by Ray Wiss
DAWN THE NEXT DAY
Major Jourdain is leading the combat team out on an operation. Just a few weeks left on their tour, and they are still going hard. True warriors, they are.
As I have done virtually every time some of our troops have left the FOB, whether for a patrol or for a full-blown operation, I got out of bed to wish the departing soldiers luck. And as always, I shook hands with the medic accompanying them (in this case Corporal Girard), giving him my usual injunction: “Bring them all back.”
I began this practice after arriving here in June, and it has become a bit of a superstition. On my first tour, it seemed that my presence brought misfortune to Canadian soldiers: I was on the scene for the majority of cases in which Canadian soldiers were killed or seriously injured. This time, it has been the opposite. After 106 days on the FOB, I have yet to deal with a single badly wounded Canadian, much less a dead one. I know that my telling the combat medics to “bring them all back” has had no impact on this. But there is no way I am going to change my routine at this point.
The combat team left in two waves. The first wave left on foot around 0130 and the second wave left at 0430 in LAVs. The plan was for the footborne troopers to approach silently and set up an ambush position before first light. The soldiers in the vehicles would then approach noisily and drive the enemy out of their suspected location and into the guns of the ambushers.
I am writing these final words a few minutes after I have said goodbye to the second, vehicle-borne wave of soldiers. Although I had slept only a couple of hours, I forced myself to get up to see them off. In all likelihood, this is the last time in my life that I will watch Canadian soldiers going into battle. I was so proud of them, and so proud of my country for having taken up this struggle.
The sun was coming up as they drove off. I kept watching the road for several minutes after they had disappeared around the corner leading away from the FOB. And I wept at the thought of the terrible risks these young people were taking.
SEPTEMBER 17 | Couturier
Couturier. It means “tailor” in French.
After seeing off the second wave of the combat team’s operation, I was unable to go back to sleep. Despite having slept less than three hours the two previous nights, the thought of my imminent departure had me so excited that I stayed up. I finished packing, then wandered around the FOB. A helicopter was scheduled to take me back to KAFat 1300, and I thought I would sleep when I got there.
Corporal Vallières’s section was heading out for a short patrol to a village close to the FOB. They invited me to come along with them, teasing me that my “inner infantryman” needed to go on one last combat patrol.
I admit that I was sorely tempted. As terrifying as my last combat patrol had been, the feeling of camaraderie that followed it had been intense and very rewarding. A big part of me wanted to experience that feeling again. Paradoxically, the fact that the risk of this patrol was only moderate argued most strongly against my participation. Because our troopers would be so close to the FOB, it was far more likely that a seriously wounded Canadian would be brought back to me rather than helicoptered from the battlefield to KAF. As much as I wanted to show these men that I was willing to assume the same risks they did, I had to consider the worst-case scenario. If I accompanied them, there was the possibility that an attack on the patrol would wound one or more Canadians while leaving me so incapacitated that I would be unable to care for them. Regardless of the physical wounds such an event would leave me with, the guilt I would feel for having failed to be there for these men would be unbearable.
During my other combat patrols, the danger I was exposing myself to was offset by the benefit of liaising with the local Afghan doctors or providing on-scene medical coverage to a patrol that otherwise would have none. No such justification existed here. It was simply a chance to “go out with the boys.” As appealing as that was, I regretfully declined. An hour and a half later, the patrol returned. They had had an uneventful time and Corporal Vallières teased me yet again. It stung a bit, but I was nonetheless happy with my decision.
Major Jourdain arrived back with the first wave around 1100. They had performed a thorough sweep of the target area. Although they had failed to catch the big fish that had been in their sights, they had had a lot of contact with the locals. The major was pleased with the overall result.
After he had shed his weapons, gear and body armour, Major Jourdain went into the command post to monitor the return of the rest of his men. My helicopter was not due for several hours, so I kept him company. He jokingly offered to “buy me lunch” to celebrate my imminent departure as soon as the remainder of his team had arrived.
