The Taliban Don't Wave

  “The Big Green Machine has decided to finally break up our little award-winning team of like-minded individuals. They know that together, as a team, our combined strength was just too powerful, and that we ‘threatened the natural order of things!’” I said, trying to keep the mood light.

  I thanked Hetsa for his hard work and for keeping morale up with his full beard and great sense of humour, and then I spoke with the warrant alone. I thanked him for his excellent attitude and for watching out for me and not letting me step on my dick, as the expression went. I told him how much I appreciated his looking out for me and the team, over and over again, and for keeping us safe with his magical enchantments.

  It bothered me a lot that 72A was getting split up, but with the leave blocks the way they were, we all knew it was inevitable. Everyone, no matter his rank or job, got a couple of weeks of vacation during his tour. And the way our staggered leave blocks were set up, it was unlikely the members of 72A would ever work together as a team again. The warrant said some kind words back, and helped me get ready.

  I grabbed a terp (a young guy who, not surprisingly, was named Max) and told Captain Shafiq Ullah the news. I thanked the ANA for . . . for uh . . . for coming on patrols every morning and for the great working relationship they had fostered with me and my Canadians. They thanked me back for . . . for uh . . . for always going out on patrol with them and for being ready to radio for help. I heard the Bellamy Brothers start to sing in my head, “Just let your love flow like a mountain spring.” Truly, we would all be heartbroken to be working with someone else: me with another group of ANA in Mushan, the ANA with other Canadians in Sperwhan.

  Then Max and I went to meet my new ANA. I knocked on their office door and they let me in and introduced themselves, but they were somewhat cold. I shook hands with Captain Ghias and his CSM, a very young man probably no older than nineteen or twenty called Shamsallah. Then we sat down together, but they weren't overly chatty. I guess they were scared I was the new guy who would get them all killed. The ANA could really take their time warming up to you.

  I was just about to leave when the door opened and in walked the artillery captain that Brannon was mentoring back in Sperwhan, the guy I gave the parachute flares to. When he saw me in the corner he literally ran over to shake my hand and gave me a man hug, and when Ghias and Shamsallah asked how he knew me, he told them the whole story, and finished with, “He's a friend of ours.” Suddenly their defences came down and I was just one of the boys, chatting away and having a few laughs before I had to go back to OMLT HQ. Now that's some good karma!

  That afternoon, Sean and I sat in on the convoy movement and Zangabad teardown orders given by the tank major in charge of the convoy. Early the next morning we would mount up, take our armoured vehicles and RGs into the dried-out Arghandab River, and then travel west until we were north of COP Zangabad. That afternoon our engineers would tear down the COP, and the next morning we'd hat up again, go back to the riverbed, and go farther west until we were above FOB Mushan. Then our vehicles would form a huge leaguer just west of the FOB, and our engineers would do some maintenance and construction on the FOB while the Canadians and ANA patrolled through the bandit country west of Mushan. It was a good plan, and nobody had any questions.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon studying a LAV manual, because I would be in the turret commanding one of those beasts for the move with some sec-for guys as my driver and number two on the turret. Sean would be following along with an RG and then heading back with the convoy, at which point 72C and the Third Company ANA would be left in Mushan, to our own dubious devices.

  Naturally, I mercilessly took the piss out of Sean, telling him it was okay to be scared, and to stick close to me because I was a heavily augmented super-soldier: “Spartan-118, UNSC designation: ROB.” I assured him if anything happened, I'd take care of him. He countered with some choice words, rife with expletives, and told me to get out of his office.

  I fired off an e-mail to Amélie and told her I'd get in touch with her again just as soon as I could. Because of OPSEC I had to be careful not to tell her where I was going or what I was doing, but she was a veteran and knew the drill. Then I wrote back to a class of schoolchildren from Saskatoon who had written some letters to me. My mom's friend was their teacher, so they all wrote fun notes to me, saying things like, “I hope you're having a good war,” and “Can you bring your tank when you come to visit us?” My personal favourites were, “I give you strength, I give you power!” and “I hope you don't die.” Yeah, me too! I took a picture of the OMLT kittens (the ones the mongoose hadn't eaten yet) and attached it to the letter I sent the kids, thanking all of them for their great letters.

