TopGunMilitary – Our rotation! Awesome
I was perusing some old videos from our time. I found several that were pretty cool. I’ll post a few as the days go on. I like this because it was our rotation. And I am the handsome one. ;p
Enjoy.
It’s been awhile since I posted a blog. I have been running the gauntlet of publishing, marketing and answering questions. My dear Florence told me that writing the book was only half the work — the marketing aspect would be very busy; she was right.
First, thanks for your support. I hope you continue to share and enjoy. It was a great pleasure to make the book and a lot of fear. There are parts that could be better but there comes a point when you just gotta let it fly…and it’s flying. It is making its way into the market at an easy going pace. However, the first launch forward was from all of you people that have been following and sharing – it actually made it to the best seller’s rank two weekend ago at #57 in kindle and #99 in books in Canadian Amazon – that was an awesome feeling…so I (we) celebrated by going fishing. LOL. Fishing with red-wine that is and a gourmet boil-up near Petty Harbour b’y. No bites on the trout though.
Anyway, Go for Shakedown is getting out there and it is reaching people in unique ways. I dont think people expected it to be quite like it is. The aspects of attempting to bring in local, operational staff and other different perspectives is also helping to raise some empathy and consideration which is what I was aiming for.
The key thing is entertainment. Thanks again.
Excerpt from the FOG of BATTLE
“On the ramp, I was conducting a quick preflight rub of my Griffon, checking the flares, gun mounts, and MX-15 before climbing in. I looked over to Skipper’s chopper—he seemed to be doing something similar.
“What the hell is this?” I heard a loud holler and turned my attention to Skipper. He wasn’t aware of Arnie’s ritual. He was bent down behind the aircraft under the tail end. He smeared his fingers along a puddle on the ground and then lifted them under his nose. He was suspecting an oil leak but instead discovered Arnie’s ritualistic piss puddle.
“This smells like . . . piss. Who the hell is pissing on my tarmac?” He was furious.
I looked at my crew in panic. There would be an inquiry. And I definitely couldn’t look at anyone else for fear of breaking out in laughter, revealing my knowledge.
“Start it, start it!” I called to my crew. “Before he comes over and asks.” Irish held his index finger up, signaling Snapshot to start number 1 engine. Irish hit the starter just as Skipper started to walk toward them.
The engine igniters snapped, and then the turbine lit and whined to life. The rotor started to turn. Skipper stopped. He lowered and clenched his jaw. He knew something was up and retreated to his own chopper.
Arnie’s eyes were big. He slid his visor down, covering them, and then tucked his chin low, hiding his expression.
“I think Skipper tasted it!” Zorg stated, laughing over the intercom. Everyone broke out laughing.
“Ohhh, Arnie is so busted!” Zorg stated.”
Excerpt From: Stephen Robertson, CD BA ATPL. “Go for Shakedown.” iBooks.
Well this has been a 5-year road. A journey of self reflection, memory and empathy. Yes empathy. I suppose my mission was to try to let people know not only what it was like, but more about all the thoughts and experiences we went through. As a first time novelist, it was difficult. It definitely could be better – but it had to be released. From about 45 chapters and 160,000 words down to a re-engineered 100,000. But from aside from all the above, I really want the reader just to laugh at what I laughed at – mostly myself. LOL.
I suppose the first feeling of success is from spouses of colleagues: “I had know idea…you saw that for real?…I can appreciate the Afghan woman story…I don’t know how you endured that!” Vindicated — in that I guess I want people to talk; for those that want to anyway.
Already people are starting to share photos and stories. Help those that are lost in time gaps. Laugh at the humour, cry at the pain but march forward out of silly secret shadows.
There are 4 chapters that I have still failed at reading through without a tear falling. It seems silly, but the things you’d expect to be the most aloof too sometimes hit the deepest. I hope, even if it is for one sentence, that some of this reaches you in a helpful sense.
Anyway, I have to figure out what marketing means now. “Buy my book please.” 😊
I thank you for sharing and supporting:
Go for Shakedown.
“Arrgg, the typos”
As I review and edit the book, I stumble through numerous contemplations. I thought I would share one….
…A few days had passed, and I tried to function. I was a stick in the family spokes of progress. They were functioning without me.
