Blog 12BC. Stone, Rocket, TIC. Irish’s Day continues…
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.
Nations with Stoning used as a Punishment…source google search
…..We sat at the FARP having a quick, Redbull refreshment and a pee when Irish looked at his watch. He started to get time compressed. He jumped in and spun his finger in the air demanding me to wind up the engines to keep on schedule.
“Roger that.” I announced twisting the throttles open.
“Shakedown Flight cleared take-off X-ray east RIVER, altimeter is two-nine-nine-eight.” The tower instructed. We departed from the FARP.
On the north side of three-mile mountain between KAF and Kandahar was a large Bedouin village. It was mostly canvass and mud huts dug into the ground. The occasional brick factory chimney added smoke to the dusty air. Today, there was a gathering of about fifty people in a circle near mid village; I veered away not to disturb them. Zorg was watching from his side. As a gunner they observed detail in activities, screening for strange behaviors or weapons that could harm us.
“What the hell is going on down there?” Zorg inquired.
“I didn’t notice. A circle of people? Are they kids playing?” I queried.
“Oh my God sir, it’s a fuck’n stoning!” Zorg sounded distressed. “They are stoning her!”
“What?” I challenged.
“About a kilometre back, they were stoning a woman – a girl, like a teenaged girl!” He ranted.
“Your kidding me!” I asked.
“We gotta do something! We gotta go back.” Zorg was adamant.
“Two-six this is two-five, did you see a stoning back there left side?” There was a pause; apparently a similar discussion going on in their aircraft.
“Roger that…Continue Steve! We can’t interfere.” Professor’s tone was different. Professor knew my crew would be discussing possible methods of intervention. He knew it would be a huge mistake.
I paused for about three seconds. In those three seconds my mind raced through scenarios. We could turn back. Force an interdiction and extract the young girl. There would be anger. Possible fighting and bloodshed. If we got away with it, shame would be brought to the family for us escalating the situation causing westerners to be involved. Great shame. There would be further stupid punishments. Yet we had the power to disperse it. But our prevailing orders were to report and not interfere. I felt helpless.
“Roger.” I replied. The Professor was right.
“We have to continue with our primary mission guys. All I can do is report.” My voice was heightened, heavy. I didn’t know what to do. It was deathly quiet as I went out on the radio to Slayer.
‘That ain’t right – that ain’t right – we can help!” Zorg stated.
“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.
The adventures in Afghanistan as a military pilot for a year were one in a lifetime. Some good, some bad …all memorable.
I hope to both entertain and educate my audience on the complexities, intensity and horrors that our teams faced; that the troops faced; and the families. The hardening and desensitization was a fascinating journey and it has taken years to relax from. I really hope you can appreciate that in our veterans and try to accept it; you may not understand but please accept it.
This blog has a few funny injections and stories but the main BLOG is numbered. I am missing 12 but it’s coming. It has been a challenge. Sometimes there are interpersonal challenges in the most extreme of conditions, my aim is to maintain the utmost of respect for all I served with; so any similarities to any persons that my characters may bring. First accept they are fictional and second, know I respect and love all of those fictional personalities.
For reading order:
Please read 1 and 2. It sets pace and the scene.
Read 8 and 13; they go together in that order.
The others are a pseudo chronological development of characters and blending of stories from tactical missions. Yes, real situations. Memoirs, but fictionalized characters and dialogue to tell a story. As you read, as some colleagues have pm’d me, you will recognize people and guess who characters are based on. Yes you are 80% right, but in many stories, I used the different character in the cockpit than who was really there; or I made someone that you think is someone, say something they didn’t say – So consider it a fictional story my friends. Enjoy and remember and share.
Blog 13. Nakhoney – A Response to ‘Casualties of War’
Nakhoney is a small village about an hour drive south of Kandahar, ten minutes by helicopter. It was a hot spot for my section. We had been responding to attacks on FOB MADRAS (school); where a small unit of Canadian Infantry was based. It holds many memories and the area became personal to my crew.
All the landmarks were close together – basically the effective range of an RPG round. To the south of MADRAS (school) was THREE HILLS, the west was a north-south creek called WEST WADI and immediately on the other side was STEEL DOOR. It was a three-story grape-hut with a steel door facing east and a solid roof as opposed to most grape huts that were open. To the north-west was BELL GRAVE yard, from the air it looks just like it’s name. To the west another 200 meters from STEEL DOOR was a group of compounds known as the Adamz-eye chain.
Nakhoney Area
The overwatch in Nakhoney was my favorite mission. It involved being the helicopter directed by a patrol commander on the ground: for observation, fire power, lifting injured soldiers, or whatever they wanted. Scrappy knew this and he tried to arrange it so I could go support our troops there when the opportunity rose. And by this time, my crew seemed to prefer it too. Everyday I would meet our team at the Table bringing back scheduling news for our next mission.
I could present, “We got Nakhoney over-watch at 5:00 am!”
Followed by: “Awesome. Woohoo!” or,
Or “We’re walking the dog all morning.”
Answered with whiney, “Oh man….can you get some over-watch after they’re done.? When are they done?”
Being in Nakhoney also offered the advantage of being central to respond to any other TIC or IED activity in Panjwai. MASUM GHAR was a two-minute flight, CHALGOUR one minute, SALAVAT 30 seconds and SPERWAN GHAR three minutes. All the Canadian’s getting into TICS were often in this area; and Shakedown’s wanted to be here too.
After taking on fuel at the FARP, our section was waiting, with the engines idling, for our next mission to come over the radio. The guys got out to stretch their legs, take a piss, have a Redbull and Pop-tart – the standard food supplement. Some guys even slept in the shade of the helicopter lying in the jagged rock; while still connected to the intercom system. The ballistic vest and helmet helped the protruding rocks from being too piercing our skin.
“Shakedown 25, this is Ops, TIC in progress at MADRAS.”
“Roger, Go for Shakedown.” I responded on the radio. I looked around at the guys who sat up and started prepping their weapons.
“25, they have shots fired from the west, platoon of 40 friendlies dismounted and under fire, contact SLAYER for an update, call when airborne.” Scrappy ordered.
“Roger that.” I responded.
I held my hand out the door and spun my fingers in the air signalling it was time to go. Skipper was already boarding his crew as he heard the call and returned the thumbs up. Irish wound up the throttles. The silence of excitement and cautious anxiety could be sensed in the cabin as everyone completed their individual duties with precise professionalism.
Irish lifted the helicopter and departed west, Skipper dropped into the wingman position slightly behind and right. As we flew west, I contacted Slayer.
“Slayer, this is 25, checking in.”
“Shakedown 25, this is Slayer, the ROZ is hot, the guns are hot at WILSON, Gun line is north. TIC in progress at Nakhoney, contact India 21 with your numbers.” he advised.
“This is Shakedown, copy that and switching to India 21.” I confirmed before talking to Skipper.
“26, Switch India 21 to follow along.” I stated. Skipper acknowledged.
We had about six minutes further to fly at this point. In these six minutes, we needed to build a complete picture of the battle on the ground as well as visually identify all friendly and enemy targets. There were no explosions this time so pin-pointing the objective area would be tougher.
“India 21, this is Shakedown checking in.” I called to the Infantry unit getting shot at.
“Shakedown, this is 21, we have shots being fired towards us from one or two insurgents. They are in the vicinity of STEEL DOOR. We are on a foot patrol in a north-south line 200 meters north-west of MADRAS near BELL-GRAVE. Possible RPG and IED west of our locations. We are thirty Canadians and ten ANA soldiers. We are spread out over 250 meters at grid XXXXXX. From my location, enemy fire is coming from one of the grape huts near STEEL DOOR, approximately 150 meters west. We do not have PID (positive identification) on enemy at this point. I say again. No PID. Request assistance to PID and suppress.”
We could hear the occasional snap of gunfire in the communication. My crew became excited the helicopter got closer, they would expect the shooting to stop and the insurgents to hide. However the Taliban would most likely take several shots towards us if they were in a position to conceal the muzzle flashes from their AK-47 rifles.
google images: View from inside a Grape-hut
“26, this is 25, did you copy all that?” I asked Skipper to ensure I didn’t have to repeat the battlefield report. I was programming the GPS while he replied.
“Romeo – Tango.” Skip understood everything.
“You guys copy?” I asked over the intercom.
“Roger that Haycee…Romeo Tango Cap.” The gunners replied calmly.
“Irish, just head straight there, I put their position in the GPS. Follow the needle and offset right so first turn is left over the friendlies. Plan a north-south figure eight, low level down the road to identify them. Got it?” I directed.
“Got it.” Irish knew exactly what was going to happen.
“Snapshot, your side will be exposed first, get ready!” I cautioned.
“Check.’ A simple response. The camera was put away. He was tuned in. Everyone was vigilant. We were about to get shot at.
“Skipper, my plan is Left base. North to south figure eight to P-I-D friendly and enemy, fly along the friendly line. If we engage, all effects west.” I ordered to my wingman. He didn’t need to respond. He would just follow along since he knew I would be busy coordinating. We were about two minutes back.
“India 21, smoke the target area.” I requested of the ground commander. I wanted him to identify exactly, which hut the shots were coming from.
“Roger that, red smoke,” he answered. “This is the target area. I can not confirm exact spot yet.” Five seconds later a stream of red smoke landed near STEEL DOOR.