  I had a great sleep, and the next morning we were up early and quickly on our way. The column we joined was absolutely huge, with at least fifty to sixty different vehicles. We rumbled through Masum and quickly got into the dried riverbed, and even before the convoy's last vehicles joined us, they came under enemy contact. They really did a number on Timothy with their 25mm cannons and 7.62-calibre machine guns. In the hands of a well-trained soldier, the LAV was an incredibly deadly instrument, and our soldiers had been very well trained.

  We rambled along, and the whole while our tail-end vehicles were constantly shooting into the walls Timothy was hiding behind. It was incredibly surreal. It was a beautiful day: the sun was up, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and every now and then an incoming round would snap over my head. Twenty-five millimetre cannons shot death at the enemy as a firefight raged behind me. All very normal.

  I was riding in my turret, with just the top of my head barely showing out of the hatch, when suddenly the armoured vehicle two in front of me got IEDed. The blast echoed over the riverbed. The major in charge quickly ascertained that the vehicle and its crew were all okay, so we just kept rolling along, like nothing had even happened.

  After a couple of hours we turned south and rolled into an open field to the west of COP Zangabad. We dismounted and I went to say hi to Andrew, my friend from 3 RCR who had joined the battalion at the same time as I had. He quickly gave me the lay of the land and assured me that Timothy was most definitely out there, watching us and waiting. In fact, we had pretty much just hopped over his fence and were now hanging out in his backyard.

  We didn't have to wait long as the engineers got to work tearing down the small base, and after half an hour, mortars started to fall in the field south of the COP. They were slowly being “walked” (falling increasingly closer) into the COP, but the engineers, in an incredible display of guts, just kept right on working. Only when the mortars started to land fifty metres out could they be bothered to stop their work. Everyone mounted up, battened the hatches on their armoured vehicles, and watched their arcs of fire.

  After a while, Timothy must've run out of ammo, because the mortars let up and the engineers got right back to work. I tried to get my new ANA to go with me on a patrol to find the mortar team, but something had them spooked, and nothing I said or did could get them to change their minds. Sean and I discussed some ideas but we decided I would push them for a patrol the next morning. Sean then made a few radio calls, and by the time I went over to see Shamsallah (the CSM) again, he was game for a patrol the next morning. His boss, Captain Ghias, was joining us in Mushan in a few days' time, so Shamsallah was in command of all of the ANA soldiers. That night, we slept next to our vehicles and quickly fell asleep. I got woken up to take my turn on turret duty, but thankfully, nothing happened during the night.

  I wondered how Amélie and our baby girl, Caméa, were doing. Cam was only five months old; she was born and then I left three months later. I missed them both so much. I had tried to call on the sat phone back in Sperwhan whenever I could, but it never seemed like enough. But just being able to call them every now and then was an amazing morale booster; I'd never had anything like that on any of my previous tours. I said a silent prayer for them and then went to wake up the next guy on turret duty.
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br />   The next morning I went and found Major Obermann and said I wanted to take my ANA and patrol south. I was hoping to catch the Taliban mortar team completely unaware, before they could start lobbing shells into our perimeter again. He told me good luck and to let them know if we needed help.

  I muckled onto Ginge (one of the 1 RCR infantrymen roped into helping Captain Brannon mentor the ANA artillery back in Sper), who joined me as my fire team partner for the COP teardown, and I then broke open my map to show Sean what I had in mind. As much as I took the piss out of Sean, he was incredibly switched on, and although I would never say it to his face, I valued his advice. He said he would take Stamps and go up on a nearby rooftop to act as an RRB (radio re-broadcast) station in case my comms went wonky with Obermann. I thanked him for the good idea, said some nasty things about his fugly face, and then walked over to the ANA who were, to my great astonishment, up and ready to go.