Yesterday, the important decisions were about life and death— identifying Taliban, evacuating dead and wounded, watching patrols, and responding to lethal ambushes. Now the important decisions of home life were to ensure the garbage was out and the kids weren’t late for school. Ironically, equally important, one was for the prevention of death, the latter for the sustainment of orderly life.
I was elated to be home yet stoic….
OP DEVIL STRIKE
The planning and briefings were all complete. We were well rested and prepared for the mission. All contingencies considered and coordination complete. Throttles were winding up and the sound of the griffon’s rotors was stirring the air on the dark KAF ramp….
“Prof, you good to go?” I radioed.
“26 is green.” Prof read back indicating he was the same.
“Going to Slayer.” I stated so he could follow on the radios.
“Shakedown 25, You’re cleared into the ROZ (Restricted Operating Zone). Guns are cold tonight. Heron U-A-V is overhead Chalgour monitoring. There is a special operations ROZ established at grid reference XXXXXX; it has an 8 km radius. Controller is ‘Snakebite’ on frequency 234.4.” Slayer responded.
I punched the grid into the navigation system and figured out the circumference and, of course, it encompassed my entire mission area. The Special Forces never told anyone what they were doing.
It was probably a ROZ for the mission I was on; but they never told us. So perhaps it could be someone else’s mission of higher priority; the tanks perhaps? However, because it was a Restricted Operating Zone, I wasn’t allowed to conduct operations inside without permission.
“What the fuck, it’s right in the middle of our mission area.” I radioed to Professor. “Stand-by-I’ll contact Snakebite. It may be for us.” I stated reluctantly. They never answered the radio.
“Check that.” Prof answered.
“Snakebite this is Shakedown, over…” I called three times.
No answer. This was usual. Frustrating.
“Let’s veer around it for now and I’ll try on the return to establish contact.” I stated to Irish. Irish extended his course along the Reg Dessert for spacing from the ROZ. The last thing we needed was to get shot down by friendlies or fly into a fire-fight without knowledge.
We flew to Masum Ghar. While Professor landed in the base, we orbited. There was only enough room for one helicopter in the landing zone so we scouted for potential threats since prof was vulnerable on takeoff to mortars or RPGs.
“Contact, by the bridge north, I see movement underneath.” Snapshot called.
Immediately Irish steered the helicopter towards the bridge and our heads snapped towards the direction of the movement. Irish flew low and so the gunners could look underneath.
“Right on Irish!” I was happy he was starting to fly assertively.
“Looking – looking.” Irish stated. “Going a bit lower and slower.”
Irish informed the gunners so Snapshot could get a better look. Snapshot activated the laser pointer on his Dillon pointing the beam towards the movement. Everyone immediately knew where he was looking.
“Right in there.” I announced. If anyone popped out and started shooting at the griffons, Snapshot would only have to pull the trigger and 50 rounds a second of lethal saturation would land on that spot.
“I think I see what you’re looking at. If it’s a person, he’s staying still and hidden. He knows he’s been spotted.” Irish stated.
“Probably a dicker.” I speculated.
A dicker or an IED planter. He would be armed with communications and a shovel; maybe explosives. The only way to prove it was a dicker, is to actually watch them for hours and track communications. We did not have that liberty, however the FOB could observe with a sniper or UAV to validate it.
“FOB Masum Ghar, this is Shakedown 25, we’ve got a possible dicker under the bridge six hundred meters north of you. Can you put observation on that?” I reported to the base.
“Roger Shakedown, we’re looking for him. Thanks.” They responded. If there was someone under there, it would probably be an all-night project for the sniper teams to track him, and prove if he was a dicker. But who else hangs out under a strategic bridge at two o’clock in the morning in a war zone?
“26 is lifting in fifteen seconds.” Arnie stated.
“Romeo tango.” I acknowledged.
Irish swooped down and picked up professor’s tail to cover his egress Prof climbed high, turned slowly left allowing us to pass inside his turning radius and lead into the FOB. Prof slowly assumed the tail position and protected my ingress, especially since a suspected dicker was noticed.
Irish flared the helicopter’s nose up over the fence decelerating then descended to land, a small explosion of dust rose obscuring our vision. Masum Ghar, was a one-way trip. No overshoot option because the landing zone was in a bowl and a mountain was directly in front. Once crossing the fence in, we were committed to the landing.