Very much like Steel Door…this is US troops 2012
Zorg called out. He usually got really excited about these tasks as the guys on the ground were from his regiment; his army family.
“Visual friendly troops on the nose, slightly left, behind the wadi wall!…’bout 40 of them!” He called bringing our attention to the line of troops.
“26, I’ve got a visual on the friendly patrol at twelve o’clock about 1000 meters. Call when you are visual, red smoke is target area.”
“Visual friendlies and contact smoke,” he responded.
“Irish, Left gunner, right gunner, Friendlies are a line of troops 40 long on our nose 800 meters, they are taking cover along the road wall,” I formalized the situation as per our procedures.
The two gunners stretched their necks out of the helicopter door and took a verifying look.
“Visual friendlies, contact smoke!” They each called in sequence.
We were turning onto the north-south line. I could see the soldiers leaning up against the wall. Princess Patricia’s soldiers. They would take turns leaning over the wall to try to locate the enemy fire. However, most were sitting in the shade taking a break now that the helicopter would take over observation. They were pretty casual about getting shot at; it was daily for them. The five minutes of waiting for us was an opportunity for a break. They carried over a hundred pounds in combat gear on their backs in 40 degree temperatures and would take a break whenever they could get one; even in the fight. And they couldn’t chase them. They had to be cautious as the grape-rows were rigged with IEDs. The Taliban often baited our soldiers; hoping for them to pursuit. And we did the same in return.
A few days earlier I worked with the same platoon in CHALGOUR. The instructions from India 21 were a little different than today.
“India 21, Shakedown’s checking in.”
“Roger that Shakedown. I need you guys to stay about 8 kilometers back.”
“What? Irish stated rhetorically over the intercom.
“Confirm 8 km?” I answered on the radio. I was confused why he didn’t want me there.
“Ya, we got some dickers visual but they ain’t pulling the trigger yet. We need him to attack so we can chase the fuckers down. If you guys get too close you scare them away. So pretend your looking at something about 8-10 km south and I’ll call as soon as they engage and you can chase ‘em down.” He requested.
“Copy your plan India two-one, proceeding south.” I acknowledged in reservation.
It wasn’t a typical battle plan I had heard before. We didn’t practice that one in Wainwright Alberta, but it seemed like a good idea. ‘Find em, fix em, fuck em up.’
Nakoney
“Snapshot, to the right of the friendlies 150 meters is a grape-hut with a steel door, closed roof.” I directed.
“Contact hut, contact red-smoke,” they both responded.
“That is the target area, no P-I-D yet, do NOT SHOOT unless self-defense – observe only – all effects west but mind the village on the other side.”
“Roger that!” they acknowledged.
All our inter-plane communications were being done on the Freedom Ops frequency. We had an agreement that they would not interject and only listen. It offered immediate feedback to Scrappy and the CO.
Operations:
“You asked me to come and get you when they got there boss.” The RadOp interrupted Scrappy at the Operations Centre.
“Roger that, coming.” Scrappy acknowledged, placing the phone down and followed the RadOp. He reviewed the text information on the TV screens to orient himself with the situation. However, the text prompter was a little behind.
“What’s up?” he stated to the duty warrant.
“They’ve been give a target area brief by India-21 and it seems shots are being fired at them.” The warrant officer explained. “No damage reports so far.”
“Seems so.” He breathed some relief. “Alright – go get Skipper.”
“Skipper’s the number two sir, he switched out the Professor this morning before you were here. You were at the TFK meeting. He’s 26,” the radio operator summated. Scrappy walked over the manifest to check the crew names.
“Oh right!” Scrappy realized. Perhaps the lack of sleep catching up with him.
“Go get the second in command – Butch.” Butch was a Chinook pilot and Skip’s Deputy. He listed through the protocols of getting the chain of command informed of the fight.
The radio operator added, “He’s at the FARP, just got back from FOB TERMINATOR — you’re it, sir”.
Scrappy paused, looked at each of his staff, reviewed the screen, grabbed his chair, placed it up on the bird table, sat up high and smirked.
“I’m it lads! I’m in command. Let’s watch and listen to the show boys!” he stated as he leaned back, hands behind his head crossing his legs. “I need a coffee.”
Nakohney
Inside my aircraft, all eyes were on the grape-hut near the red smoke.
“26, keep your eyes near the red smoke, go trail be prepared to counter. I’ll stay low.” I briefed. I figured I’d be in best position to draw fire, identify the source then Skipper could release hell on the target.
Skipper acknowledged. He slid into position climbing slightly. Irish flew the guns: low enough to observe and engage if required. My aim was to visually look into that hut to see any persons or fire arms. Additionally checking the fields to see if any Taliban would pop out of a grape row. But they stayed in the shadows. We flew by the hut at 50’ off the ground and very close to it. Small explosions of dust from bullets were impacting the walls beneath me.
“Who the fuck is shooting?” I retorted over the intercom.
“India two-one, this is Shakedown, are you shooting? I got impact strikes on the hut.” I called.
“Negative.” 21 answered after a brief investigative pause. “The ANA are firing on the smoke.” I could hear the snaps of the ANA AK-47 assault rifles through the radio.
“Do you have P-I-D?” I radioed back.
“Negative, it’s the ANA, no Canadian PID. We still can not verify the target.” He cautioned.
Despite our Rules of Engagement, the ANA interpreted them differently. They were great soldiers, just not all that savy with NATO protocols. It was their land, their rules. They saw red smoke, so their section commander started shooting at it, even though our helicopter was almost directly in front of them. However, the Canadians still did not have the legal criteria to fire simply because there was no positive target yet. It was only suspected area and person(s). The smoke was an indicator to investigate the area, not shoot at it.
“I can’t even suppress yet?” I stated rhetorically thinking out loud.
Irish answered: “Nope.” Re-enforcing my interpretation of the rules.
“Skipper, it’s the ANA. They are shooting on the target area, Canadians do NOT have PID yet, do you have PID?” I asked hoping he might see a target.
“Not yet, still looking,” the Skipper stated inquisitively.
“They might not even be in the hut, they could be anywhere…keep looking guys.” I stated.
We continued in the pattern while observing and moving back slightly as the ANA continued to shoot. Everyone, including the ground troops, was trying to find the spot. The ANA didn’t care, they just fired at the sound and the smoke. After a couple of threatening patterns from the griffons, the enemy revealed themselves.
“Shakedown, I’ve got I-comm chatter, do you want it?” the ground commander radioed signifying relevant intelligence was available.
“Roger that.” I answered. Everyone in the cockpit was quiet ready to hear the message.
“Bring the package!” India 21 answered. “The TERP says the voice on I-comm chat sounds anxious,” he added. A local Pashtun Interpreter was assigned to the Canadian unit to assist in communicating with the ANA and listen on enemy radio frequencies. He also advised on the emotional behaviour of the voices he heard.
Bring the package? I pondered on what that could mean. He must be bringing a heavier weapon, RPG maybe?
“Guys, keep eyes out for anything suspicious, watch for RPG plume. Icomm sates: Bring the Package.” I cautioned my section. RPGs were a weapon of choice for the Taliban and they were easy to acquire. They had been firing RPGs at India 21 almost daily during the past month so it was probable.
Operations:
Scrappy came to his feet. He read the screen showing the icomm chatter. He was concerned about what it read. ‘Bring the Package’. Could it be some thing that would harm the helicopter? He needed more information. “Go get the Int briefer now!” he told the radio operator.
The Intelligence Briefer arrived. Scrappy update him with the situation. He outlined his concern and asked for a threat analysis.
“Sir, it is most likely an RPG or possibly a dishka 51 caliber weapon system. But if it isn’t in position already, they wouldn’t be moving it while in contact with us.” he reported.
“What about SAMs?” Scrappy was asking if there was any change to the Surface to Air Missiles threat from his understanding. He needed all the info to pass to our team should we need it.
“No change sir, yes there are SAM possibilities but no recent reported activity – the chance of them using these limited resources on a small helicopter is low; they’d be saving it for one of our Hercs or C-17s.” He advised.
“Thanks, that’ll be all.” Scrappy released him.
“25 Flight, Freedom OPS, do you have the icomm chatter?” the radio asked.
“Roger that, do you mean the package?” I responded.
“Roger, we can’t make out; just keep safe. No change to the Int from this morning.” Scrappy quickly reported. He said no more. He knew we were busy, but he was also concerned.
“25, 26 checks all from Ops.” Skipper called to acknowledge he heard the report rom Scrappy.
“Actually, watch out for the fuckin’ ANA friendly fire, it’s more likely to hit us!” Zorg practically hollared. The bullets from the ANA rifles continued to splash off the walls of both STEEL DOOR and the next grape-hut south despite us flying directly between the target and the friendlies. It was only 30 meters away at times. I tucked my head and shoulders a little more inside my armoured seat on subsequent passes fearing both enemy and friendly fire.
“Shakedown’s, I’ve got PID!” announced India 21, “Are you ready for a 5-liner?” he asked. Wholly shit! This was it! We are going hot. This was our authority to fire on his command.
“Go for Shakedown.” I responded.
“Five liner: Friendlies are patrol N-S line west of MADRAS. Enemy is one times FAM with AK47 rifle in STEEL DOOR. My plan is advance upon that target from east. Required you to provide continual suppression for five minutes, all effects west, maintain fire line over the friendlies to cover my advance.” India 21 ordered.
