For Your Tomorrow

by Melanie Murray

  WITH THE COMING of spring, the Arghandab River swells with rain. The desert morphs to vibrant green in the Panjwaii valley. It’s late April when Jeff returns to the Kandahar Airfield to get a flight home for his mid-deployment leave. Late one evening, he walks into KAF’s cavernous mess hall and spies Craig Etherlston, eating alone at one of the long wooden tables. “Hey, buddy,” Craig grins, their raised fists meeting in their familiar greeting. “You’re finally back in civilization. How’s it been going out there?”

  “It’s been a tough month,” Jeff says. He chokes up. “Losing six guys on Easter Sunday … then two more. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

  “You’re in the hot spot, man,” Craig says. Here at KAF, they have only to fight the rats and snakes; put up with the stench of an open sewage pond and regular RPG blasts. “I can’t imagine the stress outside the wire—you guys always on call. And the frustrations.”

  “But what would it be like if we weren’t here?” Jeff asks. In the five years after the Soviets left, the Taliban stoned women to death in soccer fields and created a haven for terrorists. He meets his friend’s eyes. “Driving here today, I felt a little more hopeful.” He describes the fields they passed—some blooming pink, the colour of the Taliban’s cash crop, opium poppies; but a lot more sprouting with wheat, grapes, melons, almonds, apricots; and the reconstructed roads and bridges that enable the crops to be transported to markets.

  Craig looks hard at him across the table. “I ran into your sergeant last week when he was here for the ramp ceremony. He said you don’t stop—that you’re driving yourself into the ground, with no days off for weeks at a time.”

  “I told my crew that we’re in Afghanistan for six months, and we’re on duty 24/7,” Jeff says. “Besides, my transfer to Toronto has been confirmed. In a few months, I’ll be pushing paper around as well as a baby stroller.”

  “When you return to Shilo in August,” Craig says, and grins, “we’ll have a big party—a welcome home and a sendoff for you.”

  He’ll be back in Shilo long enough to pack up his belongings and clear out of his small apartment in the officers’ quarters. Jeff nods and smiles. “We’ll have one last tear, do it up really good.”

  They stroll out into Moon Dust Alley, into the heat of the night. “Stay safe, my friend,” Craig says, as they knock their knuckles.

  “Insha’Allah,” Jeff laughs, holding out his two hands, palms up towards the dark dome of the sky.

  WHILE JEFF IS ON LEAVE in Eastern Passage with his parents, Sylvie and Ry, Mica obtains four days off from teaching and flies home. A day’s travel time each way allows her two days to be with her brother. He downloads all his photos of Afghanistan onto Mica’s computer and gives them a virtual tour of Sperwan Ghar, “the Hotel,” and the Panjwaii district.

  “Progress is just beginning,” he says, bouncing his six-month-old son on his knee. He tells them southern Afghanistan is having its biggest agricultural boom in a decade now that irrigation systems are working, and roads and culverts are repaired. He describes sitting with village elders in a room sunk partly underground, sharing a meal of pulaw—rice spiced with coriander and cardamom—and building trust. “But it will take time to keep our promises,” he says. “If Canada pulls out now, it would be so unfair. Everything that I’ve said to these people would just be lies.”

  “How come we don’t hear about that stuff?” Mica asks, her eyes sparking. Nothing that gives meaning to the deaths—what’s being accomplished—makes the headlines in Canada. To the soldiers, the media’s coverage is disheartening.

  “If they’d talk about the progress we’re making, maybe people would appreciate what we’re doing.”

  “People have pretty simplistic views—war is bad, peace is good,” Mica says, looking into her brother’s eyes. “The hearts and minds of Canadians need to be won as well as the Afghans.’ ”

  Late one afternoon, a week later, Jeff exits a tattoo parlour in downtown Toronto, LUCKY 13 inscribed above its door. He wears a bandage on the inside of his lower right forearm. His crew decided they would each get a Lucky 13 tattoo while they were on mid-deployment leave. The design—the number thirteen inscribed within a spade, apex pointing up—was inspired by the spade insignia of an illustrious American regiment, the Eighty-second Airborne Division. He feels he carries a talisman now to protect his men, one that embodies the bond of brotherhood they’ve forged out of the crucible of war. That’s why he needs to return. As he spoons cereal into the mouth of his son, or soaps his flying butterfly feet in the bathtub, or curls up with Ry and Sylvie, breathing in their lavender scent, he feels the compulsion to be back there—his men may be in danger. Only three more months, he thinks; then he can fall into fatherhood full-time, without duty calling from the other side of the world.

