by Ray Wiss
They also took the opportunity to ask if there was any way I could help supply them with medicines. I reiterated the standard party line that we were more than willing to assume the care of anyone wounded by the war, but that they would have to be resupplied with medicines through the Afghan ministry of health.
Patients and families at the entrance
As I was leaving, the director asked if I would like to meet the two nurses and two midwives on staff and to visit the female ward. I appreciated his openness, but as I looked around the inner courtyard of the clinic I saw a number of Afghan men. I also noticed that while a few burka-clad women had been visible from the courtyard when I arrived, they had now all disappeared. I decided to address this head-on and asked the director if he thought there was a possibility that some of the Afghan men might object to my visiting the women’s area. He agreed that this was likely. I replied that I would respectfully decline his invitation. We shook hands one last time, and I was on my way.
I rejoined the patrol and we carried on to the police station. The Canadian mentor officer held his meeting with the police chief, and less than half an hour later we were on our way back to the FOB.
Inside, Junior watches my back
I reported back to the CIMIC people and described how the clinic functioned and what it had to offer. Although the Canadian Army will not get involved in the Afghan health care system, the CIMIC people will often facilitate contacts between NGOs and various Afghan projects. When I had finished my report, they asked me if there was a project I could suggest that would have a rapid impact on the population’s health but that did not involve providing medications.
I thought about this for a day or so, then went back to the CIMIC people with an idea. A predictable minority of the visits to the health centre are generated by injuries. These conditions need only minor surgery and minimal follow-up. The health centre staff already had the skills required for these procedures, but they had only a few instruments and very limited suture material.
Colleagues
People in the developing world accept that their loved ones will get sick and die of chronic illnesses such as cancer, because that is the way it has always been. These same people feel differently if their child falls and suffers a laceration: there is a strong incentive to expend a large amount of time and energy to obtain a proper repair. There is often more desire in this population for minor surgery than for medications.
The CIMIC people were enthusiastic about the suggestion, but I thought it was important to get the approval of my Afghan colleagues before we proceeded. I would therefore have to go back to the clinic. This would again require a sizable escort, this time only for me. I would have been reluctant to expose a group of Canadian soldiers to so much risk only for this visit, but the patrol commander reminded me that this was an area where our troops run regular “presence patrols” (see July 21 entry). He offered to make the objective of today’s presence patrol another visit to the clinic.
We left at mid-morning and had an uneventful walk over. Once again, Junior served as my bodyguard inside the clinic. I ran my idea by the director, and he agreed it would be useful to have extra instruments and suture material. I returned to the FOB and handed in a report detailing my suggestion for the CIMIC people. I hope it helps.
My escorts on my return visit (and you thought Angelina Jolie and Stephen Harper had bodyguards!)
AUGUST 3, EVENING | An Afghan Farewell
I mentioned earlier that my willingness to bend or even break the rules regarding treating the “local national” workers at the FOB had made me a lot of friends among the Afghans. I did not appreciate how much these small kindnesses had meant to them until this evening. Late this afternoon, Corporal Bouthillier informed me that “the brothers” and some of the interpreters wanted to throw me a farewell party. I thought we would get together for yet another cup of Afghan tea, shake hands and say goodbye. But when I got to their tent, I was greeted by nearly all members of the Afghan staff. Even more astounding, there was a spread of Afghan food that was more impressive than anything I had seen before, including at any of the shuras I had attended. This could not have been easy, nor cheap, for them to put together.
We talked and ate long into the night. I wished I had spent even more time getting to know these guys. The man most responsible for the evening was Lucky, a sort of camp manager. He supervises the interpreters and the local workers who are not employed by the kitchen. He has been at the FOB for nearly three years, and he remembered me from my first tour!
At the end of the evening, Lucky shocked me even more by presenting me with two sets of traditional Afghan clothing. Again, I was boggled by the generosity of these people. I was leaving in a few hours and we will probably never see one another again, so there was no secondary gain in it for them. It was a pure expression of friendship.
As I walked back to my bunker, I reflected sadly on the difference in our futures. In a couple of months, I will be going home to a warm welcome. The best they can hope for is to live in a country with a fragile peace at some yet-to-be-determined time in the future.
These guys deserve all the help we can give them.
AUGUST 4, MORNING | Infantry. Forever.
Before my going-away party last night, I was hanging around with a group of soldiers as they planned a foot patrol for the next day. A large group was involved, and a fair bit of territory would be covered. For half the time, the patrol would be split in two. There was only one medic, Junior Capelli Horth, on the team. The risk of having a group of soldiers without a medic was obvious to everybody. One of them said, “Hey, Doc, ‘Bed’ Bedard, the PA, is back. He can cover the UMS now. You’re ex-infantry. Why don’t you come along with us?”
He had half-meant it as a joke, but in the silence that followed I could tell that everyone was thinking about the obvious advantages to the patrol of his suggestion. The kinship I felt with these men right at that moment would be impossible for someone who has not been in the combat arms to appreciate.