I read it back quickly, “Visual friendlies, Talley target. All effects west”.
“Roger.” he stated. “I-comm chatter still repeating to bring the package.”
“26, this is 25, did you copy 5-liner?” I radioed to Skipper.
“26 is in.” He acknowledged curtly.
“Attack plan, next southbound pass, start with right gun attack, figure eight pattern.” I commanded to my wingman.
“Roger that.” Skip’s response.
Irish started his turn towards the south as I indicated with my hand to roll in hot. We were going to rain down pieces of led for the next five minutes in short blast of fire. The Breath of Allah, as the enemy had been heard to say, would be echoing through the Panjwaii valley, raining down on the building and the FAM inside to finally finish his days of killing Canadians and ANA soldiers. We had to be careful to cover the attack of the Canadians yet protect them. Everyone was focused. We had a clear target, PID and permission.
“26, 25 is rolling in HOT.” I stated to Skip. No response was required.
In Operations, Scrappy heard the attack brief and read the teleprompter on the TV:
Time XX:XX Shakedowns HOT at MADRASS. Supporting I-21. Grid XXXXXX
“Wholly shit, there going hot.” Scrappy stated outloud as he heard the news. Butch had just walked into the room still in his flight gear from the mission we were previously on.
“Shakedown is rolling in hot in Nakhoney right now; you’re just in time. They’ve been getting shot at and are in overwatch for India 21 patrolling.” He reported while pointing at the battle map on the table between his feet.
Butch smiled, raised his eyebrows, and looked at the screen while tilting his head in contemplation. That was his initial body language response for everything; even after taking the bullets near Tarin Kowt, he calculated all situations with the same physical response.
“India 21, Shakedown’s in HOT, get your heads down.” I advised to the Patricia’s infantry below. I watched them take cover but watch. The shots would be about 150 meters from friendlies and we were about 75 meters from the target at the closest point. Hot shell casings would be raining down on their heads of the Patricias. We dove to get low to shoot inside the narrow windows and cracks of the grape-hut.
“Right gunner – confirm visual and talley?” I asked Snapshot before releasing the fire command.
“Roger Haycee, visual troops and talley target!” He took aim at the openings.
As the griffon crossed over the friendly troops I ordered, “Fire.”
There was a pause. Was it jammed? Why am I not deafened by the Dillon?
“Its No good!…Its No good!…Checking fire, Checking fire.” Snapshot yelled back just as I was covering my ears from the anticipated intense blast of the Dillon.
“I got a WAC, 75 meters other side of STEELDOOR in my arcs; No, it’s a man! He’s dragging a child towards the grape-hut.” Snapshot called.
I immediately shifted my eyes beyond the target and onto the Taliban soldier dragging a child by the arm.
“Check fire, check fire. Child west of STEELDOOR.” I called to 26 and then repeated it to the Army commander.
“Fuckn’ bastards. Cowards.” I swore profusely over the intercom drowned out by the sound of the rotor blades. We passed the target but continued in the patter to observe, firing no shots.
The man jogged fairly quickly dragging the stunned boy to the other side of steel door. The boy’s face pale with fear. A man came out of the west end of STEEL DOOR, he grabbed the boys other arm and he glared directly at me over his shoulder. We made eye contact. They jogged over towards the compound. He knew the helicopters wouldn’t shoot if children were around. He used that child as a human shield.
“India 21. It’s the package! A small boy. A human shield, check fire.” I reported.
“Continue to monitor, tell me where they go.” He requested, frustrated.
We overflow the corner of the road they rushed up. The Taliban men went into a compound, left the boy with a woman who collapsed onto her young child embracing him. She was distressed. The two men then disappeared into the labyrinth of mud walls. They were not seen again.
“I almost pulled the trigger…that kid was in the back-line of my aim. They would have taken rounds for sure.” Snapshot sounded somewhat distressed.
This could have been the worst nightmare for my crew. The act of accidentally killing an innocent weighed heavily on everyone’s thoughts. No-one wanted to have to deal with that. The Taliban won this battle today…but hopefully, not against that family.
When I first retuned from Afghanistan, I retired from the military and started commercial flying. In this roll I visited all over North America and worked in very isolated locations. During pauses in flying or bad weather days, I remembered many things about my year in “The Stan” and figured I would write about it someday. That quickly turned into a writing an article, then playing with first and third person dialogues, rewriting and then just getting a pattern that worked (for me) and brainstorming, accepting the fictional dialogue but to tell the really cool story.
I want to remember and give honourable mention to a few people that saw me write for several years in the back of a 412 helicopter while sitting deep inn the bush of Northern Alberta near the oilsands of Fort McMurray. I had the opportunity to fly for 2 summers with the same crew and survey clients. As the clients trudged and sweated through the muskeg and pine bog, I sat in the helicopter with the mosquitos, wasps and horseflies pounding out words for Shakedown.
Writing Shakedown
Significant to this story is also something my daughter said just before I left for a tour. I had ordered a helmet and it arrived in the box. It was suppose to be a dark blue colour but I had mistakenly pointed out the light powder blue portion of the company logo to the helmet company so it came in that colour. As I opened the box the day before going to work, my daughter’s eyes lit up and she said: “Oh Dad, thats a pretty girl’s helmet!” I sighed in emasculation as she laughed at me.
Pretty Blue Helmet
So off I went to the field proudly defending my helmet to my clients. Even the young lady client took every opportunity to tell me how “pretty” it was and that they would love to swap “accessories” with me some time.
Anyway, one afternoon I set up a nice breezeway through the cabin doors of the Bell412 helicopter and sat in the back typing away. As I wrote “Go For Shakedown” dialogue, I was unaware that I was vocalizing my words as I typed. To Jeff, Kelly and Kirsten, who were having a break in the grass beside the helicopter, all they heard was moaning from inside the cabin. I came out of my hypnotically focussed state as I heard off in the distance a series of orgasmic moans. Then I finally realized what I was doing and looked outside to see them rolling in laughter in the grass mimicking my grunts.
“Hey, I vocalize when I work! I can’t help it.” I explained as I started to laugh at myself.
“Okay that does it!” Kirsten said. “That helmet! Those noises! From now on you shall be referred to as Blue-balls.”
And for the rest of summer and into the following season, I was know as Blue-balls.
Scrappy observed my exhaustion as I stagger into operations. I was soaked in sweat, my face red from sunburn. Fender was the same. I had an ice-cold unopened can Pepsi in my hand rolling it across my face to provide some relief.
“Stood down eh?” Scrappy stated.
“Yup, but what a rush.” I exhaled. “We rolled in on the target and set up a pattern ready to lay down lead on that compound but there was nothing. Didn’t see anyone. Slayer Three-five said all the firing stopped so we picketed for another 20 minutes before Shamus got back.” I continued to explain. “They either just laid low or possibly escaped down the green zone through some other compounds and wadis.”
“Did you hear the I-comm chatter?” Scrappy added.
“Nope.”
He rewound the text-prompter and it showed.
Time XX:XX I-comm chatter FOB HOWZIE. “Top hat gone, Infidels in. Do we attack?”
Time XX:XX. I-comm chatter FOB HOWZIE. Second voice answered. “No. Wait and leave.”
“Top Hat?” I asked.
“Taliban calls them that because of the EO-IR ball on top. Looks like a top-hat.” Scrappy answered frankly.
Top Hat
“Oh yah..Huh.” It seemed an appropriate description.
“Otherwise pretty mundane day today?” he smirked.
“Mundane?” My eyes grew big as I responded with exclamation: “If steering around artillery blowin’ the crap out of something near Chalgour, doing overwotch of an IED on Highway One, scaring dickers off walls near FOBS while the Chinook gets skinned by a loader all followed up with a live-TIC in HOWZIE is mundane, then yes.”
I could see him smirking; knowing his sarcasm caught me.
“…And we are gonna go through allot of flares by the end of the tour. But I’m starting to get used to them firing off.” I summed.
He glared at my apparent sense of complacency toward the missile warning system. “Well, you guys keep doing your counter drills…you never know when one is going to be real.” He paused from the lecture. “Dickers were young I heard? Well, get use to it because that’s how the Taliban operate. They could be paying them or blackmailing them to report knowing we wont shoot them. But keep reporting this to Intel, that could be a mask for a bigger threat!”
Fender nodded. We left the room and proceeded to Int to report the activity.
“Hey Steve, check this out!” Scrappy called me back to his personal ready room a few doors down the hall.
“Right behind ya boss.” I reversed course to follow not knowing what he had to say.
Scrappy rounded the corner to his private office and opened his arms directing the attention to his bunk.
“A cott? You gonna sleep here?” I exclaimed. “No, no! You’ll burn out dude!”
He disagreed shaking his head. “Look, I figure I will be at work for the next 7,368 hours.” The number penned onto a white board above his desk. It was below a lined-out number 7,380 indicating a recent re-calculation. “I really don’t have any extra time for the transit to my bunk on the other side of KAF. This job will be non-stop and I am always on call. I plan on staying here. If I’m not busy, I’d rather bang off a half hour sleep then be sitting in a van driving to the other side…I knew it would be like this…so if you need me, I’ll be here.” Scrappy concluded flopping onto his bed, crossing his shins with his hands cupped behind his head. “Mind getting the light on the way out?” He smiled and closed his eyes.
