The big trucks fired up their engines, and after a few backfires, things kicked off. We travelled out of town and then passed through a stream, in which we promptly got stuck. The driver spent the next thirty minutes rocking back and forth. We offered to get out and push, but the offer was graciously declined. Hours passed before all of the trucks in the long ANA convoy made it through.
Then we passed into the beginning of the desert, and the trucks all got stuck at different points in the fine red sand. Hours passed again and soon it was dusk. We'd get stuck, rock back and forth for half an hour, and then slowly move along, until we got stuck all over again. All I'd had to eat was some beef jerky the warrant's girlfriend had sent over from Canada. It was a godsend. We'd been driving in spurts and stops for almost ten hours now.
It took so long because the ANA considered themselves a warrior caste, and manual labour (i.e., digging out a stuck truck) was beneath them. So they would wait until the truck could rock itself out.
Finally, one after another, most of the large trucks all became stuck in a row, so we dismounted and sat back to watch what quickly became the new gold standard for what a gong show looked like. The ANA shouted, screamed, cursed, and finally sat down in the dirt and pouted.
I looked over at Rich and Warrant Smith, who were putting their night-vision goggles onto their helmets. Good idea. Every one of us was exhausted from the long, boring, painful ride and we just wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but we had a desert to cross before we could rack out. I looked at my watch, it was now 2345 hours. Nice. We had left FOB Bermuda around 0800 hours.
Major Hobbles got out of Colonel Morris's truck with the ANA elite and walked over to speak conspiratorially with Rich and me. “Don't make it obvious,” he whispered, “but walk slowly to the front of the convoy. Once you're there, do a head count, and then make a mad dash for it, up the mountain to the north, and down the other side, where some ANA trucks should be waiting for you. If you don't get on them, you'll be left behind, like the rest of the ANA.”
Rich and I just looked at him for a few seconds before I finally said, “You're not joking, are you, sir?”
“Absolutely not. Run up the mountain, it's probably about six hundred metres, and on the lee side, there'll be a bunch of ANA trucks, but there won't be enough room for everyone. So it's first come, first ‘don't get left behind in the middle of a godforsaken desert.’ I'll meet you on the other side. Good luck.” He turned and walked back to his truck.
I looked at Rich. “This is all your fault.”
“My fault?” He took a step back. “How the hell is this my fault?”
“Don't make me say it. It's bad luck to say it,” I sighed, looking at the ground.
“No, I want you to say it!”
“Fine. You're call sign ‘Bad Karma,’ call sign ‘Sand in the Teeth of Death!’ You're marked to die! Every time I'm near you, bad things start to happen!”
“Well, I hope you've been keeping fit, 'cause that's a tall mountain, and this soft sand is going to be a bastard to run uphill through.” Rich was looking up at the slope.
“I was genetically designed at the super-soldier in vitro facility to exceed normal human standards,” I smugly replied. “Plus all of those augmentations . . .”
“Good to know, Dingo! C'mon, let's go tell the guys,” Rich said, and slowly walked back to our little circle of Canucks. After a bunch of “What?” and “No way!” and some “Fuck offs!” thrown in for good measure, the boys collected their kit and we began nonchalantly strolling to the front of the convoy.
I looked at Longview. “Wizard, use your dark magic to cast a cloaking spell over us, so the trolls can't see us!” He just smiled and shook his head. “Thankfully I've got a plus twenty-six rating for my warrior stamina, so I should be okay,” I said, not really believing what was about to happen.
Once there, Rich did a head count and said, in his deep Cape Breton accent, “Right, boys. The major wasn't joking. Once the goddamn savages see us sprinting up the mountain, they're going to know the Canadians have been told something they haven't, so they're going to give chase! We'll stick together, but keep an eye on each other, and make sure no one falls back. 'Cause I'm not going to lie to you . . . if you fall behind, you're probably going to be raped—”
“Nice,” I said.
