The Taliban Don't Wave

by Robert Semrau

  Oh no, don't tell me . . . Yep, they were totally, inexcusably, high.

  They began passing around what could only be described as King Kong joints and started puffing away, their glassy eyes not really taking anything on board (but they did like to smile a lot and giggle to themselves). Hobbles arrived and I brought them to his attention. He said they were Afghan Border Police and followed up with, “Yeah, but what are you gonna do?”

  I knew if I was back in Sperwhan I'd immediately call off the patrol, but this wasn't just a patrol. It was a two- to three-day operation, with a lot more working parts involved than just a bunch of high border police. I pointed them out to Rich, who just shook his head and said, “Savages. Goddamn savages.”

  Our ANA companies got in line and faced toward the south: 72C was on the left, 72A on the right. Rich and I looked at each other. Sweat had already begun to trickle down our faces; it was much hotter in Helmand than in Kandahar Province.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “Strong is Vader, mind what you have learned, save you it can!” I shouted back. Rich gave me the finger as his men moved off first, just the way my ANA captain would've wanted. Captain Shafiq Ullah then gave Rich's group a five-minute head start before beginning our trace (projected route) to the south.

  We had gotten maybe twenty feet before the first rounds were fired into the air. I couldn't tell if it was our ANA or Rich's who had fired. It seemed to be outgoing. Maybe they were warning shots. Nobody said anything over the net, so we continued on as if nothing had happened. After marching about fifty metres, Shafiq Ullah flew into a rage and started shouting something at Lieutenant Aziz over their radio. Aziz was up front with Longview and Hetsa for the duration of the patrol, but after about a minute, they marched past us and walked all the way back to the highway, moved a few poxy metres to the east, and then took a different trail heading south. I asked the warrant over the PRR what was going on, and he said Shafiq Ullah was probably buying more time, so that Captain Ghias in charge of the Third Company and 72C would be the first to spring an ambush. Figures.

  We patrolled south for a couple of hundred metres when all hell opened up farther to the south. It sounded like either the Brits or Americans had stumbled upon some Taliban hiding in ambush. It was a two-way range because rounds would periodically snap high over our heads. It lasted for a few minutes and then died down.

  I tried to reach Warrant Longview for a locstat but his radio was dead. I found out later that his radio had dumped its crypto, meaning it had just chucked out the encryption codes necessary to communicate over our net, leaving him with no radio for the rest of the day. Fantastico!

  Ross spoke over the net and sent up a grid, but his numbers were all wrong. I talked over the net and corrected him, and then knowing everyone in the OMLT could hear me, I said it was too early in the morning to start making those mistakes and we had to switch on, the day was only starting. I told him later I hoped he wasn't pissed at me for what I said, but I stood by it. He said it was a good admonishment to have made, and I appreciated his maturity.

  We knew the Afghan intelligence service (NDS) was out on the ground, trying to gather real-time int for our operation. (I found out later, during my court martial, that they had about twenty operatives dressed as Taliban walking around the area we'd be patrolling.) We'd gone maybe six or seven hundred metres from the highway when the NDS radioed the ANA call signs, warning them the Taliban had sent out suicide bombers to target the coalition forces.

  Hey, great news!

  We patrolled for maybe a klick when the NDS came over their net again, warning the ANA that the Taliban were planting IEDs and mines on the roads behind us, effectively cutting us off from Ross and our vehicles if we needed them for fire support or medevac.

  Perfect!

  Another half an hour passed, when suddenly Rich and his ANA were in a TIC with rounds snapping all over the place. We could tell by the volume of fire that the ANA were giving better than they were receiving, but it was our first official contact of the day, and Rich handled himself very well. He was calm over the radio and quickly delineated the forward line of his troops, in case any Apache gunships were coming over to help him out.

  I was distressed to see Captain Shafiq Ullah completely clam up, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Maybe if you'd actually patrolled with us, instead of issuing orders from Sperwhan hill through a set of binos, you'd know what to do! Rounds snapped and the odd one cracked over our heads as we took cover behind a wall.

