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.
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.
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…
M134 Dillon – Primary Weapon on Griffons, 3000 rpm, 1 per side. (This is a USA image)Dillon Firing at NightTypical rural Compound – PanjwaiiVillage in Panjwaii – South of Kandahar…Great to defend and snipe from.
Forward: This story may have some incorrect timelines and I replaced some people and/or merged personalities into single characters. The incident itself is factual. It happened. Dialogue obviously created from intent. Some people may not want to be linked whatsoever to these events. I respect that and your privacy. So you may recognize a situation, but not your character – only a consideration for your privacy; but I still need to tell the story. This event happened about 2/3rds through my tour. I want to start the blog someplace…may as well be in the seasoned action. Further blogs will fill in time and space. This event represented a segway from Counter Insurgency Operations (COIN) to War-fighting. It was time to start punching back, the rules changed and we were more than prepared.
Summer in Salavat….
As most days, the valley was brown and dusty; but had a rustic beauty where the dessert met the irrigated fruit, marijuana and opium fields closer to the wadis – “the green zones”. The sun blazed through the bright blue sky raising the temperatures to a common 40 degrees celsius. My section had just finished a Chinook escort and was heading out to do over-watch for infantry teams patrolling Panjwaii. As usual, the greenhouse heat in the cockpit was well over 50 and sweat poured down from my helmet filling my ear cups and stinging my eyes. Every now and then, to improve hearing, I pinched my lower ear cup, breaking the sound seal allowing the fluid to drain.
“Shakedown 25 Flight, this is Slayer TOC,” the radio opened requesting communication with my Canadian Griffon Weapons Team flying over the Tarnac River a few miles west of Kandahar Airfield, KAF. We had been in theatre for a half-year. It was to be a ten-month tour, one of the longest consecutive overseas tours the Canadian Forces had authorized since the Korean conflict. The fliers of 408 Tactical Helicopter Squadron, Rotation 8 (ROTO 8) or Task Force Freedom, were well into their routines and had become seasoned theatre pilots but not without weathering some operational and personal storms. Shakedown was more than a call-sign; it was our role.
“Go for Shakedown,” I curiously responded to what Slayer needed. Slayer controlled all the airspace in the Canadian area of operations – the AO. This involved aircraft weapons systems and he had direct access to artillery. Slayer responded to the fire support needs to both Canadians and the Allies working in this area. He also monitored all the Canadian troop activity in the Panjwaii area, one of the most violent areas in Afghanistan. He responded to their needs; which at this time of the year was numerous and daily.
“Shakedown. TIC in progress near Salavat. 22 in an IED ambush – Can you respond?” An Improvised Explosive Device is a homemade bombs made by skilled explosive manufacturers in rudimentary labs through the country. Sometimes they had enough explosive power to create craters ten meters in diameter across highways. They had been successful killing hundreds if not thousands of people over the past several years. 22 was the callsign of the infantry commander needing assistance because his Troops were In Contact with the enemy (TIC).
“Romeo Tango,” I responded affirmatively meaning ‘Roger That’ or yes.
“Shakedowns have 8000 rounds each of seven-six-two dual-Dillons and sixty minutes playtime,” I added to let Slayer know what weapons and ammunition type (7.62mm ball) I had on board and how much fuel time remaining.
“Contact India 22 for a Battle Update Brief,” Slayer directed and continued with critical airspace information. “My ROZ is hot but the guns are cold; cleared into my ROZ,” he added to advise me that his area was active but no friendly artillery was going to be threatening us in the ROZ (restricted operating zone). A Battle Update Brief is summary of situation directly affecting a commander’s troops. I would get that directly from the infantry officer I would be supporting.
“Guys, we got Troops in Contact – the guys near Salavat. They were on patrol when we last checked with Operations.” I advised my copilot and gunners.
My copilot was new, a first tour pilot. He was intelligent and inquisitive; however his enquiries were not always timely appropriate for the situation and I admit drove me crazy at times. Likewise, as a grumpy old bugger, I knew I drove him nuts too. Balance! He often asked for positive re-enforcement about his flying technique while concurrently flying the next sequence; usually absent-mindedly towards some threat, like the ground or another helicopter coming at us. This often led to an emotional response of ‘What the fuck are you doing…?’