  On May 7, towering cumulus clouds brood above the 427 as Jeff and Sylvie drive to Toronto Pearson International Airport. In the back, Ry slumbers in his car seat, wearing the Blue Jays ball cap Jeff bought for him at yesterday’s game. Traffic swishes by, cars darting in and out of the passing lane. They wish to slow it all down—time, this drive, this last hour in the cocoon of their black-and-gold Honda.

  “Jeff, I know you don’t like talking about this,” she says, breaking the uneasy quiet, “but …”

  “Nothing’s going to happen, Sylvie.”

  “I know, but if something did … I need to know …” She pauses, holding her breath.

  “What? If you should find somebody else?” He glances over at her with a tremulous smile. “Yes, that’s what I’d want you to do.”

  “I feel the same way,” she says. “If anything ever happened to me, I hope you’d find someone to take my place.”

  “That would be pretty hard to do, Secours,” he says, clutching her hand.

  WHEN JEFF REJOINS his men at Sperwan Ghar, Clay informs him that the Public Affairs pictures of the team in their tan camouflage uniforms—in-the-event-of photos—have gone astray. Clay has orders to reshoot them.

  “I’ve posed for ‘the hero shot’ once already,” Jeff says, turning away, “and I’m not doing it again—a waste of time.”

  “What is it about having your picture taken?” Clay grins. “In all the photos of our crew, there’s a bunch of the five of us together, but none of all six of us—none of you with us.”

  Jeff walks away. For the next two days, they argue about taking the picture until Jeff finally relents. He stands in front of their LAV, holding his rifle at a downward angle across his torso. He wears his helmet, dust goggles attached. The bright sunlight illuminates the freckles on his flushed face; the dimple in his chin just visible between the straps of his helmet; his eyes half-closed, squinting in the glare; his lips slightly turned up in a smile. The metallic heat of the LAV—fifteen millimetres of hardened steel armour—warms his back as the shutter clicks.

  In May and June, temperatures soar to 55 degrees Celsius. When water is delivered to the FOB on the hill, the Canadians joke that it’s already the perfect temperature for steeping a tea bag. The Taliban threat is also heating up; summer is their preferred season for fighting. Every time the Lucky 13 team rides out on patrol, they anticipate an attack. In the fertile Panjwaii district, jungle-like fields of two-metre-tall marijuana plants, tree-shaded roads and irrigation ditches create perfect cover for ambushes. Jeff and his crew hump up mountainsides spotted with caves, potential Taliban hide-outs. They slog through swells of white heat, packing twenty kilos of body armour and thirty-kilo rucksacks. They stop to gulp down tepid water from their hydration packs, and Jeff fantasizes about the big wet snowflakes that fell in late August at the Army Mountain Man competition—on another planet, light years away.

  In early June, an intelligence team determines that two major Taliban IED cells have set up in the Panjwaii area. For the troops at Sperwan Ghar, the hunt is on. In the early morning of June 11, a patrol convoy is meandering along the river road on its way back to the base. A deafening explosion rips through the air.
The lead vehicle, an RG-31 Nyala, shoots up into a spiral of jet-black smoke, crashes onto its side without wheels or axles. The RG’s V-shaped steel hull deflected the blast outward, so its crew escaped with only a few bruises.

  That night, on the same section of road, two more vehicles strike IEDs while moving to the site of the explosion. The crews sustain minor injuries. The Taliban are obviously targeting Canadian convoys. The platoons at Ma’Sum Ghar and Sperwan Ghar alter their travel routes and tighten security. On June 19, Charles Company engineers work all day clearing the roads around the two outposts, scanning with metal detectors and setting off small-scale IEDs. Inky smoke trails streak the sky. Small craters from excavated explosives dot the gravel roads.

