sit well with Major Obermann. He thanked me for the briefing and said, “Stand by for change.” I couldn't wait!
Major Bane called a BUB the morning Major Obermann was scheduled to take over. All of the outgoing officers were present with the sniper sergeant and the two OMLT teams (the new incoming OMLT artillery team was made up of Captain Brannon, his warrant, and his two young guys I quickly nicknamed “Ginge and Swede.” They had turned up the night before, and were now living in our old accommodations). Major Bane, in a surprisingly gracious gesture, thanked everyone for their hard work, and then handed the briefing over to Major Obermann. The new incoming battle group commander discussed a few handover issues, and then said, “I've been hearing a lot of talk about having to be one hundred per cent certain. Well, gentlemen, that ends today at high noon when I take over. As of 1200 hours today, fifty-one per cent is good enough.”
It was great to see Bane finally get his in front of all of his men. The sniper sergeant looked like he had tears of joy in his eyes. Shortly thereafter, Bane and most of his crew were gone. I think after that official handover, he basically stayed in his room until it was time for him to leave. I didn't waste a single tear over him.
We did our standard patrol in the morning and then showered and ate lunch. I was finishing my patrol report when I heard two friends of mine with Mike Company, Captains Declan and John, begin speaking quickly over the radio. They had turned up with their platoons the night before and were now out on the ground on a handover patrol with Reg. They had just given chase to some bomb makers and my ears had perked up when they trapped the men in a grape-drying hut, just outside Sperwhan's front gate. Good on 'em, I thought to myself.
Then I heard them request, “OMLT and ANA personnel to breach the grape hut.”
I wasn't sure why they were requesting us; maybe there were angry farmers who didn't want them to enter. Maybe the Canadians needed the ANA to be diplomats. Either way, 72A had seen the Bat-Signal in the sky, and we were always game for some good action outside the wire. I jumped out of my seat and shouted, “X-Men! To me!” as I ran over to put on my gear.
The warrant came in from the picnic table and asked, “What's going on, sir?”
“Rohan calls for aid! And Gondor shall answer! Get kitted up, we're outside the wire in five.” That was all he needed to hear. He ran over to Fourneau's bed space, rudely shoved him awake, and started getting kitted up. Hetsa had been reading on the couch, so he was well ahead of any of us. Hetsa and I always competed on who could get all of their gear on first, because the loser had to help the winner with his clips. He was good at it, and we were about even so far. As I got dressed I briefed the guys on the mission.
I grabbed the radio mic and told the battle group CP that OMLT had heard the request and were en route. “Dress me, Hetsa!” I said, all smug because I'd beaten him. “Fourneau, get out there and fire up the Millennium Falcon!”
I jogged outside, found Ali, and then asked Captain Shafiq Ullah if he could spare some men for a quick compound raid. He said no, because it was almost last light, when his soldiers could finally eat.
I said I understood completely. “Just give me twenty guys, and I'll have them back in time for tea and medals.” The rest of 72A jogged past me, heading over to the RG.
“Fifteen guys, and be back in ten minutes,” he said, haggling over his men.
“Fifteen guys, back in fifteen minutes, done! Thanks.” I turned and jogged over to the RG. I hopped up the back step and swung inside, and as was my custom, promptly smashed the top of my helmeted head into the ceiling.
“Aw, damn it!” I screamed, “Every freakin' time!” The shockwave sent a shiver all the way down my spine to my toes. Everyone laughed. I was glad my one-man clown act was keeping team morale high. I radioed the CP
to let them know 72A was about to roll.
“Fourneau, give me full power and put shields on double front. Weapons, report!”
“We're good to go, sir. Weapons fully charged and ready!” Hetsa responded. He used the joystick on his remote control console to swivel the .50-cal heavy machine gun on the RG's roof back and forth for good measure.
“Well done, Mr. Starbuck. Warrant, how's our six o'clock, any sign of the ANA?”
“Some guys are hopping into Rangers now, sir. One's pulling up behind us.”
“Roger that. Good hustle, men; well done. We've got two, possibly three IED makers hiding in a grape hut. It's almost ANA supper time, so we gotta get back here in fourteen minutes, or Shafiq Ullah will never let his soldiers go to war with us again. So let's make it quick and dirty! We're going in hard, we'll point the ANA at the right hut, and then cut them loose and see what happens!”
“Sir, we've got three Rangers on our six,” Longview said.
“That's all we're gonna get. All right, punch it Chewie!” I shouted. “We're going in full throttle; that oughta keep those fighters off our back!”
“Yee-haw!” Hetsa shouted. Fourneau punched the gas and we went flying down the slope, sliding sideways on the turn until he regained control, and screaming up to the front gate, pinning the brakes before we could crash into the barriers. He slalomed the cement barriers like a professional Formula One driver, and we went blazing out the front gate.
“Mr. Fornicator, we've only got thirteen minutes left; give me full power!” I shouted.
“I'm trying, sir, I'm giving it—”
“Damn your eyes, man! What have I told you? Honk the frackin' horn!”
“Sir, we're—”
“Just do it!”
Fourneau began blaring our powerful tugboat horn, alerting all and sundry that 72A was en route to save the day. If only we had external speakers to play Ride of the Valkyries. That would shit up Timothy good and proper!
The Taliban Don't Wave Page 14