“Three feet, two, one…” Snapshot was calling the heights since we couldn’t see due to the rising dust, “…steady right, your drifting!”
I found a reference on the left side and added some cyclic pressure to stop the drift. It wasn’t anything serious, but the extra assistance was for safety. Irish settled the aircraft onto the ground firmly.
“Thanks.” Irish stated. “I lost everything for a second there.”
“I know, it’s dusty. It’s nuts! It was only a slow right drift.” I responded. “Load ‘em up Snapshot!”
Snapshot walked out through the dust-cloud and returned with two heavily packed soldiers. I was in awe how these young men climb mountains and trek through the dark when they each carry an extra hundred and fifty extra pounds of equipment. The two soldiers lumbered aboard and strapped themselves in.
Two stoic bearded faces looked forward, and thumbs raised in the air. We were a go.
As Christmas approaches I am reminded of 6 years ago. I was very fortunate to travel home during the holidays. Not everyone was so blessed. Some had to stay and work and there are others, others that will never come home again. My thoughts as I write are of you, your families, and your sacrifice. I am truly sorry for your loss.
Home for Christmas…
Many of the members of Roto 8, Task Force Freedom had been home to Canada for their first of two 14-day breaks from theatre; myself included. For those of us exposed to ‘outside the wire’ operations everyday; trying to calm down for two weeks was mentally challenging. Although friends would see the relaxed attitude on the faces of the warrior, family members would recognize that our minds and souls were not relaxed – that they were still in KAF.
For me, my first break was surreal. I arrived in Dubai at Camp Mirage on Christmas Eve Day. In MIRAGE, there was green grass, clean buildings and civilized happy Canadian soldiers supporting the daily airlift into Afghanistan. It was nothing like KAF. There was an outdoor entertainment stage that played evening movies. Tonight it was celebrating Christmas eve. A pastor gave a sermon and soldiers sang carols. I could tell I was already affected when listening to a midnight Christmas eve mass. I tried to appreciate the gratefulness but being angry at the ‘excess’ we took for granted when soldiers and innocents were being murdered preoccupied my judgemental psyche. Within days of this meal, numerous Canadian soldiers died as well as three girls at a girls school near KAF – slaughtered just for going to school – yet I was enjoying a turnkey dinner in a tropical shangri-la. It was delightful, yet I couldn’t release my thoughts from colleagues who at that moment were tracking IED planters or providing over-watch. I know it was wrong to be judgemental, but I couldn’t help this subtle anger; I carried it. I couldn’t get past my thoughts of the next mission in January; yet I was suppose to be relaxing. On return, I was to participate in some large-scale missions that would use all NATO helicopters in southern Afghanistan; but no information was passed at this point. Only that it would be really messy.
The next morning, Christmas morning, I spent a day at the beaches in Dubai and touring the malls and world’s largest skyscraper – mechanically trying to enjoy a bit of tourism. I walked to the beach and observed young men playing soccer, a dad and daughter playing frisbee and couples shopping. Initially not noticing the difference. Then it occurred to me. There were no teenaged women anywhere. No young females without escorts, and the burka wearing women walked several steps behind their husbands. The man playing frisbee was with an 8 year old daughter; pre-pubescent. No young adolescent girls were out without older women or escorted. I had to return to Camp Mirage in the afternoon to catch my evening flight to Canada. A man dressed as Santa Claus was entertaining the Christian families at the resorts. It was ironic how a primarily Muslim country would offer the respect to indulge the western traditions; yet in Afghanistan, Taliban would execute the same behaviours and claim it justified under sharia law.
I arrived in Canada on the 26th. I met my family in Victoria, on the west coast of Canada. For the first time in my life, I truly embraced the early morning walk in the cold drizzly west coast weather. No dust. No poo-pond. I remember one drizzly morning I strolled in the cold rain to a local coffee shop just prior to New Years and pulled up a street-side seat with a newspaper. I read the first page: ‘4 Canadian soldiers and one reporter killed.’ I started to shake as I read the article: 21 year old Zachery McCormack from my home town was dead. He was just a kid. It hit me hard – my eyes swelled up and I turned to the window in the coffee shop to hide my tears; sipping coffee to cover up and gain composure. I couldn’t stop thinking about his family. After shakily gulping back some air and inhaling some moisture from my eyes, I walked back to the hotel to be with mine. He was so young, not much older than my son, and from my neighbourhood. I visited relatives for a few more days and then proceeded back to Sherwood Park to re-integrate into regular family lifestyle for the second half of my time off.
