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.
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.
….“Zorg, we gotta carry on with our task, we’ll talk later!” I was concerned due to his tone.
“Too many people dying for stupid reasons here.” He stated quietly.
continued….
“Shakedown 25, this is SLAYER TOC, I copy your report and it has been passed up.” His tone was the same. To him, it was a routine report to file and pass. I was amazed by the lack of intonation. He had probably received so many inhumane reports that he was numb to the lack of humanity witnessed each day.
“Airspace Update Report.” Slayer continued seamlessly. “No change to the airspace but WILSON is HOT. TIC in progress. Two times enemy mortars have been shot into WILSON. SHAMUS Flights are continuing operations south of WILSON with rockets and 50 cal. All effects are east-west, approach from north and contact LZ controller in WILSON to de-conflict your arrival. I say again, WILSON recently under mortar fire.”
“25, roger copy that, are you in need of our support at this time?” I asked.
Irish’s eyes got big. He realized I was asking to get into the fight. Zorg yelled a huge battle cheer from the back.
“We gotta straighten these fuckers out!” Zorg hollared.
“The General has to be picked up, he’s expecting us.” Irish stated.
“Yup, your right. I’m sure the General will tell the FOB Commander that he can use us if they need us.” I added. “He wont mind waiting.”
“Well boys, be prepared for anything.” I said in nervous anticipation of Slayer’s Fire Mission; directing us into battle.
Slayer responded after a short delay, “Negative, Shamus has got it, they have too many choppers in that location as it is, thanks but proceed on task.”
A quiet filled the cockpit. Not sure if it was relief or disappointment.
“I guess I can put my gun away and pick up my camera again.” Snapshot joked.
“Do you think that girl is okay?” Zorg dwelled in a concerned tone.
“What did you see?” I asked quickly.
“She took a bunch of stones to the body, hunched, then a big one directly to the head and fell over.” His voice stated flatly. “I didn’t see her move.”
Everyone was quiet. We were about to go into WILSON; it was under attack.
“Focus Zorg.” I raised my voice. “We’ll talk after.”
The crew was quiet except the radio filled with combat activity near WILSON. Again, the landing zone was jammed. We were able to approach into the same place where the General was dropped. There was a medevac. DUSTOFF, a Blackhawk helicopter was inbound, five minutes after us to extract casualties. This was being orchestrated while four Kiowa Warriors were rotating in and out of battle only 400 meters away. GUNSMOKE was also still high above using 30 mm cannon to augment the SHAMUS teams. The radios were blaring with activity to the point that the crew couldn’t even talk on the intercom. It was confusion and the air was congested with choppers all within a one-kilometer radius.
We were just landing in the FOB when a plume of smoke rose a few hundred meters in front of us on the south edge of the FOB.
“All call signs. Rocket attack. Rocket attack.” The WILSON LZ coordinator called. “A mortar just landed on the south wall of WILSON.”
This was all happening as the General was approaching the helicopter. He was poised and taking the appropriate time to share hand-shakes with the person he was visiting. Slightly ducking as he heard mortars explode a few hundred meters south. His pause, grip and grin was aggravating both myself and Irish. He looked over his shoulder to watch the rising black smoke of the Taliban attack and turned to watch the kiowas release their rockets adding to the smoke in the valley. He seemed to be enjoying the stroll while we just wanted to get the fuck into air where we felt less vulnerable.
He boarded, smiled from the back seat and gave us the thumbs up. He yelled to communicate over the noise of the helicopters, mortars and rocket war just a quarter-mile south.
“Got ourselves a bit of a war going on here. Didn’t think you’d make it!” He smiled.
“No problem sir, that’s what were here for.” I yelled back faking my extreme confidence. “We’ll be off in a second.”
“Ahh, we should go now, the General’s on board,” Irish directed.
“We’ll stay together as a section, it’s best.” I trumped. “Wait for Prof, we’ll go together.”
Prof’s aircraft was still loading the General’s entourage: a Chief Warrant Officer, Staff Officer and a guard. They were shaking hands, doing their final good. They were almost ready to go. Nevertheless, our section couldn’t split up and go independently with all the other helicopters in the air, it would have added too much confusion. All the players expected two helicopters to move for one radio call. There was always higher risk of crashing from confusion than from the enemy.
Another plume rose across the base from our location, 400 meters away. Our eyes enlarged, pausing to look at each other to share the SNAFU excitement.
“Those mortars are getting a but close, don’t ya think? We gotta get going!” Irish insisted in a slightly elevated voice of concern.
