But we'd heard of insurgents checking out their handiwork before. At the Panjway bazaar, an IED maker planted his bomb and detonated it at the first patrol he saw. As the patrol was collecting its wounded soldiers, the bomb maker strolled right in to the middle of the incident scene and started taking pictures of his handiwork with his cellphone! Maybe this guy here was doing the same thing, getting a battle damage assessment. I sure as hell thought he looked guilty of something when I first saw him.
Shamsallah came out and shouted at him, then took some zap straps off of his tac vest, spun the suspect around, and strapped his hands together behind his back. The man was protesting the entire time, but his cries fell on deaf ears.
Suddenly a door across the alley from the suspect compound opened up, and seven boys and girls, from ages five to fifteen, bomb-bursted out the front gate and swarmed on the fighting age male, who was obviously their father.
A hellacious cacophony of tears and wailing ensued, as the children obviously thought this would be the last time they'd ever see their father on this earth. A woman wearing a burka ran out and latched onto the father, but Shamsallah roughly shoved her aside as he led her husband away to the FOB. But you could tell by the sound of their wailing they thought he was going to be summarily put up against a wall and shot.
But I knew what would happen. We'd take him back to Mushan where Captain Ghias would ask him questions, I would hover in the background to make sure he had water and wasn't roughed up or put in stress positions (the ANA never did that anyway), and then after four hours of letting him sweat bullets, the ANA would send him back home with a And don't do it again! speech. We had no evidence (except the ANA soldier's eyewitness testimony), but there were no courts to hear the case, no prisons to hold him, no means of transporting him. There was no system whatsoever for dealing with terrorists or criminal suspects. So he'd walk. In about, oh, four hours.
I called Max over and said, “When we've walked away a bit, tell the family that he will be returned to them, unharmed, in four hours. They are not to worry—he'll be fine and he'll come back to all of them in four hours. Please go and tell them that.”
As we walked away I saw Max approach the distraught family and pass on my message. They calmed down a bit, but not much. Well, they'll see.
As we walked down the road back to the FOB, Warrant Smith's voice came over the PRR net. “Seven Two Charlie, Mushan, be advised, we have a VIP in Mushan, waiting for you to get back from patrol, over.”
Crap, seriously? I didn't hear a chopper come in. What if it's a general and I haven't shaved? I've got a full beard . . . I saw a flash of red from around the corner of the FOB, right where we'd be entering the base. Red? Why the . . . ? Wait a minute, Warrant Smith just got a parcel from home, I bet. . . .
“Warrant, this VIP—does he by any chance say, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ and give out presents to all the good boys and girls?”
There was hesitation before he responded. “Maybe . . .”
I started to laugh. As we rounded the corner into the FOB, bringing in our person of interest, all of the Canucks were covered in dirt after getting pushed off an eight-foot-high wall, we'd run like idiots through a ditch as bullets whanged all over the place, I had taken three rounds right over my head, women and children wailing—and now this!
My weird-shit-o-meter just spiked into the red. To say the moment had become surreal didn't do it justice.
Santa Claus jumped out from behind the corner of the Hesco wall and was shouting, “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas, children. Here, take a water!”
Warrant Smith was dressed up magnificently as Santa: black leggings covered his brown desert boots, he wore bright red pants and a red shirt stuffed with a pillow (covered by his body armour and tac vest because—technically—Santa was outside the wire), and he sported a bushy white beard and flowing red pointed cap as he handed out water bottles.
We all burst out laughing at the sight of him; everyone, that is, except the person of interest, who probably thought this was the way we started all of our interrogations. I could just hear his thoughts: The infidels and green Christians are trying to break me mentally by having this . . . thing . . . with a white beard offer me water!
We thanked Santa for his gift of water as he escorted us back into the FOB, a crate of water in one hand, an RPG rocket launcher in the other. His wife had sent him the Santa outfit and he thought he'd surprise us and get us into the Christmas spirit of things. The person of interest hadn't taken his eyes off of Santa. He was probably afraid if he lost visual contact with the creature in red, then the dark magic spells that it was surely casting would begin to take effect.