However, after six months, accustomed to mutually working thru the stress, we became synced to each others’ quirks. So when these situations arose, we seemed to transition into battle in fluid harmony.
“Roger Haycce,” my always perky engineer exclaimed from the rear right gun position acknowledging he understood the situation and was ready. He was always excited about the mission to unfold despite knowing that the area around Salavat usually offered a challenge. He was a perpetually smiling, a keen Newfoundlander. He had a knack of being able to engage in battle yet still find the opportune moment to document the event with the camera permanently strapped around his neck. Of course interpreting his high speed accent was a challenge. “Haycee” translated was AC, or Aircraft Captain which he still calls me to this day.
“Taliban’s going down today,” Gunny’s voice flatly added from the left-rear seat. I served with three different army gunners, all of which were outstanding soldiers. But to save the names and confidentiality, I’ll blend them and write the best dialogue I can recall to the situation; not of course to minimize their unique individual character. These guys were all young, but had previous Afghanistan experience as an infantry soldiers; making them my ground tactical advisors. Gunny had a positive sense of humour blended with a keen professional eye. His marksmanship with the Dillon was remarkable. His accuracy suggests he had an in-brain firing computer figuring the helicopter flight path, winds and distance so that his first rounds landed on target; reliably. This would be extremely useful later in the war as I was requested to put suppressive fire less than 20 meters from friendly troops…another story.
“26, this is 25, we gotta TIC at Salavat! 22 needs support, switch to his frequency and monitor,” I directed to my wingman on the radio. He was flying in formation behind me, to cover me while I researched and choreographed the plan.
“25, this is 26, on frequency,” indicating he was on the army radio listening.
“Infantry 22, this is Shakedown 25 Flight checking in,” I radioed to the Platoon Commander.
“Shakedown, roger.” A loud, partially gasping voice answered. “We have had an IED explode at Grid Reference QQ41XX90XX. One ANA dead. My troops are cordoned around a grape-hut. Suspected enemy is two FAMs (Fighting Aged Males) northwest our location 200 meters. I need you for over-watch and track those dickers,” huffed the army commander.
It was obvious from his pitched and panting voice he had been running and stabilizing chaos while under fire from the enemy. He needed us to watch for dickers – enemy combatants that observe their targets from fairly close. Dickers watch and pull the trigger using cell phones to detonate IEDs. Sometimes they observe innocently and then give a hand signal to someone far away to pull the trigger. Regardless of technique, they are effective and deadly.
“Roger 22, we’ll be there in three mikes,” acknowledging that I am three minutes away.
“Alright guys we’re looking for dickers,” I briefed the crew. “Any strange Patterns of Life or dickers stalking from compounds, let me know – watch the north-east.”
“26, its 25, follow me for a high sweep, then I’ll stay high over the friendlies and look around, you go low and poke around,” I gave my initial tactical plan to the wingman.
“Check.” the radio confirmed bluntly.
I didn’t have to direct my crew to the area that was given in the grid. They knew Salavat well. They could see several kilometres ahead and correctly assumed the dust cloud from the explosion was our destination. I didn’t have to direct my copilot at this point. He automatically knew how to position the aircraft for everyone’s best mutual support and tactical advantage. The streets and compounds below were empty, unusual for the time of day. The pattern of life (POL), felt eerie. When bad things happened, locals stayed off the streets and hid in their compounds.
“POL is quiet, no-one outside of compounds,” I radioed the ground commander.
Then the radio broke out excitedly between the infantry section leaders.
“22, this is 22 Alpha, I got another IED wire north road, they are setting us up.”
“22 Bravo, roger, I got the same on the south road. We got IEDs all around us. We walked into an ambush.” Another voice flatly reported as if this was a normal day in the job.
“22 Alpha and Bravo, keep it tight, cordon around the grape hut. Clear that hut and get me observation from the roof,” I heard the commander order. “I’m trying to get Counter IED from higher HQ.”
