Some of the ANA popped up and began returning fire toward a two-storey compound surrounded by high walls, about a hundred metres to their north.
“That's official,” I said to Sean jokingly. “It's a two-way range.” Sean just looked back at me. “Well don't just stand there, numpty,” I chided. “Call it in: contact. The ANA are in contact. Honestly Sean, I'm not going to be around forever to hold your hand.” Sean may have had his PRR like a good stormtrooper, but I had my map and compass, so I laid them down on the sandbags to find a grid on the map for the ANA, and my best-guess grid for the Taliban.
“Sean,” I said to get his attention. “I put the enemy at grid 1785 8380; sounds like one times PKM currently engaging our ANA forces, which are located at—”
Sean interrupted, “We don't tell them where our ANA are located!”
“We do if we don't want the Canadians to engage our ANA and kill them because they think they're Taliban!”
“Right, right . . . okay.” Sean clicked his PRR and began to pass up the contact report to the CP.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!
Sean and I both jumped as our eyes were drawn to the southeast corner of the FOB, where on the southside of the outer Hesco wall, a long line of explosions had just strung out in the sand. They were only small explosions, about ten feet high. My brain began to race. What the hell was that? It wasn't RPGs—they couldn't fire five of them that accurately and make a grouping that tight! Besides, there's no contour trails from the warheads. What could've . . . My eyes slowly tracked from the settling explosions back to the ANA position. I saw an ANA soldier desperately waving to the northeast. Why the hell would he . . . Oh crap! My eyes rapidly tracked over the ANA as they cowered behind their wall, to the northeast, where I could just see a Canadian LAV breaking cover from behind a treeline, its turret pointed toward the ANA! The Taliban don't wave! I'd just taught them that yesterday! Shit, they're being engaged by that LAV!
“Stop!” I shouted. “Sean, get the Canadians to stop shooting!”
“What do you mean? They're not shooting, they're coming down the—
“Don't argue! Get the CP to order all the Canadian call signs to stop shooting! Tell them to stop shooting at whatever they're shooting at! They're engaging our ANA in the compound!” I felt like a role reversal had just occurred. Sean had just become me and I had become Rich in Helmand, when Rich was trying to get me to stop everyone from shooting and I was arguing with him!
“The Taliban don't wave! The ANA are waving at that LAV, trying to get him to stop shooting at them!” I shouted.
Sean followed my pointing finger to the ANA soldier who was waving to save his life as his friends hunkered down lower than rattlesnakes under a top hat, hoping the Canadian LAV gunner's aim wasn't about to dramatically improve. His first rounds had fired over the wall, and exploded just outside our FOB. Their luck wasn't going to hold forever.
Sean twigged and immediately began ordering the CP to get the Canadians to stop shooting. I looked back at the LAV. Its turret was moving, tracking the wall. I'm too late; they're all going to be killed. I began waving like a lunatic, thinking maybe the LAV gunner would see me in the background up in the sangar, trying to get his attention. But the radio message must've been passed at record-breaking speed because the LAV came to a full stop, and then quickly swung its turret back in line with its hull. Sean and I each let out a long sigh as we began to grasp how close our ANA had come to being made full believers (holy, full of holes). The ANA were dusting themselves off and it didn't seem like any of them were hurt.
I take a lot of responsibility for that one, though. No doubt about it, I should've radioed the battle group to let them know the ANA were setting up in a compound, off the reservation. The LAV gunners were on edge from being shot at repeatedly over the last few days, so it was a “blue-on-green” friendly fire incident waiting to happen, and I should've seen it coming.
Sean looked at me incredulously. “Is this what it's always like, working with your ANA?” he asked.
“This?” I began folding up my map. “This was nothing. This was so minor it doesn't even register. But you know what they say: ‘Never a dull moment!’ But since this is your first time outside the wire, allow a seasoned veteran to explain, to the great unwashed and uneducated, what just happened.”
“Fuck you,” Sean snapped.