“Your call buddy.” I raised my brow shaking my head and pressed his light out. “I’m heading over to the other side. I heard the rest of the team has arrived. Copilots and gunners.”
“Yup, they are just completing their weapons verifications and will be heading over to the tents around 7 p.m.” Scrappy informed with his eyes still closed. “They were a bit shocked as they walked in earlier during all the hell breaking loose around here. TIC, broken Chinook…And some duty officer in Ottawa told the SAMEO that the dents on the Chinook did not have any technical guidance in the repair manual so they had to ground it in RAMROD.”
“Your kidding! There were dickers getting ready for something out there.” I stated.
“Yup, I know and the SAMEO lost it on the phone with some paper-pushing, midnight desk commando in Ottawa. It was quite a show.” Scrappy sarcastically smiled as he rolled onto his side. “Anyway, it would be nice for you guys to meet your crew at the tent.” He waved his hand for me to leave so he could have a power-snooze.
“Roger that. See ya later.” I stated sarcastically. I closed the door then followed Fender and Big C out of the building to the Squadron bus stop.
“So how was your flight?” I asked.
“Sounds about the same as yours but we went north. Same shit different pile.” C answered with his level smile. “I got a grip on scheduling as well. I’ll be merging into that role full time tomorrow.” He further advised. He would be responsible for making sure all the missions were staffed daily and that maintenance had a pilot-crew available to help fix and test the aircraft.
A bus was available outside operations. It ran every hour across the base; staffed by a 430 driver restless to leave back for Canada the next day. The driver also picked up meals from the kitchen for ground and flight crews that worked through and missed the D-FAC meal hours.
“Well, it looks like the driver is having difficulties again with the kitchen staff, already five minutes behind.” Fender stated.
“No problem guys.” Big C sarcastically stated with his flat straight grin, “Not like we have anything else to do.”
“I could be in the Timmy’s line-up though.” I retorted thinking out loud.
Three of us stood by the bus stop, listening to the fighter jets land and take off every few minutes. Helicopters continued into evening and night missions. Apaches, chinooks, merlins, kiowas and various versions of Russian helicopters all adding to the continue buzz of activity on KAF. About twenty-five minutes later, the bus came around the corner briskly, the driver shaking his head in as he stopped. A tidal wave of dust followed.
“Regard ca, colis!” the driver exclaimed shaking a piece of paper in air as he opened the bus door. He threw the paper back on the dash and quickly got out to pick up the food buckets. “Da fuckin’ Police militaire gave me un ticket for to speed, tabernac! The kitchen, it was late again”. He continued frantically explaining in his Quebec accent. “I try to make up time to get za food ici; ensuite tabernac, ze police – zey pull me over…I was only going 50! That is not speeding, I tell zem. I says I have to get za food to za crews…” His arms and hands gesturing as he vented his frustration. “I tolz them zat 40 is just a suggestion, but zis? Zis is an emergency and I go 50! But zey do not agree and gives me zis ticket…colis.” He lights up a cigarette, and takes a large calming inhale. “I be right back and take you after I deliver zis food…and on zis, my last day, tabernac!” He walked away with the food buckets in his arms cursing under his breath with his cigarette hanging from his lips.
All three of us stood speechless, looking at each other trying not to say anything that would further ignite his anger; then we silently got on the bus and waited.
The Table
At the Tents:
I went into my corner space, which I had decorated with a carpet and make-shift lumber shelving. It was positioned for watching CDs on my computer at three feet away. My shipping boxes had arrived with extra clothes. I turned those boxes into leg stands upon which I placed a two foot wide piece of splintered plywood; alas a desk. An outgoing 430 Squadron pilot gave me a spinning office chair, which occupied the remaining floor space. Since it spun 360 degrees, it gave full access to my door, bed, shelves and desk. However, it was necessary to sit in the chair and spin to move in and out of my bedroom.
I hopped in my chair and spun towards my bed, got out and removed my sweaty tactical clothing hanging it on a line over my bed. I also hung towels and other clothes over the bed, which then completely engulfed all the space from 4 feet up. I had to stay at sitting level in order to see anything. If I stood up, my head entered a field of crisscrossed laundry lines. Despite the cramped quarters, it was becoming a comfortable sanctuary. Next-door, Fender was strumming quietly, to his “Hotel California” tune:
“On a dark desert highway,
fuckin hot wind in the air,
warm smell of the poo-pond,
stinging my nostril hair”
I giggled as I whispered: “Nice lick dude – don’t quit your day job!”
“Ha ha – whad ya mean? – I’m awesome!” he replied continuing to strum.
The door opened shining some light over my wall. “Hey guys, copilots are here.” Big C announced.
“Right on.” I replied. Despite just being together for training intensely during the past nine months, it felt like a family home-coming, but ironically in Afghanistan.
Irish and Arnie walked in. They were exhausted and did not look impressed. They forced a smile and gave each captain the alpha-male man hug then stopped in shock of the confined space. Irish was an intelligent and technically apt individual but preferred things to be of 1st world standard.
“You guys got in a TIC today huh?” Arnie asked excitedly.
“Not really.” Fender responded.
“We got called in, all jacked up up, briefed it and rolled in.” I added.
“But nada.” Fender sang.
“What?” Irish asked perplexed.
“As soon as we set up on the target area, they broke contact and hid or ran. I-comm chatter had them pausing for another day….so we hung around until Shamus got back and came home.“ I briefed.
“So cool. Awesome.” Arnie whispered.
I nodded. “Yup, a little exciting though.” I looked over to Irish who was listening intently as I pointed him down the narrow hall.
“Irish, good to see you man. You’re space is two down on the left, under the internet repeater wires!” I excitedly welcomed him. I figured this is how Grumpy felt when he showed me around.
“Thanks?” He responded hesitantly. His space did not even have a functioning light bulb. His bed was tipped up sideways with the mattress leaning against it. There was some broken plywood furniture thrown aside in the space. It looked like a garbage room.
“Hmmm…” I patted him on the shoulder. “Mine was like that a few days ago. It’ll be fine, we’ll get some light bulbs from the American PX, sweep the floor, and put a rug down …it’ll be like home in no time.” I tried to be encouraging, yet in a sarcastic manner.
He was unimpressed.
Arnie voice blurted from down the tent hall, “10 months!!! You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!” he then giggled quickly seeing the potential as he scouted other rooms. I knew it was bad, but I was already over my shock and able to relive it through their reaction. Arnie grunted then flexed his proud ‘Schwarzenegger’ physique and moved a massive crate clearing space for his gear. “Aaarrghh!” He exerted, “Perfect…Actually, I think it’s gonna be just fine.” He retracted as he looked at the worse condition of Irish’s.
Hollywood was at the other end. He was a tall and always cheery young aviator. As a charismatic storyteller, ‘Hollywood’ only seems fitting as a pseudonym. He was always trying to attain hardship stories to share with his old infantry buddies for credibility. He felt he was losing credibility since he went to the Air force. “This is perfect!” He hollered as he gathered evidence with his camera.
Just add chair
He leaned over Irish’s shoulder. “Oh dude! Your room really sucks!” He paused, “…which is totally awesome!” He continued clicking away with his camera. Excitedly, he went down the hall inspecting everyone’s room.
Arnie smiled. “Okay, this is pretty cool!” he stated rhetorically. “But what the hell is that stench?” He had discovered the flora of the poo-pond.
Fender smiled while peeking out from his studio. “I’ll tell you what it is.” He started strumming the same tune again:
“On a dark desert highway,
fuckin hot wind in the air,
warm smell of the poo-pond,
stinging my nostril hair”
Arnie chuckled peaking into Fender’s space.
“Well, you asked.” I smiled at Fender’s lyrical response.
Fender laughed from behind the canvass wall as he rehearsed his song once again. Big C smiled and explained about the sewage plant a few hundred meters away.
Irish continued complaining. “This dust is burning my eyes out!…Oh shit, what the fuck have I got myself into?…I have a dust headache.”
“They have Claritin at the PX. Already on it buddy.” I barked down the hall giving a suggestion to relieve the pain.
The door at the other end of the tent opened interrupting the banter with Grumpy cheerfully entering.
“Welcome home!” He was so happy to see the guys, but also rejoicing in experiencing their initial discomfort. Having all the co-pilots around was like a piece of home coming to this God-forsaken place. KAF just became a little more bearable. However they were not as excited; and still sleep-fucked.
“How’d the weapons shoot go guys?” Grumpy asked openly.
“That was crazy! Everyone was falling asleep while shooting.” Hollywood answered laughing. “I thought I was gonna experience my first casualty of war.”
“It was kinda dangerous!” Irish stated matter of factly. “I’m not sure it was thought out properly.”
“How many do-overs did you get?” Grumpy acknowledged smiling looking at Arnie who appeared sleepy.
“Ha ha.” Arnie forced. “But how’d you guess?”
“I think we had five on our validation.” Grumpy answered looking around from someone to nod in agreement. Big C dropped his chin twice in agreement. “Yup.”
“I think we had 5 or 6 demonstrating the Mexican unload (unloading by shooting all the rounds until empty but without authority).” Arnie answered. “No one got killed so I guess that’s good.”
“The trucks are arriving with your shit guys. Let’s help them unpack and get their quarters all established. Big day tomorrow!” Big C coached with his senior wisdom.