  I sent up my locstat, eager to let Major Hobbles know where 72A and its ANA were, in case an Apache did come in. I didn't realize it at the time, but I had lost comms with 72C and I interrupted Rich right when he was giving an important sitrep. Because I was carrying the spec ops MBITR (multiband inter/intra team radio), my transmission capability was more powerful than his, so I accidentally cancelled him out during mid-sentence.

  After twenty minutes 72C and their ANA had won the TIC and were carrying on. Our side had no wounded, no KIA, so it was a good action for them. They found blood trails all over the place, but no enemy KIA or wounded. But I didn't like a trend that seemed to be forming—Captain Shafiq Ullah never offered to help. In fact, he never even budged from behind his wall. Seven Two Alpha's ANA had gone completely to ground. Shafiq Ullah gave Rich's call sign enough time to get well ahead of us, again, and then we slowly moved out.

  After about another half an hour the sun was starting to get really hot. I was going through my water and realized I'd have to ration it out. The day had just started and we were nowhere near the twenty-odd klicks we had to cover before nightfall.

  A TIC started over to the southwest, with incoming and outgoing fire. It sounded more serious than the last one, with rockets and heavy weapons firing. It seemed about seven or eight hundred metres away. I radioed the major to let him know (of course thinking he was behind me), and he calmly said, “Yeah, that's us. We're in a TIC. I'll get back to you.” Geeewwww!

  I said, “Okay . . . well, good luck and keep your head down,” and listened as his firefight raged for another couple of minutes. Later that night, I found out that Colonel Morris, the officer he was mentoring, got it into his head to cruise down a road, farther to our west, and parallel our companies as we patrolled along. But Morris didn't account for the fact that he was in a vehicle, travelling quickly, while we were on foot. So in very short order he was literally behind enemy lines, about a klick and a half farther south than us. The major, realizing the ANA and OMLT HQ elements had inadvertently become the recce team, tried to mentor the colonel back to the straight and narrow, but Morris liked his position, dangerously way ahead of his own troops, and he wasn't going to budge.

  The CSM was about to have a massive coronary, when suddenly RPGs flew over the hood of their truck, rounds cracked into their vehicle, and all hell opened up on them. They smashed into a wall and dismounted, and returned fire as best as they could. But they did great, because after a few intense minutes, they'd chased away the Taliban. By a complete miracle, they took no friendly wounded or KIA, even though RPG rockets had sailed over their bow. They mounted up, drove over to a nearby hill, where Hobbles sent a message over the net to let us know they were still alive. The ANA HQ then put out a defensive screen and stayed there for most of the day.

  We patrolled through some corn and grape fields, hopped a few walls, and continued the trace through some compounds. Suddenly it sounded like Longview and Hetsa were in a TIC as outgoing rounds filled the air. We moved up but took cover as Fourneau, Shafiq Ullah, and I heard the ominous CRACK CRACK CRACK over our heads. We got behind a wall, but I couldn't see anything. I tried to reach them over the radio, but we had no net comms, only PRR with Hetsa, and their range was notoriously short. After a few minutes the TIC died down, and we continued on the trace. I couldn't rightfully send up a contact report, because it was the warrant who should've called it in. Of course, at the time I had no idea his radio had crapped out on him.

 
; The ever-present dust swirled through the air as we patrolled along, watching for ambush points and sending up locstats to the major. He was up on his hill at this point, so we had pretty good comms for the rest of the day.

  Suddenly, over to our front and left, the firefight to end them all kicked off. My call sign took cover because incoming rounds were snapping and cracking all around us, and we weren't even the target! Rich and his ANA had just sprung a major ambush. RPGs exploded as rounds cracked and snapped all over the place.

  Rich shouted over the radio and his voice sent shivers down my spine. They were getting hit—hard. All of the rounds sounded like incoming. After a minute he shouted over the noise of incoming fire that they'd been caught in a three-sided ambush and were so suppressed they couldn't poke their heads out of cover.