I was at the arena and I watched my daughter win her first ever ringette tournament. The girls played ‘pump-up’ music in the locker-room before the game to get motivated. All the parents could hear the music from the stands as the 9-year-old girls proudly tried to out party the other team as they entered the ice. My boys sat with me on the cold bench also enjoying the pre-game show — a family event. Although, I was smiling and happy outside, I was stoic inside. My mind had to go back to KAF soon, outside the wire, and wouldn’t release my soul to fully connect in the moment.
‘I got a feelin’
That tonight’s gonna be a good night.’
There was the song. The Black-eyed Peas began to dominate the rink as the doors from the change room opened allowing a stream of young warrior princesses out to rally. Some stumbling on their skates, others tripping onto the ice as they forgot to take their blade guards off. Parents chuckled and big smiles could be seen clearly through the face guards of the young girls’ helmets.
‘Tonight’s gonna be a good night.’
“Sure is nice that you could get some time off at Christmas.” One of the parents stated.
“Yes, I’m glad to be home.” I answered.
“Your daughter has really improved this year, you’ll be surprised when she starts skating!” He added.
I hadn’t seen her skate since the summer. She was pushing with one leg, the other was stiff. Only one blade was used for braking.
“There she is,” my wife pointed.
“Wow! She’s skating normally now…and she stopped sideways.” I was amazed. “Oops, she just fell!” I laughed. She smiled back at me proud to show off her new accomplishment.
“She can only stop one direction so far but she’s getting better.” The other parent said.
“Did you notice her helmet?” My wife asked.
“Hey, she’s got a yellow ribbon sticker on it from the military base.” I noted
“They all do.” She added.
I looked around and noticed all the girls had yellow ribbons. I straightened up and took a proud breath.
“Why do they have those? Does the league have the girls wearing them for the soldiers?” I asked.
“No.” She looked in my eyes seriously. “It’s for you…the team put them on for you.”
My body tripped over the next breath I took, shaking a tear from my eye. I froze my face and could feel myself losing emotional control. I quickly got up. I needed an excuse. (Even now as I reread this one line, it shakes me up – it is so vivid.)
“I’m gonna grab a coffee, anyone want one?” I was overwhelmed by the support from the team and parents. However, my mind couldn’t leave KAF. I couldn’t allow the emotions to cut through my focus. It may have been psychologically naive, trivial, but it was the ‘war-face’ that had to maintain despite wanting to be home. I was so grateful at the freedoms my family had, and how the young girls could play, yet, I couldn’t help thinking about a few days prior to coming home for this break, a bomber blew up a school two miles from KAF. It was a girls’ school. Three girls died. Girls my daughter’s age. Why? The souls of numerous families were fractured. Would there yellow ribbons on the compounds for those families? I had to stay this way.
My break vanished quickly. I wanted to be home, but I needed to get back to KAF and get it done. My soul was locked up until this year in Afghanistan was complete. I wasn’t sure if I was guarding my soul or just accepting mortality in order to quit worrying about it. How could one tell the difference?
Merry Christmas – Embrace each other!
.
In my last post, I was leaning to describe the irony between an extremely beautiful land and how such beauty and ruggedness can be poisoned by humanity.
As I flew through Afghanistan, I recollected thoughts of the Canadian Rockies any American Rocky Mountains that I have also flown through. As I experienced North America from the air over the years, I learned a respect for the history, prosperity and development: ski resorts, mining projects, vast farms and pipelines all cooperating in the development of prosperity, health, and society. I recall thinking the same things about Afghanistan, a land having so much potential. It has vast mineral wealth and potential to be a continental trading crossroads due to its location; this evident from the historic trade routes from Asia to Europe. It has the capability of running rail lines but doesn’t due to the lack of security – a shame. I saw great mountain ranges with beautiful villages below that would be so capable of building ski resorts and supporting eco-tourism. I saw vast plains with the flowers of lush fruits and vegetables. The grapes alone could rival the vineyards of the Sonoma Valley in California to the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia. And with all this potential, I can’t figure out why fear, hatred, sexism, and medieval law is allowed to prevail keeping these people and this potential suppressed. How do we, as an advanced Western civilization, convince these people that there is a much healthier, prosperous and socially beneficial ways to live? While maintaining religion and modifying fear and hatred, great benefits could come through collective efforts. But it remains a medieval wasteland – it is sad. The great Greek, Mongolian, Persian, Timur, British and Arabian empires have already proven prosperity in the Afghanistan area; it is possible. So why are they so stuck?