We walked into the FOB as Shamsallah escorted the FAM to the outer perimeter. He wasn't allowed to come into our base to see the layout or assess our security measures. Give him a little time to sweat. To fear the creature with the long white beard! I'll take him some water in a minute.
We dumped our kit and sat in the shade of the Talibucks Coffee Shop and laughed about the patrol. Most definitely one for the OMLT yearbook!
Warrant Smith went back into the CP and came out again, carrying his red sack full of goodies. He approached Shamsallah and, speaking through Max, he explained who-knows-what for ten minutes, and then Smith went to the northwest sangar and climbed the ladder up into the tower.
Shamsallah started bellowing in Dari to his men, and after a few minutes, they were all lined up in three neat rows, standing at attention. The CSM went to the front of the parade and started speaking in a loud voice. I called over Max and got him to translate what was being said in real time.
“He says someone is going to come and explain the Christmas to them. This is a Christian holiday and it is very important to all Christians. We have Eid—Christians have the Christmas—so pay attention!” For some reason he kept calling it “the” Christmas. Then Shamsallah took a few steps back, as if signalling something to happen.
Perfectly on cue, Santa Claus started bellowing, “Ho, ho, ho!” from the top of the sangar as eighty pair of Afghan eyes shot up toward the strange sounds coming from it (not everyone was on that patrol, so they hadn't been greeted by Smith all dressed up). Santa, having a hard time because of his girth, struggled to pass between the sangar sandbags, but finally squeezed through and started to climb down off the CP roof. He hopped onto the Hesco wall, then onto a small sandbag wall, then landed with a THUD in the dust. He walked confidently between the rows of ANA and began handing out candy canes from his sack. The ANA clearly didn't know whether to crap their pants or go blind. This was really putting their weird-shit-o-meter into the red.
After Santa had passed in front of every single Afghan and made sure they all had a candy cane, he stood at the front and began to explain what Santa was and how he operated. The warrant gave a very tight, accurate synopsis, and waited while Max translated.
Santa was still up at the front, explaining some last-minute details about chimneys and cookies, when two ANA soldiers in the back started giggling to themselves. Our other terp, Omer, had actually come back to us (another Christmas miracle!) on one of the drunken Russian subcontractor chopper drop-offs, so he was translating for me as Shamsallah marched over to deal with the snickering troops at the back.
Shamsallah walked up to the two soldiers and started delivering vicious kicks to their rear ends, hoofing them over and over again, shouting in Dari. Santa tried not to notice, since he was still talking about Yuletide cheer in front of the good little children, but the shouting of Shamsallah and the screams of his men were hard to ignore.
Omer asked if I would like to know what Shamsallah was shouting about, and I would've been a liar if I'd said I wasn't a little bit interested, so I said, “Sure, what's he saying?”
Omer began to translate but had to pause as Shamsallah continued to lay into them with roundhouse kicks to their asses. “He is saying: ‘You two . . . idiots . . . How dare you . . . speak . . . while Santa Claus is talking . . . When Sant
a talks, you will listen!’” Awesome! They were being ass-kicked for disrespecting Santa Claus!
Santa finished his speech and the ANA were dismissed. As they were leaving, Smith put his company sergeant major–mentor hat back on and said, “And don't forget, put your candy cane wrappers in the garbage when you're done!” Fantastic!
We had a lot of fun that day. It turned out to be a good day for the person of interest as well. I went out with Captain Ghias as he asked his questions, and after ten minutes, he was convinced his soldier had fingered the wrong guy in the line-up. So he let him go, after only a thirty-minute stay on the outer perimeter of FOB Mushan. New record. Woo-hoo! Truly, Santa's Christmas spirit was infectious!
Later that afternoon, two ANA soldiers approached me with Max in tow behind them. Max listened to them while they spoke, and then turned to me.