  I had a new terp, who would be working for me in Mushan, by the name of Omer. He was a nice guy and seemed really keen to do his job. Together we walked over to Shamsallah and I discussed some ideas with him over the map. He would bring along about twenty Afghans for the patrol. I would've liked to have more, but hey, at least we were going. Memories of a patrol back in Sperwhan when Lieutenant Mujahedeen refused to patrol one hundred metres to a big tree to kill/capture the Taliban recruiting team flooded back into my mind. Maybe these guys really will be different. Inshallah.

  We set off right on time and began to make our way south of the Zangabad teardown operation, which had started up again as soon as the sun had come up. The sun promised to be hot today. It was only 0800 hours, but already I was starting to sweat profusely. Situation: no change.

  We followed a wide footpath through a couple of villages, but where there should've been normal village activity, there was only eerie silence. Now that wasn't completely abnormal or anything, especially if we were new to the area and hadn't met the locals yet, but there was something in the air, a familiar bad vibe. I sense something; a presence I've not felt since . . . the last time I got shot at! Which was . . . yesterday?

  We rounded a corner and the ANA saw something and took off at a dead sprint.

  “Goom-lie [runner]! Ginge, stay right behind me,” I said as we took off after them. “Omer, if anything happens, go low and hide against a wall, okay?”

  “Okay, Captain Rob,” he said as he pulled his shemag up so it would cover his face better. He had told me the night before he had relatives in the area, but they thought he was working in Kabul. He didn't want them to get murdered because of his chosen career. Or to get murdered by them.

  We ran for about a hundred metres and then the ANA fanned out; they lost their goom-lie and were heading into the fields to find him. They're surprisingly good, I thought as they professionally moved into chase and block positions without having to be told.

  The ANA shouted at CSM Shamsallah and together we entered a tall grape-drying hut. I looked for IEDs at the entrance, but Shamsallah just stormed in (Geeewwww!) and began rooting around. I told Ginge to stay outside while I went in, just in case Shamsallah grabbed something attached to a string, which was attached to a detonator, which was attached to a mahoosive IED. It was eerily reminiscent of the Taliban farmer's compound we had raided with the Brits outside of Salavat. Was that two months ago now?

  A tall ladder was balanced against a wall with a viewport hacked out of the mud bricks at the top. The tall grape-field walls between the COP and the grape-drying hut were negated by the fact that the ladder reached almost two storeys up in the air. They could observe us at the COP from inside the two-storey hut and we'd never even know it. Clever.

  Shamsallah found a Quran and a large map of southern Afghanistan in the corner. I was about to ask why they would need that, but then it became obvious: They're not from here, they're probably from Pakistan. So they would need a map to get back. We found some old PKM ammo and a few grenades, but no IEDs or parts thereof. I took a ten-figure grid and spoke directly with Major Obermann over the battle group net, letting him know what we'd found. He said, “Good job, continue with your patrol, over.”

  “Seven Two Charlie, roger, out.” Hmm, 72C—that didn't sound so bad after all. Maybe the Wizard had found something in his book of spells to remove the curse of call sign “Anthem for Doomed Youth.” Shamsallah tasked some ANA to muckle onto the Taliban kit and we continued heading south. We patrolled for another twenty minutes when, suddenly, we heard mortars start to fall in the vicinity of Zangabad. Knowing the Canadians were coming under mortar attack motivated the ANA to pick up the pace, and we marched quickly farther to the southwest.

  We had been following a different footpath, with two shoulder-high walls on either side of the path, when the ANA stopped for an orientation moment. Shamsallah walked over and motioned with his arms to borrow my C8. The Afghans would often ask to look down our scopes to get a better view. I handed it over, and told Omer to let him know it was loaded, made ready, and on safe.

  “I know ‘loaded’ and ‘safe,’ but what is ‘made ready?’ ” he asked.

  “There is a bullet locked inside the chamber, ready to fire. If he puts the weapon on ‘fire’ and pulls the trigger, it will go bang,” I patiently replied. He told Shamsallah my weapon state and Shamsallah just shrugged, which was his way of saying, “Yeah, whatever.” I walked over to one of the shoulder-high walls, facing east, and got out my map and GPS. I thought the mortars had stopped in the last few minutes; I couldn't hear any more explosions coming from the COP.