Rich kept rolling. “I know, I know, this is pretty hard to believe, even for the OMLT. But if you don't want your ass to be the size of your mess tin, stick with me. Good luck, and I'll see you on the other side.” He turned around, and started three-quarter sprinting up the mountain. I fell in beside him, and like a morning PT session with the officers in the front and the warrants in the back, we took off, running up the hill.
I felt like Indiana Jones, sprinting away from the angry natives at the start of Raiders. The ANA quickly figured out something was up and started honking their truck horns, sounding the alarm because the Canadians were escaping from Stalag Luft Siebzehn. In my mind I could hear Alsatians barking and angry shouting as spotlights swung around, trying to get a lock on us! Halten sie! Halt!
“We've been made! Run for it!” I shouted and began laughing hysterically when I heard truck doors slamming and angry shouting as the Afghans began to figure something was up. We had a good head start, but soon two full companies of ANA were running to catch us, shouting at us the whole time, and quickly closing the gap as we ran up the mountain. We had almost a hundred pounds of gear on; they had maybe ten. It was a race we probably weren't going to win.
“Rich,” I said between quick breaths, “you're a fast guy, you'll probably catch up. Step over to the side, go firm, and lay down covering fire! Put some rounds over their heads! Make 'em eat sand and buy us some time! I'll try and hold a truck for you, but no promises . . .” I laughed.
Rich wasn't smiling; in fact, he didn't seem to be having any fun at all as he said, “Don't tempt me. I'll do it! I swear to God, I'LL DO IT!”
After a few minutes we slowed down to a quick jog. We had no choice: with every step we sank almost eight inches into the loose sand and our column was beginning to string out. I looked for Longview and found him right behind me, not even winded. I had forgotten he was carrying his own day sack and Fourneau's forgotten one, so I stepped out of the column and together we carried the extra day sack between the two of us. We each held an end of Hetsa's “forgotten” spare barrel, which we had shoved through the day sack straps. I thought of the powerful scene at the start of Uncommon Valor, as the American reconnaissance teams were sprinting to get to the choppers as Charlie gave chase. But these are our allies we're running away from! The guys we're supposed to be mentoring!
I looked over at Longview. “Still thinking of letting our forgetful friends off easy?” I panted.
“Absolutely not! I wasn't too pissed before, but I am now!” he snapped.
I looked at my watch. It was now 0003 hours (three minutes past midnight), October twenty-fifth—my birthday.
“Well, that's just great,” I panted.
“What's that, sir?” the Wizard asked.
“Not exactly how I thought I'd spend my thirty-fifth birthday: sprinting up a mountain getting chased by Eurasian sodomites, and trying to get a seat on a truck so I don't get left behind in a freakin' desert!” I laughed.
“Yeah, I suppose not. Oh well, what're you gonna do? Happy birthday, though.”
“Thanks. We're almost at the top. How ya doing?” I asked.
“Yeah, fine. I hope those trucks are there, waiting for us,” he said. Yeah, me too!
We quickly crested the hill on the double, and there they were: five Ford Rangers, about four hundred metres down in a small valley. I turned to face our escape committee and shouted, “There they are, boys! Go all out now; give it all you've got!” Then I put on my best Arnold accent and yelled, “Run! Get to tha choppah!”
The warrant and I stepped to the side and waited until our last straggler caught up, just as the fastest ANA reached us at the crest. They had
finally caught up and were trying to pass us as we sprinted down the mountain to get to the trucks before they filled up. I grabbed an Afghan soldier by the scruff of his shirt, trying to slow him down and use him to pull me a few feet at the same time. He angrily swung his fist and knocked my hand off. Hey pal, you just made “the list!”
Our fastest runners had made it to the Ford Rangers. “You guys in the trucks,” I panted over my PRR, “get 'em turned around.” The trucks were facing into the mountain and that wouldn't do us any good. By the time they got turned around, the evil dead would've swarmed us.
The warrant turned on his best parade ground voice (which was incredibly loud) and shouted, “Move it! I said, MOVE IT!” to our slowest guy. I counted heads and realized it was just the three of us left; everyone else had mounted up in the Rangers. Finally we ran up to one of the last remaining trucks with any space on it and I shouted over the PRR, “That's it! We're all on board, tell your drivers to go!” The Canadians began pounding on the roofs, shouting, “Go, go!” to their ANA drivers, who probably didn't speak English but got the idea.
