….I looked over my left shoulder and saw Zorg approaching the men through the dust, revealing his regimental patch. It seemed to be sign that he was a brother, not a stranger. And that their fallen would be escorted with dignity under his watch. He grabbed one end of the body bag and lifted it onto the floor of the griffon. Snapshot had moved across and pulled the soldier through, placing a seatbelt from a floor ring over his body to secure him. The casualty’s impromptu paul bearers reached out to our passenger. I couldn’t see what they did, a pat of compassion? Blessing? I don’t know. It was surreal. Their heads were low. Faces flaccid with exhaustion, tears, fear, anger, horror, stained with dust and sunburn – stoic.
Another soldier, a senior Warrant Officer, grabbed them and with some hand gestures reminded them it was time to get into a defensive position. The war was still on, they were more vulnerable with a helicopter in their position. Shots were expected.
The NCO looked at me and spun his hand in the air signalling for me to get out, now!
“Let’s go guys.” I called. “Cabin area.”
“Right gun ready, left gun ready.” Snapshot and Zorg called.
“Lifting, with a right turn out.” I started to pull in collective creating another explosion of dust as I inched across the ground, falling over the edge of Three-hills towards the wadi. The aircraft shuddered at maximum weight to gain flying speed. We burst through the dust bubble and skimmed across the trees toward Steel-door. On the right was FOB MADRAS; the few soldiers on watch saluted as we passed.
“Prof, you have the lead and the radios.” I sighed somberly.
“Roger that.” He responded.
It was the quietest flight I had at war. We flew high to avoid enemy fire. We weren’t hunting anymore today. I heard Prof’s voice now and again on the radio breaking the sound of wind and engines. It was peaceful for the moment flying towards the east morning sun. A beautiful sky, but such an ugly, deadly earth.
“KAF tower, This Shakedown 25 Flight” Prof’s voice broke the meditative silence.
“25 Flight, this is KAF tower, Altimeter two-nine-eight-six, FARP or X-ray sir?” Tower called.
“Prof answered, voice was humble: “Shakedown 25 is now Angel 25 Flight. Request direct Role 3 hospital.”
Tower’s voice changed, he knew Angel meant they had a fallen soldier aboard: “Angel 25, you are cleared south ramp arrival direct.” He continued. “Paciderm 11, please orbit and come in behind Angel 25, Gunsmoke 26, Hold present position for Angel 25. Longknife 11, please orbit north come in number three behind Angel 25.” KAF tower kept clearing the way.
My heart throbbed. Everyone was quiet and humbled. The event tears a person in half. It is such a massive honour to carry your brother out of the field of battle. But he’s dead. Why should I feel honour when his family is going to feel nothing but pain and suffering. A mother’s worst fears. A spouses heart shattered. A child’s dreams turn to nightmares of confusion. The other aircraft circled for the two minutes it would take to allow our unencumbered approach showing respect the fallen but beloved Sgt McNeil, ending his first trip towards the Highway of Heroes.
I’ll never forget you. You are of the people I have never met but feel such loss for. Each Remembrance Day, I think of you.
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.
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.
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.
Stephen Robertson Consulting 