Everyone filed into the dust ridden street forming an assembly line behind a 2-ton flatbed truck with dozens of kit bags and barrack boxes. Grumpy jumped on back of the truck and started reading names as he tossed a box to the next in line.
As the evening went on, I lay on my bed listening to the banter of the new guys carve out a home for the year to come. Someone found a light bulb for Irish so he was less disgruntled and Hollywood kept checking other rooms for ideas and taking pictures for his journals. He was excited and chuckling, finding humour in the collective discomfort. Shorty was another co-pilot. He lived across the hall and quiet; yet he had the driest sense of humour of us. He was across the hallway from me and liked his solo-reflective time. Irish continued to mumble about little bothersome things and asked other guys to help him; which they did. This was all under the musical umbrella of Fender lightly strumming tunes from songs he knew. Often repeating chords and words until he got it right before moving on to the next bar. Every ten minutes a pair of jet planes would drown out all sound as they shook the entire camp followed by Hollywood stating “That’s awesome!” And Shortly occasionally blurting facts out of no-where like: “Apparently the dust we are breathing is 30% camel shit.” This would be honoured with group silence for a few moments while everyone digested the fact. Then a snort-giggle of acknowledgment before returning to the murmur of business.
I slowly drifted to sleep in the comforting noise of my friends.
MMMMMRRRRAAAAAWWWWWRRRRRR.
“RWOKIT ATTAK, RWOKIT ATTAK, RWOKITT ATTAK”.
I rose up immediately. Heard the rocket attack warning and listened. I thought about rolling onto the floor as I heard all the new guys saying “Get down – get down!! 2 minutes on the floor and then the bunker!” However, my new chair was in the way.
I listened for an impact explosion. I didn’t hear any. I smiled at the commotion of the other guys scuffling to find their helmets and weapons. Then I turned my light off and closed my eyes. I heard the guys bitching about trying to find a place to lay down on the floor.
“Fuck I have no space.”
“My ass is in the air.”
“Turn on a light. What do we next again?”
“2 minutes then the bunker.”
“Oh right…did you hear an explosion?”
Two minutes later they shuffled by going to the shelter.
The thought of that being 58 for the American I met calmed me. So this time, I hid in silence falling back to sleep.
This entry is based on true events. However, the time line has been modified. Characters and dialogue were fictionalized.
When pilots are away from flying for a few weeks, it takes a day or two to get past robotic skills and smooth again. It’s like any other skill; you get rusty and lack fluidity. Combine that with war stress, the threat of people trying to kill you and poor sleep due to poo-pond stench and it takes a little longer to get into the “groove.” But today I was feeling the ‘groove’. I was in the aircraft, my scan and feel was normal and I started to relaxed again…vigilant yes, but relaxed (although my crew may have different opinions). I was ten kilometres outside the wire looking ahead to Fender’s aircraft. I was enjoying the beauty of the ruggedness. The image of the griffon helicopters against the jagged peaks of the mountains were surreal. The sky was intensely bright, piercing blue and captivating.
One of the most beautiful of Wiggy’s shots over Kandahar
My glaze over the terrain was broken as shots of smoke bursting near Fenders aircraft.
“Breaking right, threat 10 o’clock!” Fender’s aircraft jaunted right following the Chinook who lumbered right while making the call.
doodle doodle doodle doodle …a high pitched tone and light illuminated indicating a missile threat left from our ASE gear.
“Do you see a plume left?” I yelled to my gunner. “I got nothing.” Referring to the potential missile coming our way.
“Keep the bank light. I gotta keep my guns on the ground.” The left gunner commented. “I’m lookin’ for plume…..Its just a false alert…no worries. But if you bank to hard, my guns are too high and I cant shoot back….fly the guns…remember?” He added to coach me.
“Roger that, fly the guns.” I repeated. I was beginning to get the hang of it.
My training kicked in and I turned left toward the threat. Realistically, we can’t beat the missile…that’s why the flares were there. We have to be smooth and let them do their job. However, if we can find the source of plume, we can shoot back and get the bastard before they send the next one.
“Counter left! 10’oclock. ASE alert! Looking!” I responded over the radio…after being coached.
“False alert.” The radio cracked with Fender’s voice.
“Roger that.” I answered.
“Yup…I am really starting to get annoyed by that.” Fender’s heightened voice transmitted. The veterans chuckled at us new guys again.
“You won’t even pay attention to it in a week from now,” the desensitized left gunner added over the radio with a chuckle inspired by his amusement to my over reaction.
“Check the impact at two o’clock, 5 kilometres.” Someone commented over the intercomm.
I looked over to the right and in the distance, explosions of dust were rising near the Salavat mountains; it was the artillery from the Canadian arty guns at Sperwan Ghar. They were firing as briefed at our Ops Walk earlier in the day, hence the reason for flying the Reg route.
“Damn! Someone’s having a bad day!” The left gunner commented as he stretched his head forward to look at the activity.
“It’s best stay out of the way and then check-in with Slayer on the return route, after we get rid of the dog.” Fender radioed referring to the chinook task as the priority.
“Roger that.” I replied.
“Woof – woof.” Another voice added sarcastically over the radio, obviously from Blowtorch inputting his displeasure with being referred to as the dog.
As we neared RAMROD, our formation of helicopters dropped off the high dessert and into the lower plains along the Tarnac valley. There wasn’t much of a valley; just a dried river bed scorched from centuries of heat. Most of the water was underground. Hundreds of miles of tunnels existed deep beneath the dessert floor where water supplies were sought. It was easily marked by water fetching tripods every few hundred meters stretching for dozens of miles.
Reg meets the dessert.
“Ramrod is on the nose 5 kilos.” Blowtorch called. “Going straight in from here.”
“Check that.” I answered. “31 you got the base?”
“Check.” he answered as he called the FOB on the radio.
“FOB Ramrod, Blowtorch 60 inbound landing in 3 minutes, Shakedowns will stay airborne and loiter. Got anything for us?” Fender asked.
“Roger that Blowtorch Flight. I got a couple pallets to load. For the Shakedowns we had an RPG and SAFIRE from the South West earlier today. It seems to have quieted down, but can y’all put a little pressure on over there? Take a poke around please.”
“Blowtorch 60 Flight, roger that sir. The chinook is on final now. Shakedowns breaking off to the south. You got any friendlies we need to know about?” Fender responded.
“Roger that. Along Highway one to the north, we got an IED team along the highway, maybe just show a little support for them too. Otherwise, no-one else outside the wire.” The southern accent responded.
As we finished the conversation, Fender led our two helicopters around the FOB. We watched Blowtorch land as the dust exploded totally engulfing the FOB. We then focused our vision onto the small village of compounds west and the highway to the north.
“Blowtorch, wheels down.” The radio sounded. It was a confirmation that they were okay. Otherwise we wouldn’t know for several minutes until all the moon-dust cleared.
Blowtorch landing
“Check that.” I answered.
“Got some clutter on the Highway. Let’s check it out. High then low.” Fender stated.
“Roger that.” I answered.
“RAMROD, this is Shakedown, is there an IED ROZ? Any flight restrictions?” Fender asked over the radio.
“Negative. It is blown, they are just clearing wreckage right now and want to make sure no one takes any pot-shots at ‘em.” The FOB answered.
“Roger sir.” Fender answered. His aircraft was high above the highway, we could see a black scorch mark and a flipped vehicle along the road. Local traffic deviated into the dessert to bypass while several Afghan National Army and American military vehicles scoured and secured the smouldering truck.
Fender’s helicopter subtly dipped a wing and he began plummeting from the sky. Obvious he was going in for a closer look. We followed. Our mission at this point was to protect him. He was looking around for ambush sites that the American’s couldn’t see. Our job was to simply protect him, our fire-team partner, while he did his job.
“Got nothing.” Fender stated as we flew a few orbits around the vehicle. We also looked into the mountains and nearby wadis for any possible dickers.
“Me either….Follow me, lets split it up a bit. I’ll stay low you go high.” I took the lead and veered towards the town.
Fender climbed high out of small arms range but stayed close behind to draw attention away from me. I turned towards the north side of the town and was really low off the deck, about 50 feet.
“30 this is 31, you got a couple guys just on the back side of the compound roof observing from behind those trees at 11 o’clock.” Fender advised.
“Check that, 11:00? 1500 meters?” I asked.
“Roger that.”
“Rolling in.” I steered the chopper directly towards them altering my course abruptly. Fender followed but more central over the small compound – he stayed high.
As we approached the trees and the wall of the compound. A head popped up to look at us. His eyes got big and he rapidly dove down behind the wall in surprise.
“Ha Busted!” the right gunner called out. “Contact FAM, 1 o’clock,” he continued. His voice was calm…this was normal.
“He just dropped off the wall and is scrambling into the compound.” 31 stated over the radio.
I popped the helicopter up and banked slightly to give the right gunner freedom to protect us with the gun. A man, maybe a boy…teenager ran into the compound. They all looked the same age from 15 to 25 it seemed; then they turned 40.
“I’m breaking it left down the wall.” I called.
“Them fuckers use kids to dicker too.” The gunner stated.
“How’s it look up there?” I asked Fender.
“Really quiet. Just that dicker. He’s gone. Probably a WAC.” Fender answered.
“It was a WAC…dicker no doubt.” I answered. “Let’s keep patrolling.” We rejoined a tighter formation and circled for more observation.