“Captain Rob, they would like to know why would Christians celebrate the return of a red demon once a year that comes down stovepipes to steal cookies and milk from small children?”
What? I started choking on my coffee. I sputtered for a few seconds and said, “I'm sorry, a red demon who comes down to . . .?”
“Steal cookies and milk from small children.”
“Oh,” I said, smiling mischievously. “It's because the children were bad.”
Max translated and the ANA said, “Oh, that makes sense, okay,” and went back to their duties. Something critical had definitely been lost in translation as the warrant explained Santa's modus operandi to the ANA. It's okay though, I've set 'em straight.
We celebrated Christmas with a fresh turkey cooked on the BBQ and a shot each from the leftover bottle of brandy that was sent to us to celebrate the regimental birthday. We exchanged some gifts with the ANA, who, bless them one and all, knew it was better to receive than to give.
My parents had sent some gifts neatly wrapped up in Christmas finery for the ANA officers, and when I presented them, they didn't want to open their gifts. I got Max to ask them why not, and they were embarrassed because they thought the gift-wrapped box was the actual gift, because they'd never seen such pretty paper and bows before.
My wife had sent an Ottawa Senators toque for Shamsallah and a Montreal Canadiens toque for Captain Ghias, and when I presented them their gifts, they got choked up. And even though it had been dropping to zero degrees at night, and was only ten above during the day, neither of them ever wore their toques. Not once. They didn't want to wreck them or get them dirty. The gifts were too precious.
Then we were stunned on Boxing Day when we were told “comms lockdown.” Our hearts sank as we waited to find out who had been killed. Late that night we were finally told it had been a 3 RCR battle group soldier named Private Freeman, who had been killed by an IED. Three other soldiers had been wounded in the same attack.
I was beginning to feel very numb again. Our morale was doing a lot better and now, after this, everyone seemed to feel numb and hollow all over again. Then the very next day we were shocked when we got put on another comms lockdown.
Everyone felt devastated. No one talked and everyone sort of kept to themselves until we were sent the names: Warrant Officer Roberge from the Royal 22nd Regiment and Sergeant Kruse from 2 Combat Engineer Regiment were hit in an IED strike and killed in action.
We had a punching bag set up in our tent of a thousand mortar holes, so I went and beat the hell out of it to try and get some anger out. It had seemed like every other day (or back-to-back days, like had just happened) we were being told a fellow soldier had been killed. And always by the fucking IEDs! It was maddening.
We took the next few days off for Christmas and then started patrolling again. The guys, always very mentally tough, were on the up and up, but the constant death notifications had taken a toll. Some of the guys had taken me up on my offer to talk, so I'd spoken with a few of them privately and together we'd tried to make some sense of it all.
One of them asked me if I thought all of the soldiers' deaths had been worth it. I said I didn't know. I told him I would never try and tell a fallen soldier's parents, or spouse, or children that it was worth it, but I hoped it was. The people living in Afghanistan just wanted peace. Their country had been wracked by so many wars, back to back, that a whole generation of children didn't know what the word peace meant. We were trying to help the Afghan government establish the necessary security to finally bring peace to their war-torn country, and that was an honourable thing.
Over the next few days, more guys approached me, and we had some good talks. I was honoured that the guys trusted me enough to talk openly with me. One of them, Pastel the medic, got my attention when he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Sir, you're going to die here.” Holy crap, thanks a lot!
He paused and then continued. “What I mean is, you can't always be the first guy over the wall. You can't always be the first guy to kick down the door or go running into the compound. Sooner or later, your number will come up; it's a game of odds, statistically speaking, and you're probably well past due.”
I thought about what he had said for a bit and then replied, “I'll tell you something, Pesticular—I'm not a good officer. I know that, and I'll tell you why. A good officer has to be able to send his men to their deaths—from a distance—if the mission calls for it. And if any of you guys ever got hurt, well, that would destroy me. I don't think I'd be able to deal with it. So that's why I go first, because I would rather it was me, not you, who got hurt. Besides, you're just a pup—how old are you, fifteen? Where have you been, what have you really done? You don't even have any salt in your wispy beard! I'm an old man compared to you, and I've had a good go. And when it's my time, I'm a-goin'! It don't matter if I'm in the rear with the gear, or first man through the door. Sooner or later, God cuts us all down. And one place is just as good as the next.”