  I was just about to send up a locstat when I saw three figures all dressed in black scurrying down a grape-field trench toward us. Time began to slow down as I realized one of them was carrying a long-barrelled weapon. It looked like a Chinese-made SKS rifle. Timothy! I couldn't believe my eyes. I had never seen him like this, out in the open, not surrounded by dust or haze like a shadow, but right in front of me! They were only a hundred metres away and coming closer.

  As I watched them, duckwalking down the trench toward us, they kept looking to the north (the direction of the COP), where they thought the infidels were hiding.

  “Down, everyone get down!” I hissed, ducking behind the wall. They were perpendicular to us, in a perfect ninety-degree angle to the ANA at the wall, coming right at us. We've got them in perfect enfilade! We just have to wait until they get closer, then we'll gun them down!

  Where's Shamsallah? He's got my rifle! He had moved up to the wall and was glancing over at Timothy, through my scope!

  “Stay down, everyone stay down!” I whispered as I crouch-walked over to him.

  “Hey,” I whispered, “give it back.” I reached over and gently started tugging on its front cover. He snarled something and tugged back. “Hey, I'm not kidding . . . give it back!” I snapped, and began reaching over his arms to take my weapon back. Really? Am I really having a freaking tug-of-war, over my own damn rifle, as we're about to ambush Timothy? I could just see the headlines: CANADIAN OFFICER FIGHTS OVER PERSONAL WEAPON WITH AFGHAN SOLDIER, GETS SHOT IN HEAD!

  “Give it back, damn it. Give. It. Back.” We were both standing up now, fighting like two kids over a hockey stick signed by Gretzky.

  Then I heard the swan song, the proverbial fat lady singing, to announce the sudden and violent death of my dream of getting the drop on Timothy. Some moron ANA soldier had stood up so the sneaking Taliban could see him in plain view. He had begun to whistle shrilly at them, as though he was trying to call a taxi in downtown traffic!

  I let go of my rifle and shouted, “No! Nooooo! What are you doing?” I ran to the edge of the wall and looked over to see the three Taliban fighters stopping dead in their tracks, quickly pulling a one-eighty, and sprinting back the way they'd come. Shamsallah was already up and beside me, and began to fire round after round out of my rifle, trying to hit the fleeing Taliban. The rest of the ANA joined him and began pouring fire down at the fleeing insurgents. Oh no no no no. I was shaking my head, completely
downtrodden.

  Ginge shouted out, “Sir, can I fire?” He looked at me pleadingly.

  I sighed deeply and said, “As long as you've got a legitimate target, go ahead.” I looked back over the wall at nothing but an empty ditch. They were long gone.

  I already had my map and GPS in my hands from before, so I radioed in the contact report and said we had engaged three times FAMs, who were now currently running for their lives to the south.

  An unexpected thought ran through my head. I remembered a scene at the end of the movie Jarhead, where the sniper team was wigging out because an officer wasn't going to let them take their dream-shot and engage the target. I had laughed at the time, but I wasn't laughing now. I figured I knew exactly how they felt.

  Shamsallah, realizing only now what he had done, slowly walked over and handed me back my rifle. He quietly said, “Man mutasef astaam,” meaning I'm sorry. I looked him in the eyes; he was genuinely upset about our little pre-ambush tug-of-war. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Khob-as, beraader,” which meant It's okay, brother. He smiled when he heard beraader and then quickly marched over to the whistle-blower, the smile draining off his face with every step. Soon it was replaced with a feral sneer.

  He grabbed the mad whistler by the neck and banged him up against the wall and started shouting in his face. I nodded at Omer, meaning I wanted him to come over and translate the epic “jacking” this ass-clown was receiving.

  Omer began to translate Shamsallah's shouting: “You are Taliban, why else would you be whistling at them, if not to warn them?” The whistler tried to respond. As I looked away to see what Ginge was up to, I heard Shamsallah deftly open-hand slap him across the face. “If the Canadians were not here, I would kill you myself and leave you in the ditch! You will never patrol with us again, and when we get back to Masum, you are finished. I will be watching you!” The CSM stormed off to the front of the patrol and got his men moving again to the south.