  Just after the sun rose blood red on the morning of June 20, three Charles Company soldiers—Sergeant Christos Karigiannis, Corporal Stephen Bouzane and Private Joel Wiebe—set out in a Gator all-terrain vehicle from a river checkpoint a few kilometres west of Sperwan Ghar. They’ve loaded up with water and are returning to their section outpost. It’s only a kilometre away by the route they normally travel for their daily resupply run. But engineers ran out of daylight yesterday, leaving a section of that road uncleared. Their longer detour will take them north past acres of vineyards, then cross-country to their outpost.

  Minutes after the Gator departs, its dust trail still obscuring the horizon, an ear-shattering blast reverberates around the base at Sperwan Ghar. Monstrous smoke clouds darken the skies over the Zharey and Panjwaii districts. Soldiers from the checkpoint rush to the site. A thousand pieces of metal are scattered around a colossal crater in the sand.

  The three men felt the ground convulse below them, then booming waves of sound—a blast so loud that their hearts and heads ceased simultaneously. They had no idea what hit them.

  When Sylvie answers the phone, Jeff can barely articulate his words: “It’s been a hard day. We lost three of our guys.”

  “I’m so glad to hear your voice. It’s been rough here too … not knowing. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize they were from your outpost.”

  “It was our job to ensure that area was safe. We’re constantly patrolling, guarding 24/7. The radar detects movement for miles. But they still managed, somehow, to plant that bomb.”

  “It said on the news that they were in a vehicle that’s like a dune buggy. Why were they crossing the desert in something like that?”

  “That’s how certain we were.” He hesitates. “Joel was only twenty-two, just getting started.…”

  “Jeff,” she says, “has anything changed there? Are you in more danger?”

  He pauses, and clears his throat. “I’m sure you didn’t hear the positive news. A big IED cell was taken down today in the Zharey district—just next to our post.”

  “No,” she says, “only the news that make us pace the floor—until we hear the names. Then we just feel guilty for feeling relieved.”

  “Remember, the next of kin are contacted before the incident is released to the media. So if you hear it on the news, I’m okay,” he says. “I’ll be okay—just a couple of months to go, and I’ll be back.”

  He hangs up, nods to the soldiers lined up, waiting to use the phone. He walks around to the back of the building, and kneels down onto the dirt. Above the sandy ridge, a fiery orange ball sinks into a mauve sky. It always takes him a while to recover after calling home—hearing their voices, their worry; and trying to mask his own fears after a day like today. He knows what he’s missing, and longs to be there. He has to find again that safe place in his mind where he can leave them, the compartment he unlocks and visits at the end of the day. As he lies in his cot, the snoring medley of his bunkmates in the close air, he enters this room, bright with his treasure of memories, faces and voices. He holds each one up to the light; his wealth of family, his reward for completing this trial. Fear no more the heat ’o the sun … Thou thy worldly task hast done.

  But now he has to pick himself up, brush off the powdery dust and centre himself. He thinks of Bhanti, his calm, collected demeanour, his wisdom: Fear is a delusion of the mind. Just observe it; don’t identify with it. Fear of dying comes from a mistaken view of the body—it’s not really “me” or mine. There is no self separate from the rest of existence: no proper time to die—it is just your time to go. Stay sharp, be focused. Be here, now—lives depend on it.

  AT FANJOY’S POINT, it’s not the usual Canada Day weekend of kayaking, playing horseshoes, building a bonfire on the beach and lighting fireworks. Marion and Russ haven’t heard from Jeff for several days. They stay within hearing range of the black rotary phone in the corner of the living room, willing it to ring. Marion keeps busy, preparing for Jeff, Sylvie and Ry’s visit in August. She paints their bedroom a warm yellow and sets up a crib for Ry; arranges toys, stuffed animals and picture books. Russ hangs a baby swing from a branch of a tall poplar. He puts the mast up on his new sailboat, tests all the rigging, winches and blocks—all set for him and Jeff to hoist the sails for the first time in Grand Lake.

  By July 2, it’s been ten days since Sylvie—or anyone—has talked with Jeff. When he finally calls, he tells her that he’s been in the field constantly on surveillance.

  “Something doesn’t feel right … I’m nervous,” she says. “Maybe it’s just getting too close to the end.”

  “It’s time to search the real estate listings,” he says, “see what’s up for sale around the Downsview base. Maybe we should look for a four-bedroom.”