Then Pastel said something that I've never forgotten. He said, “If you were ever hurt, sir, we would come to get you. All of us. Because we know you would do the same for us.”
“Thanks, Pastel,” I said, trying not to show how much his words had gotten to me. “Now go on, get outta' here, before you make an old man cry.” That was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said to me. And because it was said in a war zone, where our friends and brothers were being hurt and killed, it was all the more powerful.
The weather turned foul and began to rain and rain, swamping our FOB in huge puddles. Mud was everywhere, and our legs constantly got stuck on patrols as our equipment made us sink in the muck up to our knees. The Canadians would struggle to pull each other out as the ANA laughed at us, but we didn't find it funny. It certainly wasn't helping our morale.
We did a few more patrols, and then out of nowhere, I was told by the warrant that Rich, my best friend, was inbound on a chopper. What the hell? He's two weeks early? Rich wasn't supposed to replace me until my leave came up in the middle of January. We had no idea he was even coming, so when we found out, the chopper was on final approach. Smith sprinted out to the helicopter landing site just in the nick of time to pop a smoke grenade in order to signal the chopper it was clear to land.
I got Shamsallah to pull up in a Ranger to help the “new guy” with his kit. The CF Chinook chopper landed and Rich and two soldiers I'd never seen before popped out of the back. I walked up to him and gave him a big smile, but he never smiled back. Okay . . . what's wrong?
I looked at the two soldiers. They were a bit older than average (warrant officers?) and had a lot of gear in big army boxes with them. They were off to the side, waiting for something. Are they the LCMR operators and that's their gear?
Rich took me by the arm and marched me off a ways as the Chinook took off, spitting up dust into the air. I looked at Rich's face; he was dead serious. No smiles, no banter, nothing. He didn't want to say anything until he was sure I could hear him—the chopper noise was too loud so he was waiting. Oh no, has someone else died? Is someone in my family dead?
My mind was screaming with th
e possibilities. I couldn't take it anymore. “Rich, why are you here?” I shouted over the noise of the departing chopper, “What is it, what's the matter?” Dust kicked up all around us, and clung to our faces.
“Rob,” he shouted, and then paused as he looked at the two soldiers. “These guys are with the NIS, they're special military police. They're here to arrest you—for murder.”
Epilogue
I was placed under arrest by the two National Investigation Service military police officers and was told to read the charge: “Under Section 130 of the NDA, An offence punishable under section 130 of the National Defence Act, that is to say, second degree murder, contrary to subsection 235(1) of the Criminal Code of Canada. Particulars: In that he, on or about the 19th of October, 2008, at or near Helmand Province, Afghanistan, shot, with intent to kill, an unnamed male person.”
I couldn't possibly have imagined that after the four months I'd just spent in the Stan my life could have become any more bizarre, scary, or surreal—but I was wrong. The Afghanistan chapter came to an abrupt end, and then my life as an accused murderer began for me and my family.
I was rushed back home to Canada, under arrest, and I saw my wife and new baby girl again for the first time in four months in the CFB Petawawa military jail. It was a heartbreaking reunion. Of course we were grateful I was still alive, when so many of our soldiers had only come home from that place in coffins, but the reunion was tempered by the fear of me being ripped away from them and sent to a federal prison for the next twenty years of my life.
But Amélie remained unbelievably strong and brave throughout the entire ordeal. She was the rock that kept me grounded, and when I thought I would lose my mind over the surreality of it all, or was close to collapsing in fear, she would pick me up again and tell me everything was going to be okay. Her strength was unheard of.
My brother and his wife, my parents and mother-in-law, and Amélie's brother and his family helped us in more ways than anyone could ever imagine, and we were grateful for their love and undying support.
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