“RAMROD, this is Shakedown. You got a Dicker-WAC on the wall, North east corner by two trees.” I reported then chuckled realizing how that sounded.
“Roger that. They have the kids reporting on all the activities while the fighters lay low…What’s the POL?”
“Pretty quiet. Don’t see anyone out.” I answered.
“Ya alright. Usually there is more activity than that. Maybe something brewing. Just keep a little overt presence if you can. We’ll see if the Cell-phone i-comm chatter is active. Y’all keep your heads-up.” The radio responded. The voice was different; probably the duty officer stepping up instead of the radio operator suggesting our vigilance was necessary.
“30 flight this is Blowtorch…we’re gonna be awhile. They just drove the forklift into the side of the chopper. Got some ribs damaged. We’re trying to get Scrappy on the Sat Phone.” The chinook called.
“30 roger, you broke?” I answered.
“Dunno yet, still seeing if we can fly it like this. Standby.”
“Check.”
“Fender, how much gas you got?” I asked.
“Maybe twenty minutes but no TIC reserve.” He answered stating he would have to go straight back and wouldn’t be able to fight along the way if we delayed much longer.
“Okay.” I paused. “Give him ten minutes then we will go fuel?”
“Roger that…they have a couple FARP (refuel) points available by the looks of it. Sounds good. I’ll advise RAMROD.”
Meanwhile in Operations.
“Sir, we got a TIC in Howzie Madad.” Shakedowns can be there in 10 minutes if we leave Blowtorch.” The radio operator informed Scrappy.
Scrappy was sitting on the bird table. When it wasn’t used for planning, he often placed the chair on the table and looked forward as if he was Captain Kirk on the Enterprise.
Initially it was for humour. But he soon realized he could monitor everything more easily from above all the staff-heads. People could still walk around in the crowded floor space so it became operationally practical. It looked funny but practical.
“Got it. I see on the text board that Shamus is responding. They have 30 minutes fuel. I expect our guys will have to swap in when they BINGO fuel.” He pondered. “Get Shakedown to refuel now and we’ll have them available to cover Shamus in 30 minutes when Blowtorch 60 gets back.”
The satellite phone rang. Scrappy hopped down and picked it up.
“Fuck…Blowtorch is damaged in RAMROD. Fuckin’ forklift damaged the bird….get me the Squadron Maintenance Officer (SAMEO),” he hollered waving the phone. Things were starting to get complex.
The Radio Operator (RADOP) picked up his phone and called the SAMEO. After a quick explanation he hung up.
“On his way Major,” he reported to Scrappy formally then continued onto the radio….”Shakedown 30 Flight, this is Freedom Ops. I need you guys to FARP up now. Another task possibly coming in.”
“Roger that.” He heard my voice acknowledge.
“Blowtorch 60, this is call sign 5 (SAMEO). What’s the matter?” Scrappy observed the SAMEO chatting on the satellite phone.
“Bulkhead ribs and ramp actuator? Roger. Is anything leaking? Does the ramp work?” He asked.
“Roger that. You guys feel comfortable bringing it home? If not or if anything structural, we can shut you down and get ya later.” He advised over the sat phone.
After listening and while rapidly researching a technical manual, he confirmed. “Okay, nothing is structural. Bring er back boys. Okay, Shakedown is fuelling…see you in 30 minutes.” He looked over to Scrappy.
“Scrappy, just bring it back. They described the damage to me and it appears superficial. Forklift twisted and the load damages some parts of the rear ramp and walls near the bulkhead. He described the damage and no systems were wrecked. They can bring ‘er home.” The SAMEO coached. “We’ll fix ‘er back here.”
“Roger that. I’ll dispatch them.” Scrappy answered and pointed to the radio operator who got on the radio.
“Hey check the text prompter…our guys just called in some dicker near RAMROD.” Scrappy rhetorted.
Time: XX:XX Shakedown 31 reports one times FAM dicker at grid XXXXXX 2500m SW RAMROD. Dicker ran into compound. Shakedown continues observing.
“Okay, I’ll close the loop with Ottawa.” The SAMEO concluded as he went into a side office to call his superiors in Ottawa.
“Let me know when they get airborne, I’m going to brief the boss.” Scrappy called to his radio operator who was monitoring the satellite tracker on the Chinook. “Hey, how much playtime does Shamus have?” he asked.
“About 25 minutes sir, according to their last check in with Slayer.”
A voice raised interrupting the office. “What the hell are you talking about?” a muffled and angry voice called from the next room. It was the SAMEO on the phone.
“It’s airborne now, I am NOT going to ground it. I know it’s not in the minimum equipment dispatch list…but I need it here to fix it.” Everyone stopped to listen to the rage.
“Jesus Christ! You want me to send a Mobile Repair Team half way to Helmand for a dent in the aircraft….do you have any idea what the fuck is going on around here? Get me your supervisor!” He paused. “I don’t give a fuck that it’s 11 pm over there. We’re in the middle of a war over here and shit happens…right now there’s a dicker on a wall ready to fire an RPG round into FOB RAMROD as soon as the griffons leave, so the Chinook is fuckin’ moving. Put this in your log and have him call me when he wakes.” Slam, the phone hung up. He walked out of the room and frowned towards Scrappy shaking his head.
“I better talk to Skipper, there’s gonna be shit storm coming from Ottawa. I’ll be fucked if some junior duty officer watching TV at a duty desk downtown Ottawa is gonna fuck up my day here.” He stormed out of operations.
AT RAMROD
“Freedom Ops, this is Blowtorch 60 Flight, skids up. Back in 20 minutes.” The Chinook lead’s voice called in.
“Roger Blowtorch out to you…Shakedown 30 Flight, I need you to escort Blowtorch to the KAF Control Zone then get back to Howzie. TIC in progress, Shamus has two-zero minutes playtime until refuel.”
“Shakedown 30 roger that. Re-task to Howzie. We’ll break off near Dand.” I called in. “Blowtorch are you guys okay solo from Dand?”
“Roger that! My machine is solid, damage isn’t affecting us at all.” Blowtorch 60 responded.
“31 checks.” Fender also acknowledged. I noted and empathized with his tone. Howzie had a bad reputation. Many helicopters came back from there with extra holes. It was the shit. The big game in town. There were more bullets flying there every day then the rest of the A.O.
“Woo-hoo. Alright. Last day in theatre and gonna get me some payback.” An excited gunner called over the intercom.
“Yaaaa, go Infidels!” The right gunner added.
I tried to add my excitement but at this point of the game it was more anxiety than excitement. We were going to Howzie. I looked out in the direction of Howzie. It was about 10 kilometres to my left and abeam, smoke was rising from obvious combat. The small silhouettes of the kiowa warrior choppers were buzzing in circles. Shamus 11 and 12.
My vet copilot sensed my newness. “Alright Cap…no worries. When we get to Howzie, the shit is all within a few hundred meters of the highway, but north of the highway is safe, dessert… I suggest getting a tactical talk-on from the north, maybe fly the guns into the threat area, and then…well we get into ‘er.” I nodded and held my thumb up.
The Chinook peeled off as we approached Dand. KAF was a few miles away and visual. He was on his own. Fender and I broke off towards WILSON northside of the mountains and climbed high.
“You guys be careful, Blowtorch 60 out and switching to KAF tower.” the chinook called.
“Roger that Blowtorch.” I answered then switched to Freedom operations.
“Freedom Ops, Shakedowns 30 Flight is breaking off from Blowtorch. You have them now. We are heading to Howzie.” I relayed my actions and intent.
IN OPERATIONS
“Shakedown, roger that. We’re monitoring.” The radio operator stated referring to the text board. As he turned he looked at the duty officer, “Better get the boss, Shakedown’s going to a TIC in progress.”
A few moments later, Scrappy and Skip entered the room with the SAMEO in tow. Additionally, in the hallway were a few fresh 408 co-pilots were being oriented – first day on the job. The watched as the 3 senior officers walked by dealing with one crisis as another rose.
“Welcome guys. Good to see you. Wait here we’ll chat when I’m done but Blowtorch 60 is damaged; Shakedown 30 and 31 are going into a TIC. Welcome to the war.” Skip stated matter of factly as he rushed by. Leaving their eyes-widened in awe-struck reality shock.
“Scrappy, mind getting your Enterprise chair off the bird table.” He jested as Scrappy cleaned off the table. The senior officers gathered around watching the UAV feed and text prompter for the pay-by-play.
This complexity of multiple activities would be the daily norm. Both Scrappy and Skipper would actually go flying outside the wire about once a week just to relax from operations stress. It was probably mentally easier to go get shot at than deal with the constant bull shit from the varying layers of headquarters and national command. I am sure there were many frustrated Colonels in Ottawa, trying to get feedback from our CO while enjoying their morning coffee only to be greeted by our radio operator, who would sarcastically state: “Sorry sir, he can’t come to the phone, he’s outside the wire getting shot at right now.”
“Update please.” Skipper asked as he stepped behind the bird-table.
“Roger sirs.” the radio operator started to brief. “We got Blowtorch 3 miles out estimating the ramp within five minutes.”
“Any problems reported?” The SAMEO asked concerned not knowing how the airframe or severity of the damage may have extended.
“No sir, all good…and Shakedown’s are enroute to Howzie to cover for Shamus while they refuel.”
