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.
“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.
Example picture of NVG Griffon – In Suffield Canada
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.
Bridge north of Masum GharMountain top of MAsum GharView towards east Bazaar e Panjwai from top of the ghar.
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.
Example of laser pointer using a PED2 and NVG
“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
One of my favourite Wiggy shots. Kandahar looking west.
Blog 12E. Senjeray PID RPG…the busy day continues (Still Irish’s mission)
Sunrise in SenjeraySenjeray and the Canadian A.O.Green Zone near Senjeray
……“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.
Example of mortar – in training
“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.
Zack McCormack from my hometown Sherwood Park Martin Joannette – Roto 7 Pat Audet – Roto 7 Andrew Miller – 26 June 2010 Angel Flight McNeil 21 June 2010 Kristal Geisebrecht – 26 June 2010 Those special people I remember from my tour.
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.
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 saw this many times. I speculated through dialogue and imagined a plausible situation. How would it transpire? What would the outcome be? What are the other perspectives?
There are so many casualties in war. Perhaps the most damaged veterans are the one’s that didn’t even know they were in the fight.
It was a late March afternoon. The sun was beating down, searing the desert and the mud walled compounds that lay below. It was well above 40 degrees. The locals kept cool in the afternoon by carrying out light chores or resting in the heat. In some areas, local men were preparing the fields for the grape harvest. Others were tending to the poppies that would be ripe soon for the opium harvest. Some were repairing their compounds from the winter rains of January and February. Many irrigation fields had corner holes to allow water to fill from the Arghandhab. They had to be repaired but in the afternoon, very little activity occurred.
146 in the Reg
“How’s the POL?” I asked my first officer referring to his awareness of any life in the compounds below.
“Quiet today.” He answered as he looked around.
“Don’t see too much…too hot.” Snapshot, my right gunner, added.
I looked back and he had his camera up. Occasionally, he would see unique sites that few others had the eye to appreciate.
“I don’t know how the ladies in these compounds have beautiful blue gowns yet everything else is dusty brown and dirty.” He observed.
“Ya, interesting. How do they keep those shimmering clean?” I added noticing a woman with her child in the corner of a compound near a shaded area.
We zipped by about 75 feet above her as we crossed over Nakhoney towards the Adamz-eye chain of compounds that stretched from Salavat mountain to the Reg in the south. It was a narrow band of homes, but extremely tactical for the insurgents. They could easily attack the Canadian FOB in Nakhoney and egress through the mine-filled grape-fields to the wadiis and compounds west.
“There’s a man and a woman with a little boy.” Snapshot noticed.
“Unusual this time of day.” I answered.
Men were usually at the market selling produce or working in the fields. Regardless, it was rare to see them together in compounds. They seemed to be dialoguing. The child seemed to be stuck to the mother not like a child would behave near a father.
“Who knows? Keep your eye’s out…this place is crazy.” I added. But nothing would ‘likely’ happen today. The opium harvest was the most important action this month. Fighting us infidel’s would be secondary. The prime mission was to sell the drugs, raise money and then take up arms after harvest in May.
We proceeded west to SPER for an over-watch task ignoring the events below. It was just another day.
Nakhoney and Adamz-eye area
“Look at the helicopter.” The woman told her son as they worked in the yard. She had a way of keeping her clothes shimmering in the sunlit sky as she tended to her chores.
“Yes, will they hurt us?” The boy asked.
“No, look at them; they usually wave if they see you.” She added.
She was about 25 years old. She was taking care of her wifely duties inside her compound – her home – about 600 meters west of Nakhoney in the Adamz-eye chain of villages that stretched from HYENA through LAKE EFFECT to the Reg Desert. She stayed in her home and tended to the needs of her family. Together they tended to the yard until some weapons firing commenced in the east towards the Canadian base. She was used to this. It was nothing unusual; occurring almost daily; she knew the difference between the sound of an AK-47 and a C7 assault rifle. She recognized the AK47 shots. The fighting had been going on long in her country. She had heard tales from her parents about the Russian invasions some thirty years earlier. She had witnessed her own horrors and wondered if the fighting and the hatred would ever end. Now the Taliban, and the ANA and more foreigners were in her land.