I continued with my play-by-play. “You see, my young fellow, the Taliban knew they had a great opportunity, so they took it. They set up in that compound to the north of our FOB, knowing full well the ANA were to the south, and the Canadians in the convoy were to the east, at right angles to each other. So the Taliban fired on the ANA, knowing they don't take kindly to that sort of thing and would fire back. Timothy then turned ninety degrees to his left, now facing east for the directionally challenged amongst us, and began firing on the LAVs, knowing damn well that wouldn't do any harm against those metal monsters. But that wasn't his goal.”
“And just what exactly was his goal, Mr. Holmes?” Sean asked with his arms crossed, unimpressed with my battlefield synopsis.
“Hey, if you don't mind, I'm trying to explain modern Taliban deception tactics to the small children present in the sangar. Now, if I may . . . where was I? Ah, yes, they knew that once the Canucks cleared the wood line, all they would see were the muzzle flashes of the ANA engaging Timothy to their north, and the crazy Canucks would assume, incorrectly as most assumptions are, that they were being engaged by Taliban from behind their long wall. So they began to fire at our ANA. Only their poor marksmanship, the waving ANA, and your timely radio intervention saved the day. So, well done to you, good sir. I'm putting you in for a nice gong right after we take tea.”
Sean was shaking his head, smiling. “You are easily one of the most idiotic, piss-poor excuses for an officer that I have ever had the dishonour of meeting.”
I countered with, “First off, the sooner you freely admit that it just kills you that a two-month captain figured all of that out so much faster than say, oh, I don't know, the twenty-six year captain standing next to him, the better off we're going to be. You've created a poisonous work environment, and one day, Sean, your misery and hate will kill us all. But there's still hope for you, because it's like The Simpsons' Jebediah Springfield always said . . .” I trailed off.
Sean was grinning like a chimp. “Do tell.”
“‘A noble spirit embiggens the smallest man.’ Now, if you're finished showing off, let's go make sure our ANA are okay. After you re-send their locstat to the battle group, that is. It doesn't do to be fired on, by one's own side, twice in the same day, what what! It's just not cricket.”
Sean walked into the CP and made sure the map grids had been successfully passed, and then we jogged over to the ANA. They looked like they were in a mild state of shock. Omer translated as an ANA soldier pointed out a gap in the wall to us.
“He says he was standing here when the rounds passed in front of his face, through the hole in the wall, and out the other side.” The ANA was shaking his head in disbelief.
I looked at the soldier and smiled. “El hamdoo la'lah. Allah must love you very much.” He nodded in agreement, so we left him to find Company Sergeant Major Shamsallah, who didn't look overly impressed. Can't say I blame him. Almost lit up by Canadians twice in the last two days; not a good omen for future ops! But when I explained to him what had happened (minus the bragging tone and insults I treated Sean to), he understood completely and just said, “El hamdoo la'lah.” Thanks be to God.
A real litmus test for his bravery would be whether or not, after the last few days, he would be willing to go out to clear the compound and find the Taliban firing point. I breathed in deeply and got Omer to ask him for me. Shamsallah just smiled and said, “Why not?” I laughed and slapped him on the back and told him I would go myself to the CP and show the Canadians where we were going. I promised we would be back in twenty minutes. I asked Sean if he wanted to come with us, juste pour la fun?
“I have to start the handover. Some of us are here to work, and not just go out on adventures!” he mockingly replied.
“Heh, adventure, excitement; a Jedi craves not these things! It's best if you stay, though,” I sneered. “I'm sure you'd just get us all killed. You go back to your air-conditioned office, son—it's what you're best at!” I punched him on the arm as we walked back to the CP. I asked Sean to radio Ginge, who was hanging out at the RG in the leaguer, to have him come on over for a patrol. I walked over and got Warrant Joe's and the radio operator's full attention as I showed them our projected patrol route and the suspect compound. They assured me everyone in the battle group knew the ANA's current location, and Big Joe said he would personally ensure they knew our patrol trace.