  I found out later that the ambush started with an RPG rocket that exploded so close to 72C's Warrant Smith it had flung him ten feet through the air like a rag doll. He landed on his head, shook the dust and stars out of eyes, and sprinted over to a wounded Canadian, pulling him into cover. Rich had dived into a shit ditch, and could only raise his rifle over his chest and “pray and spray” on full automatic. He couldn't even raise his head to look, because incoming rounds were kicking up dust all around him and passing between his arms and his rifle. They were in a desperate situation.

  And Shafiq Ullah wanted nothing to do with it. I knew it could be very dangerous for us to just sprint up and try and relieve them, but we were on a different axis of advance. As long as we ran up to help and stayed on our proper axis of advance, our fellow OMLT and ANA call signs knew where we were supposed to be. Was there a good chance Rich's ANA would fire on us? Possibly, but the alternative was to sit where we were, do nothing, and listen as our friends were slaughtered. At least if we advanced, we could come up next to them, and either draw some heat away from them, or actually kill the Taliban who had them trapped in a three-sided ambush. Kill the ambushers! But we'd have to move, now!

  I walked as calmly as I could over to Shafiq Ullah and asked through Max, “What would you like to do?”

  “We will stay here.”

  Okay . . . “Captain Shafiq Ullah, listen to that gunfire. That's almost all one-way firing. Our friends, as we sit here, are being shot at. If we stay here, and do not go to help them, there's a good chance they'll all be killed. If we leave, right now, we can still help them, it might not be too late!”

  He listened to Max translate and said, “No, we are good. We will stay here.”

  I wanted to scream in his face, “You cowardly bastard!” but instead stormed off. I looked at Fourneau who quietly said, “Sir, maybe we should stay put—”

  “Oh for fuck's sake, Fourneau! Those are our friends! LISTEN TO THAT! They're being shot to shit, and you want to stay put?” I couldn't believe what I was hearing. If the roles were reversed, I knew Rich would've been running at full sprint to save us. Son of a bitch!

  I couldn't hear anything Rich was saying over the net; I'd lost all comms with him. I spoke quickly over the radio, trying to reach Major Hobbles. I couldn't reach him either, but thankfully Ross spoke over the net and said he would act as a relay station for me, sending Hobbles my message. I told him to get Hobbles to have Morris radio Shafiq Ullah and give him a damn kick in the ass! We were just sitting there, cowering; we had to move if we wanted to help Rich. Ross got the message and quickly passed it on. I couldn't hear Hobbles's response because he was out of range. Rounds continued to snap over our heads, and we could hear RPG rockets being fired and detonating all around Rich and his men.

  After about five minutes of pacing back and forth, I made up my mind to grab Fourneau, go forward to find Longview and Hetsa, grab Lieutenant Aziz, and try to go help out 72C. Suddenly an Apache helicopter gunship startled us as it flew in low over top of us, and after thirty seconds of hovering in the air, cut loose with its 30mm chain gun, spitting high explosive death into Timothy. Thank God! Rich might still have a chance!

  Rich told me later he'd crawled to where he could see his ANA and plotted their grid on his map under extreme enemy fire, as Warrant Smith crawled down a ditch to throw red smoke in front of the ANA, delineating their forward-most troops so the Apache wouldn't engage them by accident. Again, it was sheer heroism on both of their parts. No one would've blamed them for going firm and taking cover, but they put their own lives at extreme risk to make sure their ANA weren't going to be lit up by mistake.

  We were only about four hundred metres away, and the Apache's guns sounded like a chainsaw. They were so loud that Captain Shafiq Ullah lost face by diving headfirst into a ditch when he heard the noise. Fourneau and I didn't budge, and I told Max to explain to the captain that the sound was Apache outgoing fire, not incoming Taliban fire. Shafiq Ullah was very embarrassed and argued the point for a few seconds and then slowly climbed out of the ditch and dusted himself off. The Apache hovered over the battle space and periodically cut loose with a loud burst of 30mm. We could hear his rounds detonating all over the ground, tearing the Taliban apart.