Shit was about to fly and we were above the middle of it. In these situations you never knew if you were going to be the target, witness or find something. I remember the hairs on my neck tingling as I looked for threats. However, our mentality had shifted by this time in our tours. Everyday, briefings showed us death of ground troops and civilians targeted by the Taliban. Rarely via combat, almost always an ambush; hit and run. We too were shot at, shot down and had lost brothers. I think by this time we had transformed our psyches into warrior hunters instead of the cautious hunted.
“Haycee, gotta guy running tru de field on da nord side, he’s dickin from da trees,” my engineer reported.
“Good eye.” I answered then continued onto the radio. “26, contact. FAM northeast running through a field to a tree – come back and put some low pressure on him…I’ll observe.” I guided to my other helicopter.
“Contact, I got him,” my wingman confirmed he was visual with the suspect.
From high above, my Griffon didn’t seem to be a threat to the Taliban soldier below. He did stay covered; but was being tracked. My wingman’s aircraft aimed toward the man and remained low-level directly flying over hm. He was surprised. The low level chopper was masked by my noise. As soon as they flew over, the insurgent’s eye’s filled with panic and he bolted in the opposite direction towards a grape-hut. He didn’t know he was also being observed with an MX-15, a high powered optical system that enabled me to see him in what appeared to be him communicating into his collar, as he moved.
“He’s dicking; he’s the fucker that pulled the trigger! But who’s he talking to?” I mumbled rhetorically then continued talking with Infantry 22.
“22, Contact. One FAM, he’s talking into his collar, running towards the Grapehut at Grid 41629019”.
“Roger Shakedown, that’s the FAM that’s been tracking us all morning; continue to track him…there is another one, keep your eye’s out,” he warned.
“26, this is 25, FAM is now in the grape-hut. I’ll continue high, you continue to prod — it’s working.” I further asked my wingman.
Every time 26 flew near the suspect; the suspect ran in an opposite direction and made apparent communications. He continued to move in and out of the grape-hut watching for the low Griffon that was interrogating him. Compounding the excitement on the radio was activity from the headquarters wanting details about the soldier who had just been killed. He seemed to have been a relative of a local ANA leader; he was recently a teammate that the Canadian’s had been training. He was dead, physically re-arranged from the explosion.
“2, this is 22,” the infantry commander was calling the Forward operating Base Masum Ghar.
“How’s my Counter IED team?” he asked. “I got three wires around me and still trapped.”
“They are on the way, but it will be awhile.” A sympathetic tone replied. Unfortunately, this would take time. The convoy had to move cautiously as typical tactics used by the Taliban was to hit the emergency responders as they moved from the FOBs (Forward Operating Bases – where soldiers could have a ‘relatively’ secure area to base from). Unfortunately, the time required to make the trip would be longer than my Shakedown team had fuel to support. The Taliban knew this. They just had to lay low until the helicopters ran out of fuel, then resume the attack.
“Shakedown, how much playtime do you have?” 22 asked.
“35 minutes,” I answered.
“Roger, we are working on getting the counter-IED folks out. It’s gonna take awhile.” He seemed to be calm yet alert. He had to be, several of his troops were ANA; it was personal and traumatic to them. He had to be an example of professional stability, courage and compassion in this situation where IEDs and machine guns could be going off toward them any moment.
“25, this is 26, contact!” my radio boomed. “One FAM running in towards the other man from a compound 250 meters northeast,” my wingman discovered.
“Gunny, he’s on your side, got him?” I asked my left gunner.
“Got him,” Gunny responded. I immediately directed my copilot to fly his orbit so that Gunny would always have his eyes on the two Taliban soldiers.