The Rangers churned in the deep sand until they got some traction and began blaring off into the desert. A few Afghans made wild-ass leaps, trying to make it into the trucks before it was too late. Some guys jumped and latched onto the tailgates and tried to pull themselves up. I couldn't quite see from my angle, but it looked like one of the guys trying to pull himself on board just got his fingers rifle-butted by a fellow Afghan. Did that really just happen? Seriously? The warrant and I reached over to our clinger-on and helped pull him in.
“Tasha-koor, tasha-koor.” He thanked us in Dari, smiling gratefully.
“Salaamat baashaid,” I said back, placing my right hand over my heart.
Longview looked at me and grinned. “Some night, eh sir?”
“Definitely one for the OMLT yearbook! The boffins back home should make a training scenario out of that!” I laughed. The poor ANA continued to stream down the mountain in droves, racing to get one of the last seats, but they were too late as our trucks pulled away into the night. Some hung their heads, others cried out in anguish and cursed us as we left them marooned in the desert to an unknown fate. Probably a long freakin' walk!
We drove for an hour, not sure where we were heading, and not really caring. Sheer exhaustion had set in and we all began to fall into a fitful sleep, until we'd smash a rock or hit a bump and get violently jarred back awake.
After an hour of driving in what felt like circles, our vehicles stopped on a hilltop and formed a leaguer. We had some good over-watch from the position, and as long as the sentries didn't fall asleep, I thought we should be okay.
Adam Khan, my ANA company's PKM gunner, turned up and rallied us to help him collect some tumbleweeds to make a fire. It had turned Baltic cold and we were still covered in sweat from our run up the mountain. Soon a good-sized fire was blazing away and I began to double-tap—my head started nodding as sleep tried to crush me.
The next thing I knew, Adam Khan was brushing smouldering ashes off of my fat swod because I'd just fallen face-first onto the outer edge of the fire. I smiled at him sheepishly and said, “Tasha-koor, kaakaa.” Thanks, uncle. He grinned and went off to find more tumbleweeds for the fire.
We got shoulder to shoulder with each other, just like it said in the winter-warfare manual, and although it was a bit too close for us alpha-male types, it was no good. All of us began to shiver uncontrollably. I had put on my toque, gloves, and dry shirt, and held my sweat-soaked combat top up to the fire to dry it out, but it wasn't enough. The wind was really picking up and we were on top of a large hill, so that didn't help.
Major Hobbles arrived but never came over to see us. He found a place to sleep in the back of an Afghan ambulance and quickly racked out. Nice. As long as you're okay, I thought to myself.
“Right, that does it,” I said to Rich. “I'm off to find something, 'cause we won't make it through the night.” I got up and began walking around the ANA vehicles, until I finally found a Hessian sack covering a DshK heavy-machine gun in the back of a Ranger. That'll do. I quickly untied the knots and took the tarp back to the fire where Rich, Longview, and Smith were the only OMLT guys left; apparently it was now every man for himself as we all tried to stay warm.
We went over to a truck to shelter from the wind, laid down part of the tarp to cover us from the sand, and then hopped in, covering ourselves with the rest of the tarp. “Let us agree to never speak of this night again,” I said.
“Agreed!” they all replied, in perfect unison.
The next morning we set off around four a.m., but before we left, I asked Captain Shafiq Ullah if he'd like to do a head count of his men. We'd been scattered to the four winds after our run up and down the mountain, and it wouldn't surprise me if he had accidentally left someone behind. Max translated for me and replied, “Nah, he says, ‘We are good.’” Fair enough sunshine; if you don't care, I don't care!
The rest of the day became a nauseating blur of getting whiplashed back and forth in a big truck, constantly getting stuck, and dealing with snapping, fraying tempers. At one point, after an open-backed Humvee driver flew through a deep river and sent a tidal wave cascading over his passengers, one of them dismounted and actually pulled leather on the driver. He pointed his PKM belt-fed machine gun at the driver and we all thought he was really going to do it, but cooler heads prevailed and managed to stop him in time.