  “Why four?”

  “We’ll need one for guests,” he says, a grin lightening his voice, “and maybe Ry will have a little brother or sister sometime soon.”

  Half a world between them, they conjure their sustaining vision—finally a home together, the three of them. They talk about Ry, seven months old today—his first tooth just poking through. “He can sit up all by himself now,” Sylvie says. “He loves banging on the pots with a wooden spoon.”

  “Cool,” Jeff chuckles, “can’t wait to be there and drum along with him.” They talk for forty-five minutes, their longest phone conversation since he’s been in Afghanistan. When it’s time to say goodbye, she can’t let go.

  “I don’t have a good feeling,” she says, choking back her tears.

  He tries to reassure her with his motto: “I’m coming back. I’ll be home soon.”

  After the Canada Day celebrations at KAF, the Lucky 13 team returned to their desert outpost on July 2 without their second-in-command. Sergeant Clay Cochrane has flown to Italy to spend his leave with his wife and children. Meanwhile, Major Chris Henderson’s infantry company and their partnered Afghan National Army have closed in on the IED cell responsible for the deaths of their three comrades on June 20. Intelligence reports reveal that it’s an experienced group of foreign bomb-makers. They could be hiding in Nakhonay, a village east of their post—an area the company doesn’t often patrol. Its inhabitants are mainly the Noorzai, a major Pashtun tribe and the most pro-Taliban.

  An operation is planned for the early morning of July 4—“to kick the hornet’s nest,” Major Henderson says—to surround the cell and flush them out into the open. With a combat team of eighty Canadian troops and sixty Afghan soldiers, it will be one of their largest operations. On the night of July 3, soldiers clean their weapons, load magazines, install fresh batteries in night-vision goggles, check explosive bags and mine detectors. As they’re organizing their kit, Jeff decides he needs to talk to Major Henderson. The plan is for Jeff’s crew to set up an operating post atop Salavat Ghar, a mountain near the village. Equipped with a suite of radios, they will have networks open for communication with ground and air forces—Major Henderson and gunners in the village below, and task force headquarters at KAF. They’ll be listening for aircraft roaming the skies overhead, and surveying the environs with high-powered field glasses. As artillery FOO, Jeff will call in and coordinate artillery gun support, mortars and helicopter gunships should a fight break out.

  “Boss,” he sa
ys, “I’ve been thinking about my positioning in the operation tomorrow.” He takes a seat across from the major’s desk, covered with a relief map of the Panjwaii district. “If I’m up here on the mountain,” he says, pointing on the map to Salavat Ghar, “and there’s ground fog in the valley, I won’t have a clear view of the village. It’ll be tough to pinpoint exact locations of enemy fire if I need to call in some rounds.”

  The major furrows his brow. “You’re right. The valley fog can be pretty thick early in the morning.”

  “What if I stay with you on the ground and my crew goes up the mountain for observation?”

  “That makes sense. Good plan, Captain Francis.” Henderson nods. “I should have thought of it myself.”

  Jeff meanders up the hill to the Hotel and gazes up into the bejewelled sky, awed by the incomprehensible infinity of blinking stars and planets. All the stars are abloom with flowers. He thinks about the Little Prince, living and laughing on one of those stars. And about his granny. Which star is hers? He can still hear her soft easy laughter—whenever she told the story about opening her door and seeing him with the two provosts; or about the time they drove Jack’s Oldsmobile into the ditch. He smiles, infused with memory.

  A meteor flares across the sky. An omen, he thinks, but can’t recall if it’s for good or ill. Just before he steps down into their bunk room, he feels for the block letters he chiselled into the rough plywood siding. He traces each letter with his fingertips:

  FRANCIS

  He carved one letter a week for the past seven weeks—marking his time, leaving his name in the desert. He stretches out on his cot and drops into sleep. A jackal yips and yowls in the distance.

  At 1:00 a.m., the soldiers are up, packing gear into the vehicles. As Jeff’s crew mounts their LAV, he pounds fists with each of them—Steve, Carlo, David and Adam. “Be sharp up on that mountain, brothers,” he says. “See you in a few hours.” And he climbs into the back of Captain Matt Dawe’s RG-31 Nyala.