The members of the combat team still outside the FOB were the platoon commanded by Captain Lussier, accompanied by some combat engineers. They were only a few kilometres away from the FOB and had one last “vulnerable point” to cross before they would be home free. “Vulnerable points” are areas where there is a higher risk of IEDs. They include bridges, culverts and any other feature that can “canalize” our troops (that is, concentrate them in a restricted space).
Captain Lussier ordered most of his men to dismount from their vehicles to perform a VPS (vulnerable point search). They did so, and a thorough examination of the area failed to reveal any signs of enemy activity. The vehicles started to move forward again.
Then the IED went off.
An analysis performed after the blast revealed that the IED had been planted weeks, if not months, before. There was no way any of Captain Lussier’s men could have detected it. The Taliban would have only observed the area from time to time, hoping to catch a Coalition convoy transiting the area. Today, they hit the jackpot. The blast went off under the driver of the leading L AV. It breached the armour, the force of the explosion concentrating itself in the driver’s compartment.
I was chatting with Major Jourdain in the FOB command post when Captain Lussier reported that one of his vehicles had hit an IED. His voice was calm and matter-of-fact. Major Jourdain picked up a radio handset and began communicating with his platoon commander. Everyone else in the command post edged forward, listening intently to Captain Lussier’s voice on the speaker. His tone remained professional and disciplined as he reported on the situation. First, he described the general scene. Then, as he approached the vehicle, he described the emplacement of the IED and the appearance of the vehicle that had been struck. Still entirely under control, he reported that one of his men was dead. Private Jonathan Couturier had been killed instantly.
Captain Lussier then went about organizing the helicopter evacuation of Private Couturier’s body, his voice still unruffled and deliberate. Listening to him on the radio, I was amazed he was able to keep his emotions in check at a time like this. The depth of those emotions became clear less than an hour later when the platoon returned to the FOB. Major Jourdain, accompanied by the senior members of the combat team and me, went out to the vehicle marshalling area to meet them. Their faces were sombre, some of them streaked with tears. The emotions at play on Captain Lussier’s face, however, were on another plane. He had done everything possible to prevent this from happening, but it was obvious that his heart had been torn out of his chest.
As hard as it was to see my friend suffering so badly, an even more difficult moment for me came when my medic, Corporal Girard, got out of his vehicle. With tears in his eyes, he told me: “I’m sorry, Doc. I didn’t bring them all back.” In that moment, I realized that the words I had used to wish my medics well had been poorly chosen.
Corporal Girard and I stepped away from the rest of the soldiers to discuss the case. It was obvious that Private Couturier’s injuries had been so severe that he had been dead before Corporal Girard had gotten anywhere near the wrecked vehicle. I emphasized to Corporal Girard that there was nothing anyone could have done. Nonetheless, I could tell that on one level my medic felt that he had failed me. I had not considered this possibility before, and I regretted that my well-m
eaning, superstitious routine had had this unforeseen consequence.
I was still struggling with the emotions of the moment when I remembered that I would have to leave soon. I felt terrible at the thought of going home on a day such as this. Fortunately, I would not have to. In what I consider to be the greatest honour I have been paid during my service with the CF, Major Jourdain asked me to delay my return to KAF for twenty-four hours. Given the extent to which I had integrated myself into the combat team, he anticipated that a number of his soldiers would want to speak to me about our loss. I called my medical company commander at KAF, Major Annie Bouchard, and this request was immediately granted.
Chief Petty Officer Poulin returned later that afternoon, on the same helicopter that had been scheduled to take me back. Medical responsibility for the FOB was transferred to him, leaving me free (unless we got into serious trouble) to attend to the emotional needs of the troops.
Addendum, later that evening: Major Jourdain was quite prescient. Various members of the combat team, including some who had not been on the scene when Private Couturier was killed, have sought me out. I was also able to spend more than an hour talking with Captain Lussier.