After hours of bone-rattling slow motion, we finally dismounted on the outskirts of Lash and RVed with our RG vehicles, feeling terribly seasick. I was never so happy to see my fellow Canadians in my whole life. We drove through the city and pulled into the ANP station without further ado.
We did a quick debrief and then cleaned our weapons and kit. First my kit, then myself. I grabbed the towel the Brits had given me at FOB Tombstone and strolled off to find the showers, happy at the thought of finally getting clean again. I saw some ANA milling around a low building, so I wandered over there. I walked through the open door to see an Afghan soldier, naked from the waist down, with both of his feet planted on the edges of a sink as he squatted over it and soaped his cucumber and beets. Geeewwww! I really, really didn't need to see that!
He turned from his ablutions and said, “Salaam.”
I never made eye contact as I kept on walking to the showers. “Yeah, salaam.”
I walked into an open stall and saw rusty, used razor blades on the floor. I skipped that one and walked over to another. Mud, and what was probably human feces, choked the drain, causing brown, mucky water to fill the floor basin. Nasty! Okay, I thought to myself, maybe I'll just skip the shower and have a wet-wipe classic later.
I walked over to the other side of the building to use the toilet, careful not to look at, or make eye contact with, Mr. “I think it's perfectly socially acceptable to wash my junk in the communal sink.” I walked over to the stalls, knocked on the first one with a door, and hearing no response, gently swung it open. My eyes were physically assaulted as I took in the human stool smeared all over the floor, the back of the door, and all three of the walls. Gaagaagaaa! The stink was overpowering, and I was glad I hadn't had breakfast yet, because I would've lost it. Not that it would've changed the overall ambience of the toilet.
I decided to tempt fate once more and walked to another stall with a door on it, and repeated my polite knock. I opened the door and was instantly showered in the face with spraying water—a hose ripped out of the wall was shooting all over the inside of the toilet. I choked and spit out coppery-tasting muck as I slammed the door shut.
I thought to myself, Luck be a lady tonight, and slowly, carefully, opened another stall, expecting God knows what to jump out at me.
No hideous smell or brain-scarring sight met my tired eyes, no terrible-tasting water splashed onto my face. Huh. I slowly walked inside and then remembered my toilet SOP: look for toilet paper before you start. I closed and latched the door behind me, and then bent over
to check the toilet roll holder. I reached under and felt for a paper roll, but instead stuck my hand into something soft and mushy. GAAHAAAA!
Suddenly—horrifically—hundreds of flies began swarming out of the mush under the toilet roll holder, buzzing angrily around my face and arms. “No, no, get back! Aaaahhh!” I squealed as I swatted the air around me, with hundreds of flies clinging to my face and hair. I tried to find the latch to let myself out of the toilet, but couldn't grasp it as panic threatened to choke out my reason and dexterity. I boot-stomped the door, ripping it off its hinges, and fled the building, back outside into the hot sun. I shook my head violently to get the last of the flies off of my face and hair. Seriously, what the hell was that all about?! I stormed back to the resident OMLT building and warned the boys not to use the toilets. “They're like a haunted house! The ANP toilets need an exorcism!”
But I still really had to go. Thankfully, I suddenly remembered we'd brought along our portable toilet bucket, which was a Gucci piece of kit. Some genius had created a triple-sealed bag full of cat litter, which you would open up and spread over a bucket by its edges. Then you would put a makeshift toilet seat over the bucket, do what nature called, and then zip the bag, wet wipe your hands, and chuck the lot in the garbage. I'd totally forgotten that we'd packed the portable buckets, because if I'd remembered, I never would've risked losing my soul in the ANP toilets.
Later that morning Major Hobbles, as the OMLT rep, got called to the governor of Helmand's palace on the outskirts of Lashka Ghar. He was presented with a strange white-rock trophy, and was told that he and his officers were now entitled to become landowners in Helmand Province.
The Taliban Don't Wave Page 25