I grabbed Ginge, Shamsallah, and some ANA and we went to “knock” on the compound door. We bomb-bursted into the compound but the Taliban had long since fled. We found two firing points with expended PKM brass by the walls facing to the south and east.
Later that afternoon, Major Obermann asked if the ANA were ready to crack on with the original plan to go search the large village to our west. I immediately replied, “The roughnecks are always ready, sir!”
An hour later, the Canadians from the battle group stood to the side while Ginge, Shamsallah, and I kicked down dozens of doors and front gates as we cleared the compounds just to the west of Mushan. It was one of the funniest moments of my entire life, and it turned absolutely farcical as we got into the groove of things.
One of us would take a turn to kick down the door, then all three of us with some ANA would run in, clear the compound of Taliban, and then run down the street to do it all over again as the Canadians entered the recently liberated compound to conduct a proper search. We were having fun kicking down the doors—the Canadians were having fun letting us go in first, so it was win-win.
We did this all afternoon, oftentimes arguing about whose turn it was to kick in the gate, until after about four hours the ANA had enough and called it quits. Thankfully a Canadian civil military co-operation officer was following behind the Canadian platoons, handing out money to the homeowners for smashed-in gates and booted front doors. Well, you can't exactly knock. . . .
As far as Shamsallah was concerned, everyone west of Mushan was either a Taliban insurgent, a blood relative to one, or a suspected sympathizer or collaborator, so they were all suspect and the word needed to be put out on the street. I soon found out Shamsallah was a firm believer in street cred. Maybe he had a point.
Later that evening I joined Sean for some handover points and we helped the warrants get some things squared away. I went to bed in an ISO container. It was filled with bunk beds and I didn't think there was any room left in the inn, but I managed to shift a guy's kit under his snoring bed space and made a little home for myself. I put on my welding ear-defenders and fell right asleep.
That night, I dreamed of small children playing on a haystack, having fun and laughing in the bright sun under a pale blue, cloudless sky. I was in uniform, but with no gear or weapons on me. I was watching them from a ditch when suddenly a massive explosion from inside the haystack ripped them apart and launched their shredded bodies high into the air. I stared as their little body parts started to fall all around me like rain . . . and then I fell to my knees and started screaming.
Chapter 17
The next morning I broke up a few fights between the incoming and outgoing ANA. I found Warrant Duceppe (who made for a very intimidating bouncer) and asked him to come with me. One look at him, and the ANA parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses and quickly went about their business. Sean and Warrant Smith walked over and said we were on schedule; the engineers would finish up around noon, and the battle group convoy would probably head out no later than 1500 hours. I saw some engineers working on the LCMR on the roof of our CP.
“What're they up to? Servicing it?” I asked, somewhat naively.
“Removing it,” Sean said.
I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. “Removing it?” I stammered. “I thought this place was getting whacked by mortars every day for the last six days?” Why in God's name would they be removing it?
“I was told the battle group colonel in KAF has decided it should go to Gundy Ghar, in the north.”
“I know where Gundy Ghar is. Why are they removing it, when we need it? Has Gundy Ghar even been hit by mortars?”
“No, I don't think so. But that was his decision, so TS [tough shit]!”
“Yeah, TS for us, not for you! You get to go back to your nice, safe little Batcave, but we get to be mortared on a daily basis! That's the only early-warning system we have. Warrant Smith said the operator pokes his head out of his hut, shouts, “Incoming!” and everyone runs for cover! What're we supposed to do now?” I couldn't believe it.
“Adapt and overcome. I'll put a word in when I get back, see if I can't get you a new one or get the old one back.”
“Can't you ask now, while we still have it, before the bastards take it away?!”
“Rob, grow up. You know it doesn't work like that. He's made up his mind. But I promise, I'll see what I can do once I'm back. I'll talk to our OMLT colonel, and maybe they can duke it out.”
“Okay, but I just can't believe it. Why would he do that? Take it away, especially since we're getting hit all the time?”