“Yup. What the fuck’s taking them so long out there.” I looked as they shook hands and jocularly smiled in what appeared to be non chalantly at the plume of rising mortar smoke.
Irish looked out towards them, eyes grew enlarged with palms up gesturing the “let’s get the hell moving people” signal. They moved towards Prof.
“We’re good. They are aboard, we’ll be outta here right away.” I encouraged faking a smile. Moments later, 26 called ready and we departed as the Dustoff Medivac arrived.
The General put his headset on. “Thanks for coming back and getting me guys.” He said cheerfully. “It’s getting a bit exciting down there but the RCHA (artillery) are doing well and getting some business today – it was a good visit. Bit of a change gents, you can take me over to the Lord Strathcona’s now at Masum Ghar.” He informed.
“No problem sir, I told you we’d be back. Have you over there in a jiffy.” I answered. Irish was quiet sorting through his paperwork as there was now a change in timings and location.
“Shakedown, this is Freedom Ops.” Scrappy’s voice came over the radio breaking our silent tension.
“Go for Shakedown 25.” I answered.
“After you drop off the General, escort Blowtorch to Senjeray. He’s just loading and will meet you north of Senjeray in twenty five minutes.” Scrappy stated.
This was the norm: changes, add-ons and re-routing. This is what I liked. No paper, no extensive wasted planning. Just fill with gas, bullets and Redbull and make it up as you go along.
“Roger that.” I responded and continued on the intercom. “Guys, we’re walking the dog to Senjeray.” It was followed by the normal acknowledgements. I smiled. I knew this was the straw to break the camels’ back of the time table.
As we approached MASUM GHAR, Irish shook his head and threw his papers beside his seat surrendering to the changes. He smiled with his palms raised mouthing silently the familiar words: “What the Fuck.” I felt vindicated; for now.
A wonderful woman I am acquainted to, fought for her life against stage 4 cancer and shared an inspirational Buddhist quote which I shall use here (I read this in your story Sherry):
“Like a lotus flower that grows out of the mud and blossoms above the muddy water’s surface, we can rise above our defilements and sufferings of life.”
I thought I would sleep soundly. However, after settling from the rocket attack, my bliss only lasted for about 2 hours; my body adjusting to the 12 hour time change. Then finally I slept. Then up again. It was a rough sleep and at 5:00 am I couldn’t force the slumber any longer and decided to explore the gym. Perhaps some exercise would help loosen up the stiffness of numerous days of sitting. On the way out of the tent, through the partially hinged flapping door, I collided into Grumpy.
“Morning. Are you going to the gym too?” I whispered.
He smirked. “Just coming back, I’ve been there since 3:30,” continuing his stumble to his bunk.
I turned, admiring his dedication, and walked slowly to the American gym. The road was dimly lit. Combined with the pot-holes and large cable bundles covering it, rolling an ankle was something to be careful of. I cautiously placed my feet, step-by-step in the dark and arrived at the gym unscathed. Hoping for a peaceful early morning workout, I was surprised. There was about 200 soldiers varying in size from the body-building gorillas to the lean marathon runners. It was difficult to find an apparatus without waiting a few minutes but I still managed to complete a 40-minute mind clearing treadmill jog and some weights before starting day two. I felt ready to start work.
After the gym, shower and a quick breakfast, I waited for the bus with the other newly arrived and enjoyed the cool twenty-five degree air. It only had a vague hint of poo-pond lingering. The sun was rising over the dessert to the East, not a cloud in the bright blue sky. No coughing yet. The morning air was breathable until about nine a.m. Once the traffic started rolling up the dust; it became debilitating. Over the concrete barriers the sound of the bus could be heard. It was prevailed by a tidal wave of moon dust. Once the bus stopped, the wave of continued and bathed us all in a brown-film coating.
“What was the point of showering?” I coughed out rhetorically only to have it returned with a few moaning coughs of displeasure.
This was my first trip to the other side of the airfield. A twenty-minute slow drive; but we enjoyed it like enthusiastic tourists. The living side of the airfield seemed to stretch forever; the entire length of the runway. The rows upon rows of military vehicles and aircraft never seemed to end. Of course the dusty trip was made longer by the slow moving traffic jam which was a normal daily event. Aircraft were taking off and landing every few seconds roaring just a few feet above the vehicle traffic at the end of the runway. Two F-16s zipped by in afterburner, staying low to the dessert floor before popping aggressively upward, banking and shooting off defensive flares as they broke their trajectories and proceeded high into the atmosphere. It was an airshow every few minutes.