One other factor influenced me right then, one the other men were not aware of. The PA I was replacing at my next FOB was not going on leave immediately. Instead, he was going to be posted to KAF for two weeks. If anything were to happen to me on this patrol, the army would have two weeks to get my replacement in position.
I said I would come.
In less than twelve hours, I would be going on a Taliban hunt. Claude had predicted I would do this: go on a combat patrol. I had agreed that, under the right conditions, I would. Now it was going to happen.
I went to bed around midnight. “Bed” had reclaimed the lower bunk, and I had slept above him the previous night. That was when I discovered that my good friend snores like a sawmill. Even my top-of-the-line earplugs were no match for the thunder that blasted forth from his nasal passages. If I was to have any chance to have some shuteye I needed to move to a different building. So I went to an overflow tent we have installed for Priority Charlie casualties.
I lay down, but I did not sleep. My mind kept playing over all the various ways my act of soldierly solidarity could go disastrously wrong, and how I would respond to each scenario:
1. Very seriously wounded: paralysis or multiple amputations.
The worst. I will have failed in my promise to Claude and Michelle, not only to take care of them forever but also to return in one piece. My life will be transformed. Activity and productivity will be replaced, at least for an extended period, by pain and the frustration of rehab. I will certainly become depressed. How bad will it get? Will I get over it?
2. Seriously wounded: single amputation or disfigurement.
Very bad. Depending on the location and severity of the wound, how will I get myself back into emergency medicine? What will I still be able to do with my wife and daughter? What will I no longer be able to do? How will people see me?
3 . Wounded: hurt in a way that can be fixed but ends my tour.
Bad. The pain will be nothing compar
ed with the guilt I will feel at being unable to complete my mission. I will have let the health services team down.
4 . Dead.
Emotionally, easier to contemplate than option 1. Better to be killed outright than to be mangled beyond recognition. Intellectually, I know that is not true. Most severely wounded soldiers are grateful to be alive, no matter how much they feared mutilation and disfigurement before.
All that kept me tossing and turning until I gave up around 0330. I got out of bed, ate some cereal and spent a minute in the incredibly bright light of the full moon, collecting my thoughts and focusing on the task at hand. I then got my gear on: helmet, ballistic glasses, frag vest, tac vest, pack with medical gear and eight litres of water, pistol, rifle, full load of ammunition. And I headed out, much earlier than I needed to. I recognized my behaviour from wars gone by: when something bad is coming your way, the worst part is the waiting. Starting, even starting early, gets the process going and reduces the anxiety you feel.
The patrol was assembling on the other side of the FOB. This turned out to be a good thing. After the first few hundred metres, I stopped and readjusted my gear. This was the first time I had worn all my “kit” over anything more than a short distance, and a few things were not as comfortable as they could be. The last thing I wanted for the next several hours was to be distracted by something chafing my skin.
When I arrived at the patrol marshalling area, the other soldiers were pulling themselves together. They had done this a hundred times or more on this tour. Their unhurried, economical movements and their calm, precise interactions with each other made it look like this was just another day at the office. Which, for them, it was. I doubt that any of them had had trouble sleeping.
At 0500 the patrol commander called us together and reviewed the plan for the patrol. Then we sat down and waited. This was to be a joint operation with the ANP. This would give the patrol more guns as we went into a dangerous area. We would also have “Afghan eyes,” eyes that are more attuned to things that are out of place. But the police, far less reliable than the ANA, were late.
At 0600, the police still had not shown up. The sun was cresting the mountains behind Bazaar-e-Panjwayi. Not only were we late getting started, we would now be exposed to the sun from the start. The patrol commander was faced with an awkward choice: go forward with an undermanned patrol or waste a day. I was hoping he would pick the latter, but there was never much doubt he would go forward with the mission.
A few minutes after 0600, we moved out. I took my place in front of the rear guards, telling myself I was in the safest location. That was pure rationalization: every soldier who goes out on patrol is exposed to the same extreme risks.
The point man approached the FOB’s perimeter wall . . . and all the lessons I had learned at the Combat Training Centre so long ago came flooding back.
Just before you get to the wall of the FOB, take the magazine off your rifle. The first bullet is on the right. Put the magazine back on the rifle, rack the action. Take the magazine off. The first bullet is now on the left. No misfeed, you are sure there is a bullet in the breach. Weapon on “safe.” Put the magazine back on the rifle. Give the magazine a firm slap, then shake it to make sure it is securely seated. Index finger on the trigger guard. Thumb on the safety. Flick it to “fire,” flick it back to “safe.” Repeat.
Step outside the FOB wall. Walk slowly and deliberately. Watch your “arc,” the part of the 360-degree circle that is your responsibility. Glance ahead, glance back, glance to the side. Check your spacing, not too close to any other soldier. Do not give the enemy a tempting target.