“Guys, I’m staying in the left orbit, I’m not losing PID.” I adamantly stated over the radio so my lower wingman knew my intention. Positive Identification (PID) was required to be established and maintained before fire could be directed onto the enemy targets. The crew knew. They understood. I felt like a dog with a bone in my mouth and wasn’t letting go. So many enemy forces had been let go only to kill again due to “ROE” – rules of engagement restrictions. Every nation interpreted the same ROE differently. As a soldier hunting an enemy, it was paramount to abide by the tightest standard in overlapping regulatory zones. The enemy was smart. Their first priority was to cause us to lose continual contact with them and create doubt in our minds as to their identity. But I had PID. I wasn’t letting go!
“They are both dickering from the grape-hut.” My wingman called. “We have contact on the two guys, they are in the grape-hut. That’s a suspected weapons cache, possible RPGs, be careful.” He further highlighted from our Intelligence brief received earlier in the day. An RPG, Rocket Propelled Grenade was a very effective weapon in taking out helicopters especially at the height and speed we were working at.
“We got PID, we got POL. Shit, we have weapons release criteria.” I stated out loud. I realized at that moment that these two Taliban’s days were numbered. They had made some critical mistakes in their tactics and revealed their intention. They wouldn’t be pulling the trigger anymore.
“26, we have weapons release criteria, confirm?” I double checked with my wingman.
“Roger that, I concur,” he stated.
“Advising 22, its his turf.” I added.
“22, I got PID on two FAMs at a suspected weapons cache with erratic behaviour and POL indicative of enemy activity, we have weapons release authority on target at the grape-hut,” I stated. “Get your heads down.”
There was a pause.
“Shakedown, roger that,” the Infantry Commander answered.
I continued on the other radio to my wingman. “26, Fire Mission. Friendlies on the grape-hut 400 meters west, enemy is two FAMs at the grape-hut below, circle pattern – left gun attack, you hit the building, I’ll catch the squirters, no effects directly west – I’m dropping back into behind you from high, stand by for fire.”
“Visual friendlies, tally target,” my wingman acknowledged.
I took the controls of the aircraft and assertively dropped in from high above into a trail position behind 26. The target was in view of Gunny only 300 feet below and 75 meters away. The IED days of these two enemy soldiers was about to end. I looked over to the west at the friendly infantry on the ground; they had done just the opposite that I directed to their leader. They all got onto the roof and stood up to watch. I shook my head and muttered over the intercom: “Look at our guys – dumb-asses!”
A flashback went through my head. How had we gotten to this point? We were about to remove two more combatants from the planet. It was clean and unemotionally professional. It was a culmination of years of professional duty, practice and over a half of year of looking eye-to-eye at my potential executioner, often the same guys. There was no hatred, nor anger; only respect. He was my adversary and I was his. I respected him for his devotion to his system, religion and his people but I detest his methods and affect. I took a breath.
“You ready Gunny?” I asked my left gunner.
“Romeo-tango – Visual friendlies, talley target,” his response.
“26 this is 25, FIRE!…left gunner, FIRE,” I ordered over the radio and intercom. The Dillon deafened the entire crew. The smoke from the cannon filled the cockpit window. The rooftop of the grape-hut and earth surrounding exploded into a cloud of dust. Two men came squirting out, one with a bulky silhouette of an AK-47 concealed under his man-jammies. One ran under the large solid mud-wall trying to hide in the grape rows, the other went towards a compound. However, both were engulfed into an exploding cloud of dust….then a half an orbit later, the gunners stopped firing.
From 2002-2011 Canadian troops were deployed to Kandahar Province. 2002 was shortly after the Taliban Last Stand (TLS) at the airport where the American Forces finally forced out the Taliban government. That building is still know as the TLS building today and remains riddled with bullet impact marks.
BLOWTORCH and SHAKEDOWN
The Canadians were brought in to provide the interim government of Afghanistan (GOA) with security forces until the new government could establish, train and equip an Afghan National Army to provide their own security. Canada was given the Kandahar area, Panjwaii District and north up the Arghandhab River to the Dalah Dam. Most to this area had millennia old irrigation systems nurturing a lush beautiful area of fruit orchards, grape fields, and agriculture which was a contrast to the surrounding orangey-brown dessert and brittle rugged mountains. Most of these areas were evenly mixed with opium poppies and marijuana fields – the cash crop and forcefully encouraged by the insurgent forces to finance their efforts against the western nations. This left the grape fields and fruit orchards to die as farmers did not tend to this product. Efforts to take legal produce to local markets were often ambushed, men sometimes being murdered by Taliban. However, the Taliban would go directly to the farmers paying cash for drug crops instead of legitimate crops which was their only option in order to support their families. This left a role for international forces such as Canada to provide security in the local communities to enable locals to produce legitimate products without insurgent harassment.