Finally we arrived at work; our new office for the next year. A warm welcome given by the outgoing 430 Squadron from Valcartier, Quebec. 430 always had their way of dong things as does 408 from Edmonton, Alberta. The fundamentals are the same but the “how to” interpretation has always been different. It’s just like Quebec and Alberta in real life: same grass root pride but different cultures. Same end result.
Task Force Faucon (Falcon) had just finished a 6-month tour and were extremely happy to see Task Force Freedom arrive. They had accomplished a few mile stones. One was moving the operation centre to a new location on the airfield without affecting flight support to the Army. They had also integrated the Dillon cannons into operations. Sadly, they also lost 2 members of their squadron in a terrible accident up near Qalat. Additionally, they were also enduring the war-fighting season without being scathed too bad. This all led them to being physically and emotionally drained. It was time to be relieved.
430’s tour was from April through September. Counter Insurgency Operations (COIN) occurred with a focus on diplomacy through the winter. During the summer, Taliban fighters and foreign fighters joined from the north, west from Iran and from Pakistan in the south to fight against us apparent “infidels”. Once the poppy resin is finished being harvested in April/May, the Taliban sympathizers exchanged their farming tools for AK47s. As one Canadian General stated: “We have three seasons of COIN followed by one intense season of war.” 430 Squadron had just endured the war; they were hardened and seasoned veterans, but exhausted.
They had been involved in some fights and had been shot at to the point they could differentiate between the sounds of the 7.62mm and a .51 caliber missing their helicopters. I was awed from their stories and tactical tips. It didn’t help lower the anxiety. And I only wondered how I would ever expect to get that sharpness and focus.
After introductions and tactical banter, myself and Grumpy were assigned to merge with 430 crews. The aim was to fly with the experienced crews for a few days before they left for home so they could part some knowledge with us. This helped orient us to radio, airspace, ground forces and tactical realities. Once 430 crews departed, the first officers and gunners from 408 would arrive and be oriented by myself, Grumpy and the other new Task Force Freedom captains.
Despite appreciating the mentorship of the outgoing crew, the feeling was not 100% reciprocal. From the Faucon’s perspective, a new ‘green’ captain would be in charge making life and death decisions for these veteran teams. And what credibility could we possibly offer at this point?
Our tour commenced with the 430 Commanding Officer introducing himself then passing us to appropriate specialists and section leaders to guide us through our orientation. I was directed to the Tactical Operations Centre (TOC) for the helicopter Squadron to meet the aircraft captain I’d be replacing.
“Bonjour, it’s nice to finally meet you.” A tall slender man stated in a heavy french accent. “Now I can go home.” I knew him from Canada. I had worked with him at 403 Squadron. He was always perky and chipper; a professional and engineer educated. I’ll refer to him as Chip due to his upbeat personality (Short for Chipper the Skipper).
Chip looked younger than his age. He raised his eyebrow in an inquisitive manner, studying me for readiness. He had confidence in me but knew I had a lot to learn and my education was about to start – as did his a half-year earlier. But he was happy to finally see me; I was physical fruition that the end of his tour had come.
He showed me the TOC. It resembled the bridge of the StarTrek Enterprise. All the chairs oriented towards the front of the room where numerous map screens and text boards showed conversations of platoon commanders talking to each other live over the Canadian A.O. – mostly Panjwaii. Center stage was a large-screen TV showing a live video feed from a surveillance drone in the south Panjwaii district; near Canadian troops at Sperwan Ghar. A few staff soldiers were manning radios and following the flight paths of the Canadian helicopters currently airborne. They were keenly paying attention to immediately brief the Operations Officer or Commanding Officer should they enter for a Battlefield Update. A senior shift supervisor, a Sargent, calmly announced in his raised voice:
“We got a TIC in progress at Howzie!”
There was an IED explosion and fighting along the main highway, which circled Afghanistan. Each day it seemed, logistical supply convoys, escorted by security call-sign COMPASS, were hit with IED and engaged by small party’s of enemy fighters often injuring or killing people. There were frequently vehicles destroyed, craters made in Highway One (almost daily) and not uncommonly, deaths associated. The unscathed traffic just veered around the holes and continued. This was normal. Despite the news, most Canadians in Canada were not aware that it was a daily event.
“We got Shakedown 25 flight responding for over watch,” I overheard the duty Sergeant state.