If it is a religious issue, then this is my 2 cents:
Whether you believe that Abraham and Isaac founded Judaism then Christianity in Israel or … Abraham and Ismail founded the Quran and Islam in Saudi Arabia, it doesn’t matter.
What is an agreed truth is that we all have Abraham as a religious forefather. We are all cousins.
Just because we can’t agree on what great uncle accomplished what doesn’t mean we have to be extremist and radical. During peace and common sense prevailing, both trees of this family have created great empires of prosperity, peace, artistic, technological and social advancement. It’s time to move forward once again collectively.
Merry Christmas from this branch of the tree.
Just a commentary on the current affairs of our world.
Now it is almost 2016 and society is faced with wide-spread propaganda promoting fear and violence in the name of attaining of peace and security. As I write this ISIS is growing, attacks against England, Los Angeles and Paris have occurred. Russia, France, Britain and America are in tense relations trying to establish suitable protocols in the diplomatic spider web over Turkey, Iran, Egypt, Israel and Crimea. China is establishing footholds in Africa and recently commissioned their first ever Aircraft carrier.
Yet despite this, Canada is still opening doors to the needy while some political leaders in the USA are promoting policies towards Muslims and Mexicans that are not much different from what we experienced during apartheid.
I often find my mind polarized with back room discussions. So I researched the ‘left, right , and middle’ wings of various thoughts. I don’t know what the answer is but I found some quotes that seemed worthy of remembering:
Quotes…
“I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.” Dwight Eisenhower.
“The enemy is fear. We think it is hate; but it is really fear.” Gandhi
The Prophet Muhammad said: “Religion is very easy, and whoever overburdens himself in his religion will not be able to continue in that way. So you should not be extremists, but try to be near to perfection and receive the good tidings that you will be rewarded.” Bukhari:V1N38
“But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” Luke 6:27
It is a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways. Buddha
And from the Art of War, Sun Tsu: “Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.”
If you want total security, go to prison. There you are fed, clothed, given medical care and so on. The only thing lacking…is freedom. Dwight D. Eisenhower
Anyway, there’s my two cents for the day. I’m not smart enough to know the right course of action, but I’m experienced enough to now the effects of some.
At the end of my manuscript I have a reflection about wondering what it would be like to once again live in an environment which is childlike, naive, and having total confidence in your freedom and security and trusting that you could take it for granted. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?
The concept of the Mayan compass or flag and specific colours inspired me from the words of a Guatemalan mountain guide near the ruins of Copan. He said that the colours represented all the peoples of the world: whites in the north, reds in the south, yellow in the west, blacks in the east. And apparently the Mayan’s believed that world peace would never exist until all these colours became one.
One of the Principles of Warfare, and actually a principle for any business or personal goal is to “Maintain the Aim.” It is taught to every soldier that crosses into the halls of basic training. I am sure fire, police, business managers, martial artists and many schools also have their versions of this rhetoric. Its effective.
As I was reviewing and editing my manuscript, I came across a paragraph that I just wanted to recall. It is what this blog is about.
“….I hope to both entertain and educate my audience on the complexities, intensity and horrors that our teams face; that the troops endure; and that families anxiously survive through. The hardening and desensitization was a fascinating journey and it takes years for some to relax and cope with. I really hope you can appreciate that reality in our veterans and try to accept it. You don’t have to understand, but please accept it…”
Steve
Go For Shakedown
Blog 12E. Senjeray PID RPG…the busy day continues (Still Irish’s mission)
……“Shakedown this is the FOB (Forward Operating Base Senjeray), wait out.”