Watch your arc
Watch your arc. Scan slowly right to left, then look quickly back to the right. Repeat. We are used to reading left to right. If you scan left to right, you can fall into a repetitive rut and become less attentive. Scanning right to left is unnatural. The slight irritation this causes keeps you alert. Scan right to left. Repeat. Watch your arc.
The patrol stops. Move off the road. Look carefully at the ground to see if it has been recently disturbed. Disturbed earth means someone may have been digging there. Digging . . . and leaving something behind. Don’t think about what IEDs do to exposed legs.
Find cover. Mud walls are good; they are like concrete and will stop most rifle bullets and rocket fragments. Check behind the wall—don’t ignore the obvious. Just because it is suicidal to launch an ambush from there doesn’t mean the Talis won’t try it.
Focus on the area right in front of you, where the threat would be greatest: the Talis have started putting directional IEDs in the trees. Look for wires. Then focus on the middle distance. Directional IEDs have to be detonated by someone watching the patrol. Where would the trigger-man be? Then check the far distance. Repeat the process: up close, middle distance, far distance. What could you have missed? What you don’t see can kill you. Watch your arc.
Crosshairs on target
The patrol is moving again. Check behind you. Make sure the rear guards, who had been facing backwards, know that we are moving out. We don’t want to bunch up, but we can’t be too spread out either. We have to be able to return concentrated gunfire if we are attacked.
Start walking. Check your interval. Watch your arc.
Possible threat. Someone watching us from a tree line. Rifle up. Look through the scope, check it out. It is a “fighting-age male.” No obvious weapons. Just watching us. Centre the crosshairs on his chest. About three hundred metres. If I need to, I am sure I can make the shot. We have to keep moving. Note the man’s position. Where will he go if he wants to engage us? Where could he be hiding weapons? Stand up. Start walking. Watch your arc.
Someone coming down the road, from behind us, on a motorcycle. The patrol stops. Same routine as before, only now you also pay attention to the rear guards. They wave the motorcyclist over to the side of the road, indicating that he should disembark and distance himself from his vehicle. One soldier searches him, then moves over to search the motorcycle. The other rear guard covers him. The search uncovers nothing. The man gets waved through. Watch your arc. Watch the motorcyclist as he passes by you.
A family stroll
Stand up. Keep walking. Watch your arc.
After twenty minutes this routine became natural. I would not say I was any less frightened, but I was much less tense.
We continued down Route Hyena. In my more relaxed state, I was able to better appreciate the non-military aspects of what I was seeing. Three things stand out in my memory.
First, we were overtaken by a family of Afghans. They were going at a brisk pace, far faster than we were. After being searched by the rear guards, the family was waved through the patrol. They were led by a man with a child on his back. He was followed by two women, each clad in full burka. The women would be his two wives. The woman closer to him would most likely be the younger second wife. This man probably agreed more with the Taliban than with me.
While the man in the above picture led his family right by me as if I were not there, the other Afghans who crossed our patrol made eye contact with me. I would address them with the traditional Muslim greeting “Salaam aleikum” (“Peace be unto you”). They would smile and reply “Aleikum salaam” (“And peace be unto you as well”). A few of them went further and demonstrated body language that indicated pleasure at our presence. And one group of young men went much, much further than that—into territory that may well mark them for Taliban reprisals.
Holland, 1945: tulips; Afghanistan, 2009: grapes
There were three of them in a small truck loaded with grapes, the driver and the passenger in front and a third man in the back holding on to the produce. They were farmers headed for market. When I greeted them, the one in the back called out to the driver. The truck stopped and the man hopped out . . . and came towards me with a large bunch of grapes. I looked over at the member of the patrol closest to me. I must have had quite a shocked look because he quickly said, “It’s not a problem, Doc. T
hey’re delicious. I’ve had them lots of times.”
The man then said something in Pashto I did not understand, but he smiled even more broadly when I shook his hand and said, “Dera manena” (“Thank you very much”). Then he jumped back into his truck and drove off. I was only too happy to indulge in the grapes as I watched him leave. As advertised, they were delicious.
We stopped for a bit, while the patrol commander spoke to a local elder. The perimeter seemed clear and the patrol relaxed a little. I noticed we had attracted some pediatric attention. The only thing I had to give them was my grapes.
They seemed pleased with that, but mostly they seemed intensely curious about the strangers in their midst. As I always do in these situations, I focused on the little girl. Her name sounded like “Maria,” and she is seven years old. It is sad to think how different her life will be from Michelle’s. It is even sadder to think of what her life will be like if we do not defeat the Taliban.
Curiosity and innocence
We ended up spending nearly a half hour in this position, providing security for the spontaneous mini-shura the patrol commander was holding. It was harder to stand still with all that gear on than it had been to walk. I was sorry to leave the children, but I was physically relieved to get going again.
The patrol then got down to the business of the mission. There were a number of family compounds we wanted to check out. We always wait for an invitation before entering. This was somewhat illusory, the politeness of those who know they cannot be refused. Nonetheless, it did give the Afghans their dignity.