“Go get the CO (Commanding Officer),” ordered the duty officer to his Radio Operator, a corporal.
Wow! This was a first hand ‘real-life’ demonstration of how things were going to unfold for my days, weeks and year to come. This was just like an exercise back in Wainwright; but real. And this was day two – already action. My contemplations were interrupted as Chip and I were asked to leave. The Commanding Officer (CO) arrived and was requesting an update; it would be too disruptive to run an operation and a tour at the same time.
“Sir, Shakedown 25 Flight responding to TIC in progress here. They’ll be on target in 7 minutes, fully armed, 45 minutes playtime…” I heard him briefing the CO as the door came closed separating us from the action.
“You’ll get acquainted to that soon enough. Its daily.” Chip advised leading me upstairs to a lounge and offered me a Diet Pepsi. I hadn’t had a soft-drink in a week. What a treat! It was ice cold. The room was cool and I sat back in a recliner and put my feet up. That was the most refreshing Pepsi I think I have ever had. I almost felt like I was on vacation for a second. We bantered, exchanging stories and listened for any news of the unfolding battle for Shakedown 25 Flight from passer-byes in the hall.
“They were stood down.” someone reported.
“That was quick. Why’s that?” I raised his chin toward Chip.
“The Taliban broke contact. Once they hear the helicopters, they stop fighting and hide because they know they will lose when we find them.” Chip explained.
“They hide, pick up shovels, fake being farmers and escape in the green zone.” He added pointing to a map of the irrigated, treed area of the Arghandab River.
The Arghandhab valley filled with great tactical concealment in the form of canals, tunnels and grape huts for Taliban to hide in and ambush from. Pursuing them by foot was lethal as they often placed explosive traps to protect escape routes. However, it was very difficult to escape from a helicopter once they had PID. PID is an acronym that meant ‘positive identification’. Once a bad guy was caught in the act and PID was attained, their life expectancy was minutes. Thus the Taliban, upon hearing any helicopters, broke contact and hid immediately.
“Let’s go back to the TOC,” Chip stated.
In the TOC, the situation had already moved forward. A black and white TV screen was showing 3 men walking in the mountains near Sperwan Ghar.
“What’s going on there?” I asked to the duty sergeant.
“It is a UAV (Unmanned Aerial Vehicle) drone feed”. He advised.
“HHQ (Higher headquarters) has been covertly tracking these FAMs from a known enemy arms cache near the Reg Dessert for several hours; if not days.” He pointed to the screen, then the side screen. “If you follow the text on the prompter over there, you’ll get the entire story since late last night,” he added.
The insurgents had been using weapons and explosives from this cache to conduct ambushes near Sperwan Ghar, Gundi ghar and Haazi Me Dhad. They just trekked up this mountain and just placed some new material in a secret stash near the top. It was all captured on UAV camera. It was all very surreal. These guys looked like normal local people. How would I be able to tell the difference? I turned to leave the TOC.
“Dead-men walking.” The radio operator stated to get my attention.
“Pardon me?” I leaned back in the door.
“You don’t wanna leave sir, there’s a Shamus team coming in and these guys are about to be hit.”
Shamus was the call sign for a team of Kiowa warrior helicopters that patrolled the entire area 24 hours a day. They were armed with 50 calibre forward firing machine guns and rockets. They had been in theatre over a year and were known for taunting fights with the bad-guys. They knew how the Taliban played ROE (Rules of Engagement) games and countered with the art of provocation. Basically, the ROE at that time was that you can’t shoot a suspect, only someone directly proven to be trying to harm someone. But you can always use self-defence and match lethal force with lethal force. The “art of provocation” would eventually be taunting the known bad guys to engage you which included making your self a target and getting face to face with your enemy. The Roto 8 pilots and gunners would eventually get some informal mentoring with Shamus.
I watched the video feed. Three men were sauntering casually up the mountain. Moments later, numerous clouds of dust and white-flash exploded all around them. The TV screen flashed black and white, then went blurry and slowly regained focus. There was a massive dust cloud. The camera operator scanned left and right quickly to try and track any movement. It panned out. It found one person staggering down the hill to the left of the screen. It went to colour mode. A shadow of a Kiowa warrior flew over and disappeared off screen. Seconds later, the ground around this last man exploded like popcorn in what appeared to be a 50 calibre strafing run – then two more rocket explosions. Obviously the second Kiowa’s follow on attack. The last man standing took a direct hit from a rocket. I actually saw something flash in from the right of the screen directly onto the FAM. Then the details obscured by an exploding cloud of dust that dominated the TV screen. I switched my focus to the text bars rolling information on the other TV screen. It was the factual play-by-play.