“Contact FAM (Fighting Aged male) with one times RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) and AK47 (assault rifle).” Prof called excitedly over the radio. His helicopter closed in from the higher orbit onto the potentially lethal target. Was is a single RPG shooter? Where was his support team. There could be others in the immediate area with AK47s to join into the attack against the Chinook as it departed. Those insurgents would be deeper into the green zone a few hundred meters; covertly hiding and ready to attack. They usually ambushed in multiple teams from different locations all focusing their fires onto the airborne target. Like a fly into the spider’s web, everywhere you turned there would be more havoc to get tangled into. Prof’s crew would make himself vulnerable in order to defend the chinook. As we teamed into battle formation, we became much more lethal, accepting certain risks to get our gunners into optimum position to defend – or attack.
The FAM was now partially hidden from the FOB under some trees in a cut-out in the wall. His RPG could be seen moving but he didn’t seemed to be aiming it. It went from over shoulder to under shoulder. Then held, then disappeared as he leered from behind the concrete hard, thick compound. The shape of the warhead on the tip occasionally emerging.
“I’m tracking him with my gun…if he pulls any shit, he’s done.” Snapshot called. “Can we get in lower?”
‘Roger that, coming in behind Prof! Cover his ass and watch that green zone for support shooters!” I yelled over the intercom. I was concerned about what we couldn’t see. I then pressed my radio foot switch to talk to Prof on the radio. “Professor you got him?”
“Roger, I got him.” Prof answered. His voice alert and focused. The target had bunker like walls all around him. It was an ideal place to shoot from and stay somewhat concealed.
“Standby, he is still not a legal target, I am coordinating through the FOB. It will be your shot, I’m on high cover dropping into your trail.” I further answered. I looked out to the Chinook on the ground in the FOB. The last passengers were loaded. He would be lifting right into that ambush. I had to warn him.
“Blowtorch, this is Shakedown. Stay on the ground. Possible RPG threat to your south east.” I called to Butch. “Man with RPG about 250 meters on your nose in a compound.”
Prof interrupted with a report. “I’m in position to fire….He seems to be hiding behind the wall – He looks suspicious – spying.”
“Check that, standby.” I answered. I had to get more intelligence. I hoped the FOB had a sniper also viewing. I may have to call him onto the target or smoke it to mark it. For identification – but time was fleeting.
“Shakedown 25, this is Blowtorch. We are ready to lift. Holding position. Holding position.” Butch’s voice answered.
He wanted out. He had to stay for the time being. It became a time crunch from his perspective. The longer he sat there, the more likely he would draw indirect enemy mortar fire into the FOB. But if he departed right now, he could be flying into an ambush. The Chinook had enough power to depart the opposite direction – it was an option but because of the semi-overt presentation of the RPG holder, it could be a decoy trying to encourage the Chinook to fly into another direction for a possible ambush. All these defensive options racing through Butch’s mind – yet inevitably, if he delayed much longer, the mortars would definitely come.
“Roger that Butch. Standby. We’re in firing position. FOB also investigating….standby!” I cautioned him. I could feel his impatience. Everyone’s vigilance was heightened. It could be felt and heard in the tone of voice. We reversed course, aggressively following Prof about 200 feet over the ground. The gunner’s both intently scanning the RPG man and the surrounding wadi and compounds for any other unusual activity or persons with weapons. I looked over to the higher terrain to the northside of the FOB. It seemed normal, I hoped.
Both of our griffons were now ready at any moment to release weapons onto the target should he shoulder the RPG. The man with the RPG moved behind the wall, then in front. Was he trying to avoid our griffons? He held his RPG but not in a firing posture; yet. Snapshot was ready within a second. If the man shouldered and aimed the weapons towards the chinook, Snapshot was ready to open fire. Target was in his sites. He was ready.
“Shakedowns, this is Senjeray. Do Nawt Fire! Do nawt fire! He’s an ANA soldier! He is friendly!” An American accent announced over the radio. “The son-of-a-bitch was layt for his guard duty that’s why he was running and not properly dressed. That’s his normal position.” He continued.
“Wholly shit! Check fire Snapshot.” I yelled over the intercom then replied on the radio: “Roger that –visual friendly – visual friendly.”
“Stand down Prof! Stand down gunners! ANA soldier – friendly. Resume normal orbit.” I advised.
“Roger it’s a friendly. Check that.” Prof answered to me. He was pissed off. He continued onto the other radio. “FOB Senjeray this is 26, you tell that son of a bitch he almost got his ass shot off – 26 Out!”