“Ours is not to reason why . . .” Sean said and went back to his paperwork.
We grabbed a quick lunch and then Big Joe and I walked over to the outgoing ANA captain's command post, right underneath the southeast sangar. The warrant introduced us, and over the next half-hour we hammered out some of the stickier issues, like: “The incoming ANA are going to need all of the electrical cables and extensions and jacks you've been taking.”
The outgoing ANA were taking everything not bolted down or arc-welded in place. They were stripping FOB Mushan clean as Warrant Smith desperately tried to stop them. He'd had some success, but already some big-ticket ANA items were going missing. I wondered if I told him the incoming guys—
KRAANG!
I flinched at the sound of a very loud, very close explosion; it had sounded strange, though, like two metal rebars banging into each other. I looked at the warrant. “Incoming mortars,” he calmly said.
“Yeah, but that was super close,” I said as I jumped up and made my way to the sangar ladder. I heard shouting in Dari and English as soldiers tried to make sense of what had just happened. I climbed up to the top and looked to the south, where the other mortar rounds had been falling the last few days. Nothing. I looked to the east and saw the Brit Royal Marines running into their mortar pits to ready their mortars for counter-battery fire.
I shouted down to them, “You guys okay?”
“We're good, mate!” their sergeant shouted up to me. Well, where the hell . . .
I looked to my left and into the compound, where I saw a large cloud of dust swirling into the sky. The incoming mortar round had landed about fifteen feet away from my meeting with the ANA, and had blasted the windows out of a Ford Ranger and popped its tires. Dust was floating between the truck and a nearby tent, and I couldn't see if anyone had been hit. Soldiers on the ground were yelling back and forth.
I raced down the ladder and ran up to the truck. I began coughing as the dust flooded into my lungs. I tried to swish it away and slowly it lifted enough for me to make out a wounded soldier, propped up against the truck's back wheel. Warrant Duceppe was running over to me, shouting something as he ran, but I couldn't understand him. Too many people were yelling in the dust and confusion.
I ran over to the soldier and bent down next to him, trying to see his face and figure out what had happened to him. As I squatted down I could see blood shooting ten feet out the right side of his neck in powerful streams with every heartbeat. Artery! Crap, I've got to stop it before—
Over all of the noise and confusion, everyone in the compound could hear the LCMR operator scream at the top of his
powerful lungs, “INCOMING! INCOMING!” Crap, where can I run to, where can I go? If it wasn't so serious, it would've been funny as my feet and legs started running in two different directions while my torso went firm, fighting my legs' desire to panic until my head could find the best spot to hide.
I reached down for the Afghan. We have to get him into cover before—
Warrant Duceppe thundered into me, picked me up off my feet, and half-pulled, half-dragged me into cover behind a bunker as—
KRAANG!
Shit, that was close! But the incoming round hadn't made a whistling sound, like in the movies. THIS ISN'T A MOVIE, ASSHOLE! Get your head out of your ass!
Dust swirled again all over us as we began choking and wheezing. I got up and tried to find the terribly wounded Afghan through all the dust. I thought I saw a silhouette when two huge hands clamped down on my shoulders. It was Warrant Duceppe, who spun me around to look him in his eye. He was wearing his helmet and body armour. I had completely forgotten about coward hour, the time when we could expect the mortars to start incoming, and as I had been running around to make sure everything had gotten taken care of with the outgoing ANA, I'd also completely forgotten my PPE, my personal protective equipment, back at the sleeping container.
The warrant shouted full-bore in my face, “Go get your PPE on, sir, before you become a fucking casualty!” Then he spun me back around to face the ISO container and shoved me so hard I had to run ten steps just to get my feet back under me. Once I'd regained my balance I sprinted for all I was worth back to the ISO container where I'd slept the night before. I opened up the door and saw it was packed full of Canadians. It was good cover, but there was no way I'd be able to snake my way past everyone to get my TCCC bag from my day sack.
The Taliban Don't Wave Page 30