Time XX:XX Shamus – “Shamus contact 3 FAM hill top.”
Time XX:XX: TOC – “That’s your target, no friendlies in the area, cleared to fire.”
Time XX:XX: Shamus – “Shamus tally target and rollin’ in hot.”
Time XX:XX: TOC NOTE – “Shamus engages, standing by for Battle Damage Report.”
It was an unemotional account of communications regarding the event. I looked at the TV feed again as the picture started to clear. The camera operator on the UAV was switching camera modes from Infrared to colour attaining the sharpest perspective. It then went white hot and held. Pieces of hot metal, presumably rocket shrapnel and heated rocks illuminated along side what appeared to be warm pieces of body parts spread around 100 square yards of mountain ridge.
The text screen reported:
Time XX:XX: Shamus: “Shamus BDA (battle damage assessment), Grid reference XXXX-XXXX, 3 times insurgents destroyed, 6 rockets, 50 rounds of 50 caliber expended, continuing on patrol with Slayer…Shamus out.”
That was it. A simple aviation task while patrolling the Panjwaii district resulted in 3 insurgents being killed. Several small arms and explosives caches were also discovered. Then the Shamus flight of two Kiowa warriors continued on patrol as if it was normal. Possibly several weeks of intelligence reports, finding the targets for days, then tracking them hours, all culminating in a ten minute aviation task at the sharp end.
“Wholy shit!” I caught myself muttering. It was a reality check. I had an immediate epiphany that the last 8 months of intensive training was now coming to fruition; with a real purpose. There was a war going on here in Afghanistan. People died daily. I was at war.
Chip saw my face empathizing with it from his own feelings six months earlier.
“Oui Steve, that was real. You’re not on exercise anymore….welcome to Kandahar.” He affirmed staring me right in the eye. He saw my novice apprehension.
“Wow. Rocket attack last night, TIC an hour ago and watching an engagement of what we will be doing all within 24 hours of arriving. I’m a little overwhelmed.” I mentioned.
“Watch.” He stated focusing me back to the UAV feed.
I looked at the screen as it panned over to the village a few kilometers away from the Kiowa strike. The locals heard the explosions. They knew there was dead. People started to come out of the village and were walking up the hill.
“What’s going on?” I inquired.
“The women and older children will go up the hill and collect the bodies; apparently they have to be buried before dark.” The sergeant guessed. “These insurgents terrorized those people and may not have been respected; but they share the same religious traditions, and are given that dignity.”
I nodded my head. The learning never seemed to end.
“Anyway, you have a big day tomorrow sir.” The duty sergeant concluded las he reviewed the schedule. “Might as well get back and settle in for some sleep – you’re up tomorrow with the Devil’s’ Infidels,” he advised.
I raised my brow and smirked inquiring silently that I wanted more info. He said nothing. He nodded and gestured with his chin to follow Chip out of the room.
Chip guided me to the flight preparation room. This is where all the pilots, gunners and engineers gathered to determine their tasking for the following day. The crews were divided into 4 sections with table time, briefing time, and launch time for the next subsequent task. The board showed that I was scheduled for a day familiarization and one at night which was combined with a night BLOWTORCH escort mission to move some Special Forces personnel.
“Devil’s Infidels?” I queried.
Chip laughed explaining. “We got into a TIC. An overwatch task suppressing a tree-line with a few thousand rounds. The bad guys were engaging our troops from from the green-zone. The Infantry Company Commander we were supporting (the officer in charge in the battle below) reported that i-comm chatter used that description of us from an enemy conversation he heard. I-comm chatter is the intelligence network that listens to the enemy radio and interprets what the Taliban are saying in real-time. In this particular case, the Afghanistan interpreter reported that the man being shot at was cursing because he could not escape:
Man One: “You must leave now, the helicopters are engaging.”
Man Two: “I can not leave, I am pinned down and getting shot at by those flying devil’s infidels!”
We chuckled at the story. Chip continued: “This is my section and they are very proud of this.” He unzipped his flight suit to the waist and showed me his T-shirt beneath further educating me. “Ironically, we are Quebec Catholics who proudly mock the enemy by wearing this.” He pointed to a logo of a Griffon logo and words stating “THE DEVILS INFIDELS”.
Stephen Robertson Consulting 