Then I began to receive cards and letters and notes and telephone calls from men and women from all over Canada. They wanted to wish me well and to let me know they were behind me and supporting me all the way. I was incredibly moved and wrote back to everyone who had a return address on their envelope to tell them thank you. I started to get e-mails from serving members in the Canadian Forces from all over the world, telling me to keep my chin up and to let me know they were behind me; and under the leadership of our new CO, my unit became incredibly supportive of me. An old friend of mine teamed up with an officer I had served with, and together they created a Facebook page dedicated to “Captain Semrau.” I was deeply moved by the continual outpouring of support.
I was given the job of acting operations officer of 3 RCR, my old unit, after I was conditionally released from jail, and immediately men who were having issues from the war came to talk to me in my office. I was startled to realize that many of our soldiers were deeply affected by their time in Afghanistan, and before, during, and after my trial, I made it my mission to try and get them the help they so desperately needed. But the CF's system for diagnosing and treating them was taxed to the limit, and many times they were forced to go to civilian hospitals to see someone who could help them.
The General Court Martial for Captain Robert Semrau began on January 24, 2010, with pretrial motions, and after they were heard and the judge excused himself from the proceedings for personal reasons, the trial began on March twenty-fourth. The prosecutors had added to the charge sheet attempted murder, conduct unbecoming an officer, and failure to perform a military duty. The panel that would decide my fate was made up of five officers, none of whom (as far as any of us knew anyway) had ever seen or faced anything even remotely close to the tour I'd just experienced. My lawyers submitted an application to have non-commissioned members (NCOs) as part of the panel, but that was a decision that would have to be made by another court system, and at a later time.
I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that I was being gainfully employed, investigated, prosecuted, and defended by the same organization—the Department of National Defence. I was assigned a Canadian Forces defence lawyer, and his boss soon joined our team. They were incredibly smart, switched-on, and, like master chess players, always ten moves ahead.
Amélie told us we had to carry on with our lives and try and keep them as normal as possible, for the sake of our daughter, but also for ourselves. And she was right. We decided to carry on with our original plan of trying to have another child, determined not to let circumstances, no matter how extreme, dictate what we could or couldn't do.
So as the court martial was nearing its end in Canada and we were about to go to Afghanistan to hold a portion of the trial there, I was allowed two days off to be with Amélie as she gave birth to our second daughter, Chloé. After I held our beautiful baby girl for a few minutes, I had to go and hide in the bathroom to cry tears of pure joy. And as always, I had to struggle with the unrelenting fear of being taken away from my family.
I had to push the fear into a dark corner in the back of my mind. So I became very good at compartmentalization, a trick I had learned in school, because without it, I would have surely lost my mind. I would think of going to jail for the next twenty years, acknowledge my fear, and then put it on the back burner. But I firmly believed if God could take care of me in the Stan, then God could take care of me during a murder trial. As I drove to my court martial, I would think about how I was once again in a surreal and seemingly chaotic situation, just like I'd been in the war. I was, however, grateful to be home with my family and I thanked God that I lived in a country where I didn't have to fear IEDs as I travelled the roads, or see extreme hardship, poverty, and suffering everywhere I went.
A week after my second daughter's birth, I had to go back to Afghanistan for the court martial. I had the dubious distinction of being the first CF officer charged with a battlefield murder and the subject of the first murder trial to be held in an active theatre of operations.
Once again, I was back in the Stan, but this time I was solely in KAF, and it was terrible. Again, the heat, the stink, the dust—it all came back to me the second the ramp lowered on the Herc. I'd been here twice before, but not like this, and my “third tour” was definitely the scariest. At least in combat, I could act and react, but in court, I couldn't jump to my feet and shout, “That's a damn lie!” I had to just sit there and not allow myself to become angry, or sad, or scared, or seem overly interested or disinterested by what someone on the stand was saying. For seven months of court, I had to just sit there and take it.
One day, we all took cover under the tables as KAF was rocketed, and although I doubted if anyone needed it, the rockets served as a very poignant reminder for everyone there. Thankfully, no one was hurt.
One night, the entire court martial attended the repatriation ramp ceremony for one of our fallen soldiers, and this was incredibly difficult and terribly sad for me. I broke ranks to help a poor sergeant who had collapsed in grief back to her feet.
Everyone waited to see if I was going to take the stand when the prosecution finished their case in Afghanistan, but my defence team and I decided against it. We returned to Canada, now with only four panel members because one had become ill, and the panel rendered its decision to the court martial on July twenty-sixth. The four-member panel found me not guilty of second-degree murder, not guilty of attempted murder, guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer, and not guilty of failure to perform a military duty. Three current serving members of the CF put their careers on the line and testified to my character, for which I remain very grateful. The judge then told me I would find out my fate on September ninth. That date was then moved to September eleventh, then September twenty-first, then October fifth. Two new lawyers joined the team and I was grateful for their hard work and professionalism. I know that they made a difference, as did everyone in the defence council services office who worked on my case at one point or another.
I lived under the shadow of getting taken away from my family for almost three months (the charge I was found guilty of could carry a five-year sentence in jail), from the time I was convicted to the day I was sentenced. But my wife and daughters, family, good friends (in and out of the military), and the lawyers appointed to me by the CF saw me through it, right until the end, when on October fifth the judge sentenced me to dismissal from the CF and demotion in rank to second lieutenant. Obviously I was hoping I could still continue to serve my country, but I was grateful to not be going to jail for the next twenty years, when that had been one of the options the panel members could've chosen.
Then the CF (being the big green machine that it is) took four months to put my discharge papers through, but I was happy to still be getting paid, all things considered. I used the remaining months to try my best to help the soldiers I knew were suffering from the effects of the war, and I'd like to think I was there for them, making phone calls and turning up in person to try and get them help faster. I did what I could, but it never felt like it was enough. Every other day it seemed that someone would walk up to me and tell me about their terrible experiences in the war. The system that was in place couldn't see them fast enough and there was only one psychologist for the whole base, so the soldiers, many of whom were really suffering, would have to wait for very long periods before they could even be seen by the psychologist.
Looking back on it all now, with hindsight and more clarity than I had at the time, I am amazed that I survived with any shred of sanity. Big Joe, the warrant from FOB Mushan who saved my life the day of the mortar attack, worked for me later on when we were both back at 3 RCR. He walked into my office one day and said, “Sir, I don't know how you do it. If I were you, I would've killed myself a long time ago or become an alcoholic.” I think a lot of people shared his sentiment.
But self-pity and despair were never options for me, because my wife and daughters were counting on me, and I wasn't about to fail them.
January 7, 2011, was my last day in the Canadian Forces, and it broke my heart to be kicked out. I knew then, as I do now, that the CF is made up of the best men and women that Canada has to offer, and I am incredibly proud to say there was a time when I was in charge of its soldiers.
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