The visits continued until well after midnight. The things these soldiers discussed with me are too personal and too painful to be discussed here. I hope I was able to mitigate some of the psychic wounds caused by this tragic event.
REQUIEM FOR JONATHAN
Of all the men we have lost over my two tours in Afghanistan, Jonathan Couturier was the one I had gotten to know best. Since arriving at FOB Sperwan Ghar, I had played countless hands of poker with him. In the last few weeks, I had taken to always sitting to his left, usually between him and “Beaver” Boisvert. My luck seemed better when I sat between the two of them.
It was amusing to play poker with Jonathan. He was good . . . until he tried to bluff. If he got called, he would get a hurt look on his face that immediately betrayed him. In between hands, I got to learn a bit about his girlfriend and a lot about his Mustang. While he clearly loved the former more, he talked incessantly about the latter. He was a great kid, quiet and thoughtful, unfailingly polite.
He was going home in six days.
SEPTEMBER 18, MORNING | The Elements, Part 4: Air
Before leaving for this tour, I had tried to comfort my wife by telling her that the arrival of Canadian helicopters in Afghanistan would reduce the risks I would face. I told her that I would be flying from FOB to FOB, high above the IEDs that kill so many of us. Things didn’t work out that way. This would be the first and only day I would travel by air.
I woke up this morning still feeling the effects of having spent most of the past forty-eight hours awake. As groggy as I was, I tried to see as many people as possible to say goodbye to them individually.
I also stopped by the front gate of the FOB to see how our latest public relations venture was going. The festival of Eid-al-Fitr, which ends the Ramadan fast, takes place today. The combat team had put together some gift packages (blankets, food, cooking oil and so on) for some of the poorest families living near us, in accordance with Islamic tradition. Local elders were informed of this and had expressed approval at the way we were respecting their customs. It seems, however, that the Taliban do not share this opinion of our generosity. None of the gifts have been picked up, apparently because the Taliban have threatened the families. Coercing the poor so that they do not accept food for their families. Pathetic scumbags.
Around 1000, I dragged my gear over to the helipad. Captain Lussier’s platoon would be flying out with me, along with Major Jourdain and Master Warrant Officer Lapierre. I had not been waiting long when I was joined by some of the members of the platoon. Vince Lussier came along after that and joined me at the front of the line. He asked what I would be doing when I got home and I replied with an off-colour joke. Vince laughed uproariously, evidently releasing some of the tension of the last twenty-four hours.
A Canadian Chinook arrived and we all boarded through the rear ramp. A few minutes later we lifted off. I wanted to imprint as many images in my mind as possible so I tried to look out the gunner’s window at the Afghan landscape. I tried to reflect on what I have been doing for the past four months and what Canadian soldiers have been doing in this area for nearly four years. But I was unable to focus on the terrain. Something much closer kept drawing my eye.
As Vince and I had been at the front of the column when we boarded, we ended up sitting across from each other at the front of the Chinook’s passenger compartment. His face was clouded over and I could see that he was back in a very dark place.
We were met at the airfield by a bus which took us all back to the barracks where the troopers would be spending the night. I was then taken by truck to the headquarters building of my medical company. I walked in and went to Major Bouchard’s office, dusty and rumpled, still carrying my rifle and pistol and wearing my protective gear. Outside of the barracks reserved for the battle group, it is unusual for anybody at KAF to be dressed this way. Major Bouchard did not recognize me at first. When she did, she said: “You look like a combat soldier!”
I had to agree with her. And I felt like one too.
SEPTEMBER 18, AFTERNOON | Saying Goodbye to Jonathan
After reporting to Major Bouchard, I went to the room in which I would be spending the next few nights. It contained two bunk beds and I had it all to myself—it seemed impossibly roomy. Chief Petty Officer Second Class Ray Racine, the sergeant-major of the medical company, had already arranged for my excess baggage to be placed there. These were things I had brought along only for the trip to KAFand back or for use during decompression. I began repacking my things for the trip home. Then the lack of sleep and the excess of emotion of the last three days caught up with me and I collapsed into bed.