“What’s the update for Howzie?” Skip inquired.
The radop looked over at the teleprompter screen and summarized: “IED, rocket and small arms attack from the south. American’s lost a vehicle and a platoon dispatched on foot south. They are moving slow due to the mine traps. Shamus put a few rockets down and pursued some FAMS into some compounds around here.” He pointed to an area near the FOB on the bird table.
Skip took a breath. “Who is out there?” he asked as he went over to the manifest list beside the door.
“Steve and Fender’s crew. They refuelled in RAMROD, should be good to sustain for awhile.” Scrappy added.
“They haven’t checked in with Slayer yet; I expect a text prompt and update shortly sir,” the radop stated.
“Okay – roger that. That’s why we’re here guys.” He paused looking at the SAMEO and Scrappy. “SAMEO with me. Scrappy, you have the helm. Call me when things calm or get worse.” He left the room and walked through the new copilots who were in the hallway listening attentively to the action. The facial expressions revealing a group polarity from fearful jaw dropping “wholly shits” to gritty excited “fuck yahs!”
Airborne near HOWZIE:
“Slayer TOC, Shakedown 30.” I called the airspace weapons controller in charge.
“Shakedown 30, Go for Slayer.”
“Hey Slayer. We are two times CH146, 8000 rounds seven point six-two dual Dillon door guns, sixty minutes playtime, ten minutes back from Howzie, request an an airspace update.” I replied.
“Roger Shakedown 30, my ROZ is HOT, Guns are HOT, Gun to target line is two-five-zero degrees from WILSON to Howzie. Two times Shamus call-signs on site, require BINGO fuel now. Check in with Shamus one-two on frequency four five point eight for your handover. Fires is controlled by my FAC (Forward Air Controller) same frequency Slayer three five.” Slayer ordered.
“Roger all that Slayer, switching over to Slayer 35 for the Battle Update Brief (BUB).” I responded.
We were just passing WILSON, we had 4 minutes to go. No one talked on the section radio nor the intercom, everyone just listened. TICs were very busy with fighting, artillery, mortars, infantry movement, and casualty evacuation (casevac). Everyone was on the radio. And everyone followed strict protocols. If protocols were screwed-up and nonstandard due to battle, then you just listened. Everyone had to know what was exactly happening before engaging with lethal force. Smoke was rising about 500 meters south of the FOB HOWZIE due to 2.75 inch rockets from Shamus. An American vehicle was burning on the road from an IED or RPG strike. Its was pretty obvious where the fight was happening. Now it was our turn.
“Shamus this is Shakedown, inbound two minutes from the north, ready for your Handover brief.” I called on the radio.
“Shakedown, roger that, we are visual with you. Egressing south of you to WILSON to refuel. Lotsa shit happening. Head over to the north of Howzie. Contact Slayer three-five for an update brief. We’ll be twenty minutes.”
“Roger that Shamus.” I answered as we went to the north about 1000 feet above the ground. Everyone could see the area well and could quickly orient to the fight.
“Slayer 35, Shakedown’s checking in.”
“Roger That Shakedown. I check your status from Slayer TOC. We got FOB HOWZIE. 200 meters south is twenty five dismounted friendlies.” he stated.
I looked frantically. The left gunner called it. “By the gas station, down the alley, visual.”
“Okay thanks, gott’em,” I answered. “Slayer 35, visual friendlies.”
“From the friendlies, two hundred meters south is smoke. West of smoke 50 meters is a compound.” He continued to talk my eyes onto the target. I could see in my peripheral vision my entire crew stretching their neck to follow. Some holding thumbs up acknowledging they could see the target area.
“3 times FAMs last seen entering that compound. Shots still being fired towards my infantry. My plan is to advance friendlies on that compound. Mortar fire is under my command directly from WILSON is cold (not shooting currently). Your mission is to set up close observation over my friendlies on that area on an east – west pattern and be prepared to suppress that area while my guys move. All your effects to the South of friendlies…how copy?”
I then repeated back to Slayer as I rolled the helicopter and dove out of the sky towards the objective. “Slayer – Shakedown is visual friendlies. Tally target area. All effects south. Rolling inbound for overwatch.”
“31 checks.” Fender responded as he rolled in with me.
My face and hands tingled; and for a second I could feel my heart beat…but just for a second.
MONTREAL route. It was a standard logistical resupply mission conducted by BLOWTORCH. I was in Shakedown 30 and 31. Our mission was to keep them from getting shot at. Basic training 101 – Keep your fire-team partner alive. It was no different in aviation. My fire-team partner was Shakedown 31. And BLOWTORCH 60? Well it didn’t have a fire-team partner. It just seemed to run quickly with it’s tail between its legs hoping not to get it’s butt smacked by a Taliban rocket. I say this entirely in jest but its part of a long, loving rivalry between pilots of varying feather.
I had been in theatre a few days and remnants of 430 Squadron, a few gunners and copilots, were still flying with the new 408 Squadron captains: Fender and myself along with a Blowtorch captain were commanding the three aircraft for MONTREAL route today. The Operations Officer and Commanding Officer were having their first day of command by quarterbacking the operations as the 430 management stepped aside.
The Commanding Officer ‘CO’, Skipper for brevity, had been in theatre for a week. Skip had been meeting with all the major players affecting our operation. He was a young, keen commanding officer with a dry sense of humour. It was not uncommon to see him routinely cycle around the rugged, dusty 10 km route from south-side to north-side KAF; spitting out the dust on arrival from between the teeth of his grin. He was a keenly aware person, easily recollecting detail from incidents as complicated as battlefield TICs to as unrelated as which DFAC omelet chef served the best yolk free breakfast. Today, Skip was over-watching our mission planning and pre flight launch authorization brief; he was taking official command.
“Shakedown 30 and 31?” Skip asked taking role call.
“Yes sir, and this is my crew. Fender? “ I pointed to the guys and asked Fender to answer the same.
“All here.” Fender answered looking at his team.
“Go ahead Scrappy.” Skip passed on the reigns to his Operations Officer.
Scrappy (a well suited nickname for these blogs.) This was his first in-theatre dispatch briefing in which he had full control. We called them “Ops-Walks”. All crew had to be walked through the leadership for the latest briefings on the threat and environment before flying. Scrappy was not a stranger to this as he had been to Afghanistan in earlier years in a tactical role. Scrappy was stalky and strong; organized and thorough; but feisty – yes he had a temper. He was both blunt as a manager yet respectful of experience and position. He did not like to be crossed. He was not one to use discussion to resolve an issue. His response to someone frustrating him was usually a covert physical ‘smarten up’ shot or kick to the shins when no-one was looking. And if you were fortunate to experience his playful side, it was not uncommon for him to follow up a few fine tequilas with “da boys” and embark on his version of UFC athleticism.
“Alright. Intelligence…go.” Scrappy directed to the Sergeant who pointed to the ‘bird-table’. It was a small table in operations that mapped out the entire AO and showed where all the FOBs were located.
“Along Highway One, several IED attacks overnight here and here.” The Int Sargaent started. “On a positive note, a bicycle bomber was getting ready near the prison and his bomb pre-detonated taking only himself out.”
Edge of the Reg
The crowd of the a dozen onlookers chuckled. “Poetic justice.” Someone stated rhetorically. The sergeant continued.
“You have 3 Canadian patrols in these areas here, here and here.” He pointed to roads near Sperwan Ghar to Wilson. “The guns have been alive from Sper to the area here so I suggest you take the Reg Dessert route to avoid conflict with their artillery.”
“Roger, got it.” The Blowtorch captain stated. He would lead the formation. Shakedowns would picket the landing zones and protect him enroute. Picketing means going to check it out and do a quick look before the chinook lands.
“You are heading out to FOB RAMROD. It’s here in the middle of no-where. Few threats but you need to watch for infiltration from compounds here and here.” He continued to point out where previous assaults have occurred. “…and stay away from those locations while waiting.”
About 20 km from RAMROD…This was an actual photo on that day of an enroute IED.
“That’s not what happens. Ya know Steve.” My French co-pilot interrupted, whispering over my shoulder.
“I know. Chip told me the first thing the base asks us to do while waiting is to go and probe those areas for any POL.” I answered. I was now getting the gist of things and it had only been a few trips. “Fore-checking.” I summated.
“Yes, fore-checking.” Fender joined into the interruption as he liked the hockey term.
The Int sergeant shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“I’m just telling you what I have to guys.” He added. He knew we were already keen to start poking and provoking. Basically help the soldiers in the FOBs to look at their problem areas while we are in the area…but it included some risk.
“I know you want to help the guys on the ground, just be careful.” Scrappy closed. “We are still getting use to things around here.”
Scrappy spoke from experience. He had operated the UAV in previous Afghanistan tour and had seen ugly things. He knew what risks were involved and was in his executive position for a reason.
“The threat is real!” He continued. “Out in BASTION earlier today a Chinook got hit. That’s only a few kilometres from where you will be. Pictures Sarge.” Scrappy raised his eye-brows suggesting the sergeant add some graphics regarding the threat.
A picture of a clean hole with 4 razor thin fin marks at the key clock angles was displayed.
“Wow! Did it detonate?” Fender asked.
“No. Brits got lucky. This RPG round went clean through the side of the helicopter, then a seat back and out the other side without exploding.” The Sergeant briefed.