“Rawger that Shakedown 26.” The American accent answered, “We gawt this.” There would be a debrief to the ANA security team.
“Check it’s friendly.” Snapshot stated and raised his gun level.
“Okay, We are outta here! Lifting in 15 seconds eastbound.” Butch’s voice announced in relief from his Chinook. He had had enough time sitting on the ground being a potential mortar magnet. The dust began to erupt around him as the Chinook started lifting. Our two griffons aggressively split apart and circled around to the flanks and rear of the departing heavy helicopter; protecting his flight path.
“Well that would have been a bit of paper work sir?” Zorg added sarcastically. He was proud of his calm, yet cheeky retort.
I looked at Irish and shook my head in disbelief. He looked relieved as he sank into his pillow seat about an inch. He let out a nervous chuckle towards me; laughing at me as my eyes were bigger than my head.
Our crew continued to laugh at the ridiculous intensity and bantered about the possible comical outcomes while finishing our morning escort missions.
“…Achmed has 50 holes in him. Why? He was late! The rest of you guards take note.”
“…Guards, how many times do I have to say, don’t take your RPG home at night after work!”
It had been a long day. Six continuous flying hours since first starting, we finally walked into operations for our debriefing with Scrappy.
He looked at our frazzled team of Shakedown 25 Flight. It had been a few weeks since first arriving. In his opinion, we needed to maintain vigilance but also except the realities that existed here. Scrappy needed to put some perspective on it.
“So in summary, you flew in a war zone, had the potential to get shot in a mortar attack, saw a medieval stoning that we were all briefed could be part of our experience here; and almost perforated an ANA soldier?” Scrappy sternly lectured our physically and emotionally drained crowd.
“Yup, pretty much!” Professor stated matter of factly as he looked at me then spit chew tobacco in his cup.
“This is my second time here. This is normal. And you did a good job…you didn’t get killed and you didn’t kill a good-guy.” Scrappy summed, paused, then curtly and left the room.
There was no discussion. No sympathy. Just an acceptance of the way life was in Afghanistan. All these events affected everyone. We can accept shooting, being shot at, mortars and rockets landing around us…but the stoning? It affected everyone. Those people weren’t even the threat but the act of stoning a young girl was deplorable. Or is it deplorable for me to judge the judgers? Some things just never sit right.
“Why the fuck are we here if we can’t help the innocent?” I heard Zorg quietly mention to Hawk. “And these are the people we are liberating from the Taliban?”
I looked over and saw Hawk shrug as he glanced at me. I was stoic. I got up to leave the room. I paused and looked back at the other seven.
“Irish! Your mission was well planned and the timings worked out flawlessly! Well, for awhile anyway.” I smiled. “Good job!” I stated in front of the team and departed. He was happy to be acknowledged but there were more significant things being processed in his mind than the exactness of a complex planning sheet.
In operations, Grumpy’s team had just come back from their mission towards Helmand Province. Helmand was one of the most brutal areas in Southern Afghanistan. The Brits were losing soldiers weekly just like the Canadians and Americans were losing people here in Panjwai. We had similar grim expressions on our faces.
“How’d it go?” I asked recognizing a look of exhaustion on his face.
“Let’s see.” He looked up reflecting on his day. “Craters, TICS, burning vehicles, arguing with copilot, suicide bombers, TICS, medevacs, IEDs.”
“Huh. Pretty standard day I guess.” I said.
“I heard you saw a stoning. It’s medieval times! I guess that’s pretty normal for this place.” He summarized twisting his face. He held his arm up at a vertical angle about the elbow. He had enough bullshit for the day – not from his colleagues, but from the mission.
I nodded. “I heard you got called to a TIC?” I enquired.
“Yup, but the Taliban put down their RPGs and picked up shovels by the time we got there.” Grumpy shook his head. “Can’t kill a sand farmer can I?”
“SNAFU?” I asked.
“Yup.” Grumpy smirked, turned and walked away. “SNAFU.”
(Situation Normal – All Fucked Up!)
So much shit happens in a day here, that it takes a long time to reflect, contemplate and try to organize it into something that makes sense; even if it isn’t acceptable or understandable from a western cultural perspective. Some will never make sense of it and it will linger. Even as I write and edit this a dozen times over the past 4 years, new revelations still come to me.
Stephen Robertson Consulting 