At 1630 I returned to the troopers’ barracks. Major Jourdain had asked me to remain with the platoon for the ceremony, and I was very grateful for that. Although I had a lot of respect for the people in my medical company, our relationship had only been an e-mail-and phone-based one. I was much happier remaining with the men of Combat Team Cobra for this ritual.
I had been to ramp ceremonies on my first tour and had always been impressed by how well they were conducted. Although agonizingly painful for the men closest to the fallen, the dignity and professionalism with which these events took place made them powerful mechanisms of emotional healing.
For those closest to the fallen soldier, the process starts an hour before the ceremony on the tarmac. We first went to a chapel, where Jonathan’s casket had already been taken. For an hour, we sat with him in silence. Various senior officers came in, representing the other branches of the task force. They marched up to the casket, stood at attention for a minute, then expressed their condolences quietly to the combat team officers and to our company sergeant-major, who were seated in the first row of pews.
When this was over, we were taken to the airfield. We took our place beside the Hercules aircraft that would take Jonathan home. To our right, and therefore closer to the aircraft, would be the senior officers of the Canadian contingent and our padres. Across from us were the senior officers of all the other Coalition nations. To our left were the nearly two thousand KAF-based members of the Canadian task force. Facing them, and forming a passageway a couple of hundred metres long, were thousands of other Coalition soldiers.
When everyone was in position we were called to attention. The sun had gone down by this time. The night air was still. It was a perfect setting for such an occasion.
After the service, all the members of Combat Team Cobra marched into the Hercules in single file. One by one, we came rigidly to attention, saluted and then touched Jonathan’s casket one last time. We then walked out and gathered together, where Major Jourdain addressed us for a few minutes. It could have been a perfect ramp ceremony. But it wasn’t.
The service was performed by an anglophone padre. As this was for a francophone soldier, she tri
ed to do much of it in French. But the quality of the padre’s French was atrocious. Most of the words were mispronounced, and several French words were pronounced in English. Even the members of Jonathan’s section, who had composed the “personal” part of the eulogy, were unable to recognize the words they had written.
As a French Canadian, I was enraged by this. After the ramp ceremony was dismissed, several members of the combat team angrily 372 muttered about the way the eulogy had been performed. As I stood beside them, I noticed that the padre was standing close by, along with the senior padre of the task force. I walked over and asked to speak to her in private. We went to a point on the tarmac where no one else could hear us.
I proceeded to give this person the most thorough dressing-down I have ever delivered. I didn’t raise my voice or use foul language, but I was as angry as I have ever been and my tone reflected this.
I joined Major Jourdain, and we made our way back to the barracks. He was absolutely livid. There had been four francophone padres lined up on the tarmac beside us. He thought it was unforgivable that the ceremony had not been performed by one of them.
When we arrived at the barracks where the platoon was being housed for the evening, several of the troops were still complaining about the eulogy. I described to the soldiers what I had done. The troops applauded so loudly that Major Jourdain, who had been at the other end of the building, came over to see what could possibly have cheered the boys up so much on such a sombre occasion.
After that, we celebrated Jonathan’s short time with us. The army provided each man with two beers and all the pizza we could eat. As we drank and ate we laughed about Jonathan’s obsession with his Mustang, his poker mannerisms and other quirks of his behaviour. The biggest laugh came when one of the troopers reminded us what the regimental sergeant-major had told us after the ramp ceremony. In a sincere but somewhat misguided attempt to comfort the platoon, he had told us to ask Jonathan to “protect us.” The trooper relating this opined that Jonathan’s reaction to this request on our part would be: “Not another fucking tasking!” That had us all laughing so hard we had beer and pizza coming out of our noses. Seeing the soldiers’ faces as they chortled, I was reassured. I turned to Major Jourdain and said, “Your boys are going to be all right.”