The area was large. The troops were few and often our soldiers became easy targets for IED (improvised explosive devises made from Homemade Explosives (HE)) as they patrolled communities trying to provide security. It was not uncommon to have weekly combat situations – often with injuries. It wasn’t long until our first soldier was returned under a Canadian Flag instead of holding it. When I was serving, it was a daily occurrence to have TICs occurring in the region. (TIC – troops fighting in contact with the enemy)
Frustrated yes, but perseverance and commitment continued and the Canadian troops continued in this “wak-a-mole” game of clearing out Taliban from small towns just to have them pour back in after they egressed to a new location.
Being moved by helicopter was the safer method. However, the Allied Forces were limited in their ability to lend support to the Canadians. It was almost 5 years of being in theatre (OP ATHENA) before the Canadian government released the Manley Report (around 2008). This was the long awaited political justification to increase the Air force by purchasing (leasing) Chinook helicopters to conduct troop and logistical lift to the Forward Operating Bases (FOBs). The aim was to keep soldiers off the vulnerable rural roads. However, there would be the risk of air ambushes. Initially, it was hoped that the American Forces would provide gunship escort to the Chinooks to prevent attacks. However, the Americans had their own forces to protect so the resources to provide escort to Canadians were very limited.
In 2007/08, the Canadian government was briefed my military seniors that our country was the ONLY country in NATO to NOT have gunship capability to escort our own Chinooks. Nor could Canada provide armed overwatch (protection) to troops on the ground that come into enemy contact.
Further to the Manley Report and beyond my knowledge, it was apparent that some decisions were made as the Canadian Forces was quickly converting the CH146 into a platform that could provide such support. In 2008, SHAKEDOWN was born. The Bell 412 EP was converted into a viable combat machine with dual Dillon Cannons and an MX15 electro-optic sensor. The dual M134 Dillons were capable of firing 3000 rounds per minutes. At night with a tracer every 5th round, it looked like a lava waterfall when observing under night vision goggles. The electro optic sensor had a target illuminator that was capable of illuminating areas of interest or targets and identifying them from distances well beyond the sound signature of the aircraft. A few years later a 50 caliber machine gun was also added to the Griffon which enabled the ability to extremely accurately take out targets from a much longer distance.
In addition to this, the training plan rapidly unfolded to acquire and train pilots, air engineers and gunners for Close Combat Attack techniques, overwatch, aerial escort, surveillance for counter IED operations as well as basic infantry ground fighting skills in the event they were making unplanned stops (shot down) outside the wire.
At Christmas, 2008 the initial cadre of 6 Chinooks started hauling people and supplies. With them, 8 griffons (4 sections), initially armed with C6 machine guns started providing escort, surveillance and infantry team over-watch. BLOWTORCH was born of the Chinooks, and SHAKEDOWN of the griffons.
As escort duties became proficient, and experience in theatre built over the next year, combined with the integration of the Dillon M134 cannons with electro-optic sensors, the capability of the Shakedown Flight greatly improved. Higher headquarters realized that door gunnery, which was not available on the Apache or Kiowa Warrior, was ideal for maintaining contact with a target and keeping fire power on that target continuously. This was a benefit over the Apache or Kiowa whose enemies would “squirt” away and hide after the attack helicopters’ initial pass.
It wasn’t long before the weapon airspace controller’s (‘Slayer’ in the KAF – Panjwaii) favourite resource, when ground troops were in a fight and needed help, became the griffon. “Shakedown, we got a TIC in progress, can you respond?”
The common and eager response was: “Go for Shakedown”.
Stephen Robertson Consulting 