  Finally Rich spoke over the net to say the Apache had cleaned house, and they were able to continue. He said over the radio they had one wounded Canadian and an Afghan, but he didn't give the nature of the injuries. My heart dropped into my stomach. Who got hurt? How badly? I listened as Rich passed up his nine-liner, the military's radio report for wounded personnel, and realized it was a wounded Afghan and a Canadian with an injured knee. They would both need to be extracted. I could hear Hobbles again. He said the area was too difficult for the RGs to get to; would Rich be able to extract his wounded to a point farther south down the trace, more suitable for a pickup? Rich said they could, and carried on with the mission. The Apache was “Winchester” (out of ammo), so he flew off to the south to re-arm and refuel.

  Shafiq Ullah got a steaming message from Colonel Morris, and suddenly we were on the move south again. There was a haze lingering in the air, and it smelled strongly of cordite. Warrant Longview, Hetsa, and their ANA were far ahead of us, over to the right.

  My combat antenna started going off. We're being watched. . . . I scanned around but could make out only tall cornfields, in every direction, as far as the eye could see. That's not good. They're probably hiding in the corn.

  I knew Rich's wounded man was probably only a few hundred metres away, so I asked Shafiq Ullah if he could get some ANA Ford Rangers to come down the road and pick him up. He almost shouted back at me and said, “The road has been mined, remember? The Taliban have been planting IEDs on the road behind us!” So that's a big “No!” then. As far as the ANA were concerned, we were cut off.

  We came out of a cornfield and I took in a scene of utter devastation. The Apache had just loitered over the enemy and ripped him apart with 30mm high-explosive rounds. Shrapnel damage was all over the place, gouges of earth were torn up, and branches were on the ground from where they'd been shot out of the trees. My eye caught on something dangling from a tree branch and my brain said, Cannot compute, cannot compute. I thought to myself, What the hell are sausage links doing in a tree? Then I realized they were human intestines. I looked at the ground and saw big pools of blood, with smaller blood trails leading off in different directions and into the cornfields.

  It was readily apparent that any Taliban who had fled from the battle could easily be hiding right next to us, in the tall corn. I tried to mentor Shafiq Ullah to send some clearance parties into the cornfields, but he strongly refused. I guessed he was afraid I was right and there were still Taliban hiding all over the place in the corn.

  What happened next was hotly contested during my court martial for second-degree murder. Depending on who gave testimony, a few different versions played out. One soldier said we came across a wounded insurgent that some ANA soldiers had just finished kicking and spitting on. He had a small, fist-sized hole in his stomach, a partially severed foot, and an injured knee. Another soldier said he thought the insurgent was already dead, with a hole in his stom
ach the size of a dinner plate. Captain Shafiq Ullah said the man was torn apart, had lost all of his blood in a nearby stream, and was ninety-eight per cent dead. And although they differed in their testimony as to the manner and what was said before and after the incident, two witnesses basically agreed that I had shot the insurgent two times, in what was later dubbed by the international press as a mercy killing.

  As a Canadian citizen, I had the right to remain silent during my trial. I could not be forced to testify. I chose to remain silent during my murder trial, and I never gave testimony on the stand, nor did I make a statement for the police. The truth of that moment will always be between me and the insurgent.

  The ANA were ordered to continue on their patrol to the south and we passed two more torn-apart insurgents, laying in the cornfields. The Apache had been absolutely devastating—it was like the hand of God had come down and just ripped the legs and arms off of people. Shafiq Ullah approached the two bodies and said something to Max.

  “Pakistan,” Max said. “They are from Pakistan.”

  “He can tell, just by looking at their dead faces?” I asked.

  “Yes, and I can tell too. It is obvious to us.”

  We patrolled for a while until we came alongside a road, and I saw some blood trails leading off in different directions. It also looked like the Taliban had put some wounded into vehicles. There would be a large pool of blood, and then nothing, like they were picked up and moved. We came up to a large compound, and I saw bloody handprints on the walls. It was very eerie to see blood everywhere—sometimes in big pools—but no bodies. I remembered hearing that in the Vietnam War, Charlie would drag away his dead, wanting to give them a proper burial. Timothy was apparently the same. The Taliban's religious beliefs said their dead had to be buried before sunset.