“Stay close to that wall.” She pointed east knowing it was the safest part of the compound.
She interpreted these shots as a Taliban ambush against a Canadian or ANA patrol. It was no concern of hers. The bullets would not be going towards her. Even if they did, the walls were thick and bullets could not penetrate them. She was safe as long as she did her duties inside the walls. Her and her son continued to tend to their work.
A man ran into compound from the east.
“Move inside.” He commanded fiercely.
“You can not be in here…my husband is not home.” She said humbly with her eyes to the ground.
“I know where you husband is…be silent and do as I ask.” He firmly stated moving towards here.
She pulled up her bright blue burka and covered her face as per customs; she grabbed her son and pulled him inside the house within the compound.
The man moved in the corner of a compound door, he maintained a watch down the road as he spoke with her. He was well aware of the combat occurring between Taliban and Canadian troops. He scanned in all directions. He held a small cell phone and was talking in short concerned yet angry bursts into the phone.
“Bring the package. Bring the package now.” A faint but panicky voice stated over the phone in Pashtun.
She could hear. She knew. The Afghan mother protected her boy and curled up with him in the corner across the room in terror. She recognized him, but he was not family. He had arrived from Pakistan during the winter. He had been working with her husband in the opium fields. He was a buyer, a soldier, and an insurgent.
The young boys whimpered in a shallow cry and leaned into his mother. She stroked his head holding him tight; covering his ears as the man looked over to him. They rocked together worried of the situation.
“Tell that boy to be quiet. Allah demands it.” He hollered. He was perturbed at the whiney interruptions towards the sensitive phone call.
“Now?” the man asked in the phone looking at the boy.
The mother saw his eyes and pulled her boy tighter.
Gunshots continued to echo a few hundred meters to the east. Then helicopters started to arrive. The sounds of AK-47s shot and also shot back. An occasional bullet zinged overtop of the compound.
Taliban fighter with AK 47
“I am trapped. The enemy is engaging from the north. I cannot get a clean shot at the Infidels. I need the package now.” The voice stated.
“No!” You cannot take him. No!” She argued. She held her son tightly. The boy started to cry.
He walked towards her angrily. “You insult me, your husband and Allah. Stop it.” He rose his hand threatening to strike.
She cried silently as tears fell down her face.
He grabbed the boy and pulled his arm. He started to whimper. The other hand holding the phone, which faintly but persistently continued demands.
“Yes, I am bringing the package.” The man answered into the phone looking directly at the woman.
The man took a deep breath and calmly kneeled down to the boy.
“Do not be afraid. It is time for you to become a man and stand up against the infidels and what they bring to the land.” He preached intently.
“This is a great noble task and Allah will protect you; you will be safe.” The man continued as the boy intently listened as he dried the tears from his cheeks. His mother went into a private room to hide her fearful tears.
“Allah will stop all the shooting when you go into the field of battle. You are special. All men will stop fighting. The man on the phone needs you. Allah will protect you.” He preached to convince the boy.
He pulled the boy out of the compound. The mother looked out from the shadows tears rolling down her face. The boy went limp with terror. The clenching grip of the man dragging him down the road towards the fire-fight. His face paralyzed and flushed of all emotion.
The helicopters buzzed above their heads as they walked towards a large grape-hut. He heard the bullets zipping above his head. Dust-splashes of bullets impacting the grape-huts a hundred yards ahead.
“I am bringing the package to you.” The man yelled into the phone.
The boy looked up to the helicopters. He saw the masked face of a door gunner looking directly towards him. He was aiming his weapon on the grape-hut. The boy knew the gun; it delivered the breath of Allah. The noise. The dust. The gunshots. The door gunner was not shooting yet but the boy could see him taking aim. He felt the painful squeeze of the man yanking him down the road forcing his numb legs to move. Numb with terror…
Stephen Robertson Consulting 