Camp BASTION – Helmand Province
Eyes in the room were large. He had everyone’s attention.
“And check this picture out.” He showed a picture of an RPG round sitting in the back of a chinook. Undetonated. Then a subsequent picture of a scraped helmet and a 4 inch diameter hole in the wind screen.
“Tabernac!” A gunner swore in astonishment.
The round had gone through the front window, off the helmet of the pilot and spun around like a hot potato in the chinook.
“What happened?”
“They were on approach in Helmand province (about 100 km west) and this happened. They continue the landing into the FOB, completed an emergency shut down and everyone scrambled out racing the possible explosion. Fortunately, it didn’t. E-O-D later secured it.” The Int sergeant briefed trying to keep a professional tone but a few intonations surfaced from the near fatal misses of the day. EOD is Emergency Ordinance Disposal. They are specially trained to disarm and destroy explosives. If you saw the “Hurt Locker” it is basically like those guys.
“I guess it sucks to be a dog (referring to the Chinook)…Dat’s why we stay with the griffons and shoot back.” The French accent from a gunner cockily added.
The levity helped add a chuckle to the crowd, but not so much for the Blowtorch crew (Chinook).
“Alright gents. Time to get a move on. You got wheels up in 35 minutes….just take ‘er easy out there.” Skip added and left the room.
“Section brief guys, come over to the main briefing room.” The Chinook lead stated.
The three captains walked into the next room and stood having a quick chat.
“Okay, you know the route and the FOBs. The only one new is RAMROD. I will do my approach from this direction and exit this way unless you see anything.” He threw his map on a table and pointed near the FOB. “I have a large tractor load to take so I may be on the ground an extra 20 minutes. You have enough fuel?” He asked.
“Yes. I should be good. But they have gas there so if there are any delays, let me know and we’ll top up.” I added looking at Fender who nodded at the refuel plan.
“What’s gonna really happen is that we have extra time and this FOB always asks you to look around at this town here.” He pointed at a small village very close on the map. “They get rocket attacks and RPG attacks from here. They also have numerous IEDs in the area and are looking for an explosives factory in the town too…so expect you’ll be requested while we load.”
“Alright, got it.” I added.
“How you wanna do it?” I looked at Fender.
“Well, let’s go high and get an overview first then go into low-trail formation and poke at anything that looks interesting….the rest we’ll coordinate on the radio.”
“Sounds good….check in on the radio in 20 minutes?” I confirmed.
“Check.” The other two captains acknowledged as we walked out the door. The blast of heat and light shocked me back into Afghanistan climate reality as I left the darker, air conditioned building.
I could smell the dust in the air again and a few steps later beads of sweat started rolling down my forehead. It was only 34 degrees but with multiple layers of flight clothing on, it made your body heat up quickly.
I went to the armoury containers where my ‘go-bag’ and rifle were prepared and waiting. I quickly put on my armour and tactical vest. I put my bag on my back, picked up my rifle, loaded it and hoisted two tourniquets around my upper thigh. As I walked towards the helicopter to meet my crew, they slipped and fell around my ankles so my last 50 yard macho walk was a shuffle so to not lose my tourniquets under my feet.
I held arms out palms up. “What? What?” I barked at the right gunners shaking head. He laughed and continued feeding the ammo link into his Dillon gun.
4000 rounds of link – 75 seconds on target.
“Okay let’s brief.” I ignored their me-directed humour.
“If we go down, 31 becomes our over-watch. Immediate drills are establish a fire-base around whatever main gun is working, you two are Right fire team.” I pointed to the right gunner and right seat co-pilot. “You and me, left fire team.” He nodded.
“Priority review…Fire base, Combat First aid, then first aid, then we grab gear and bound….rest we make up as we go. Check you gear, check your codes, any questions?”
Everyone nodded. Their faces became stoic. Eyes connected. They all knew what to do. A briefing was not required. But it set the tone. It was a reminder. There were individual rituals and there was a personal transitions that occurred. Everyone went through it at some point. Usually between the safe air-conditioned room with bravado and cocky banter to actually becoming the stoic warrior. And it was visible. Not every trip posed tremendous hazards. But every-trip had the potential of turning into a TIC, IED intervention, or responding to an attack on the chinook or yourself. There seemed to be an acceptance of mortality that had to occur for a person to get their job done. That is what I felt; and that its what I think I saw in everyone else’s eyes as we prepared to start the helicopter. We stopped becoming Steves, Fenders, Snapshots, Scrappy’s and became a focussed fire-team. Shakedown.
Two Canadian Armed Forces soldiers salute on the last Remembrance Day ceremony in Afghanistan at Camp Eggers in Kabul on Monday, Nov.11, 2013. Canadian Press, DND – Sgt Norm McLean.
I realize that military writing is often hard to follow. Acronyms take years to learn and as soldiers, we become desensitized and often forget they aren’t real words. Despite explanations given in early blogs, I know trying to remember what they mean can be difficult in later blogs. I’ll build it as I go. Thanks for reading. Steve
ANA
Afghan National Army – the soldiers that NATO is training to eventually take control of their nation.
AO
Area of Operations. A term describing a geographical space where a nation or combat group focussed their work.
BDA
Battle Damage Assessment. A report given following a battle to give operations information.
CALL-SIGN
The name someone is called over the radio.
CHINOOK
A military CH47 helicopter. Can lift upto 20,000 pounds – 42 troops.
CO
Commanding Officer. The lead pilot in the Squadron.
COMPOUND
Home of local Afghanistan people. They resembled compounds as they were walled of hardened mud around a yard with a small living quarters inside. The walls could often be upto 3 meters high. Often large numbers of compounds joined together with access to each other creating villages or even cities.
CONTACT
This word is spoken when you see something but not designating it as friendly or enemy. ie: “Contact house,” means I see the house.
DFAC
Dining Facility. There were four main DFACs on base that the Canadian ate at.
DICKERS
Enemy person reporting on friendly activity for malicious intent. The enemy uses ‘dickers’ to observe where friendlies are located and subsequently signal triggermen to detonate IEDs or commence and attack.
EC DAY
Equipment Care Day. Every fourteen days. A day of minimal tasking giving the troops a chance to have a slower pace, a Bar-B-Q and breathe.
FAM
Fighting Aged Male.
GOLF
Radio talk indicating an artillery unit (guns)
GPS
Global Position System. Navigation system.
GRAPE_HUT
A huge mud structure often 3 stories tall. They were often half to one meter thick in places and hard like concrete. The Taliban used them as bunkers to hide and fight from.
GRID REFERENCE
An alpha-numeric sequence of numbers that identified an exact location on the ground.
GRIFFON
A military Bell 412 helicopter. Lift upto 3000 pounds, mostly ammo. In Afghanistan – 2-4 passengers maximum seasonally dependant.
IED
Improvised Explosive Devise. Used HME (Home Made Explosive). Primary weapon of terror for Taliban and insurgents.
INDIA
Radio Talk indicating an Infantry unit
INT
Slang for Intelligence. This could refer to the product or the person giving the Int.
KAF
Kandahar Air Field
LT
Lieutenant. A rank or position. Soldiers in a unit may refer to their Platoon commander as LT or Captain rather than sir or name.
MOAC
Mother of All Coffees: Green Beans special 28 oz. Coffee with 4 shots espresso
MX15
A Westcam product that greatly enhances visualsurveillance in the helicopter. Military and police units use them globally.
OPS
Slang for Operations. A place where all activity was coordinated.
PID
Positive Identification – term used to track and maintain a target. PID MUST be established and maintained prior to engaging with lethal force.
POL
Pattern of Life. A report about what kind of civilian activity is occurring. Normal or abnormal. Hiding out in the open.
PREDATOR – PRED
An American UAV
RAMP CEREMONY
A formal memorial service to honour the life of the fallen as he/she boards the aircraft to go back to Canada. Usually thousands attend of all nations as a voluntary gesture of honour and respect. During my tour, the ramp officials often kept people out because too many people showed up than was ramp space available for them to stand and honour the fallen.
ROMEO-TANGO = ROGER THAT = I UNDERSTAND,
I understand.
ROZ IS HOT
Restricted Operating Zone. It is of defined dimensions where only those persons authorized to enter may do so.
RFL (Restricted Fire Line)
This is a line on a map in which a person can not shoot across, nor move in some cases.
SNAFU
Expression: Situation Normal (but) All Fucked Up. Meaning that is normally all fucked up.
SNAKE-EATER
Slang for Special Forces soldiers.
TANGO
Radio Talk indicating a Tank unit
TERP
Interpretor, usually of Pashtun tongue that could listen on radio and tell the Canadians what the Taliban were saying.
TIC
Troops in Contact. Means they are usually exchanging bullets with the enemy.
TLS
Taliban Last Stand. The airport terminal where everyone gets off the aircraft on arrival and departure to theatre. The TLS is where the final American/Taliban fight was in the early 2000’s before KAF was taken over.
UAV
Unmanned aerial vehicle. Canadian used fun armed UAVs for observation and intelligence gathering. American UAVs also maintained a strike capability.
WACS
Woman and Children. A definite no shoot criteria. Often called to let other shooters know there was potential to harm women or children.
WADI
Name for a river or creek.
WAIT OUT
Radio word to say, I’m not answering yet. I need to get more information first or I am busy.
Stephen Robertson Consulting 