As Christmas approaches I am reminded of 6 years ago. I was very fortunate to travel home during the holidays. Not everyone was so blessed. Some had to stay and work and there are others, others that will never come home again. My thoughts as I write are of you, your families, and your sacrifice. I am truly sorry for your loss.
The Table at Christmas! 2009.
Home for Christmas…
Many of the members of Roto 8, Task Force Freedom had been home to Canada for their first of two 14-day breaks from theatre; myself included. For those of us exposed to ‘outside the wire’ operations everyday; trying to calm down for two weeks was mentally challenging. Although friends would see the relaxed attitude on the faces of the warrior, family members would recognize that our minds and souls were not relaxed – that they were still in KAF.
For me, my first break was surreal. I arrived in Dubai at Camp Mirage on Christmas Eve Day. In MIRAGE, there was green grass, clean buildings and civilized happy Canadian soldiers supporting the daily airlift into Afghanistan. It was nothing like KAF. There was an outdoor entertainment stage that played evening movies. Tonight it was celebrating Christmas eve. A pastor gave a sermon and soldiers sang carols. I could tell I was already affected when listening to a midnight Christmas eve mass. I tried to appreciate the gratefulness but being angry at the ‘excess’ we took for granted when soldiers and innocents were being murdered preoccupied my judgemental psyche. Within days of this meal, numerous Canadian soldiers died as well as three girls at a girls school near KAF – slaughtered just for going to school – yet I was enjoying a turnkey dinner in a tropical shangri-la. It was delightful, yet I couldn’t release my thoughts from colleagues who at that moment were tracking IED planters or providing over-watch. I know it was wrong to be judgemental, but I couldn’t help this subtle anger; I carried it. I couldn’t get past my thoughts of the next mission in January; yet I was suppose to be relaxing. On return, I was to participate in some large-scale missions that would use all NATO helicopters in southern Afghanistan; but no information was passed at this point. Only that it would be really messy.
The next morning, Christmas morning, I spent a day at the beaches in Dubai and touring the malls and world’s largest skyscraper – mechanically trying to enjoy a bit of tourism. I walked to the beach and observed young men playing soccer, a dad and daughter playing frisbee and couples shopping. Initially not noticing the difference. Then it occurred to me. There were no teenaged women anywhere. No young females without escorts, and the burka wearing women walked several steps behind their husbands. The man playing frisbee was with an 8 year old daughter; pre-pubescent. No young adolescent girls were out without older women or escorted. I had to return to Camp Mirage in the afternoon to catch my evening flight to Canada. A man dressed as Santa Claus was entertaining the Christian families at the resorts. It was ironic how a primarily Muslim country would offer the respect to indulge the western traditions; yet in Afghanistan, Taliban would execute the same behaviours and claim it justified under sharia law.
I arrived in Canada on the 26th. I met my family in Victoria, on the west coast of Canada. For the first time in my life, I truly embraced the early morning walk in the cold drizzly west coast weather. No dust. No poo-pond. I remember one drizzly morning I strolled in the cold rain to a local coffee shop just prior to New Years and pulled up a street-side seat with a newspaper. I read the first page: ‘4 Canadian soldiers and one reporter killed.’ I started to shake as I read the article: 21 year old Zachery McCormack from my home town was dead. He was just a kid. It hit me hard – my eyes swelled up and I turned to the window in the coffee shop to hide my tears; sipping coffee to cover up and gain composure. I couldn’t stop thinking about his family. After shakily gulping back some air and inhaling some moisture from my eyes, I walked back to the hotel to be with mine. He was so young, not much older than my son, and from my neighbourhood. I visited relatives for a few more days and then proceeded back to Sherwood Park to re-integrate into regular family lifestyle for the second half of my time off.
I was at the arena and I watched my daughter win her first ever ringette tournament. The girls played ‘pump-up’ music in the locker-room before the game to get motivated. All the parents could hear the music from the stands as the 9-year-old girls proudly tried to out party the other team as they entered the ice. My boys sat with me on the cold bench also enjoying the pre-game show — a family event. Although, I was smiling and happy outside, I was stoic inside. My mind had to go back to KAF soon, outside the wire, and wouldn’t release my soul to fully connect in the moment.
‘I got a feelin’
That tonight’s gonna be a good night.’
There was the song. The Black-eyed Peas began to dominate the rink as the doors from the change room opened allowing a stream of young warrior princesses out to rally. Some stumbling on their skates, others tripping onto the ice as they forgot to take their blade guards off. Parents chuckled and big smiles could be seen clearly through the face guards of the young girls’ helmets.
‘Tonight’s gonna be a good night.’
“Sure is nice that you could get some time off at Christmas.” One of the parents stated.
“Yes, I’m glad to be home.” I answered.
“Your daughter has really improved this year, you’ll be surprised when she starts skating!” He added.
I hadn’t seen her skate since the summer. She was pushing with one leg, the other was stiff. Only one blade was used for braking.
“There she is,” my wife pointed.
“Wow! She’s skating normally now…and she stopped sideways.” I was amazed. “Oops, she just fell!” I laughed. She smiled back at me proud to show off her new accomplishment.
“She can only stop one direction so far but she’s getting better.” The other parent said.
“Did you notice her helmet?” My wife asked.
“Hey, she’s got a yellow ribbon sticker on it from the military base.” I noted
“They all do.” She added.
I looked around and noticed all the girls had yellow ribbons. I straightened up and took a proud breath.
“Why do they have those? Does the league have the girls wearing them for the soldiers?” I asked.
“No.” She looked in my eyes seriously. “It’s for you…the team put them on for you.”
My body tripped over the next breath I took, shaking a tear from my eye. I froze my face and could feel myself losing emotional control. I quickly got up. I needed an excuse. (Even now as I reread this one line, it shakes me up – it is so vivid.)
“I’m gonna grab a coffee, anyone want one?” I was overwhelmed by the support from the team and parents. However, my mind couldn’t leave KAF. I couldn’t allow the emotions to cut through my focus. It may have been psychologically naive, trivial, but it was the ‘war-face’ that had to maintain despite wanting to be home. I was so grateful at the freedoms my family had, and how the young girls could play, yet, I couldn’t help thinking about a few days prior to coming home for this break, a bomber blew up a school two miles from KAF. It was a girls’ school. Three girls died. Girls my daughter’s age. Why? The souls of numerous families were fractured. Would there yellow ribbons on the compounds for those families? I had to stay this way.
My break vanished quickly. I wanted to be home, but I needed to get back to KAF and get it done. My soul was locked up until this year in Afghanistan was complete. I wasn’t sure if I was guarding my soul or just accepting mortality in order to quit worrying about it. How could one tell the difference?
Blog 13. Nakhoney – A Response to ‘Casualties of War’
Nakhoney is a small village about an hour drive south of Kandahar, ten minutes by helicopter. It was a hot spot for my section. We had been responding to attacks on FOB MADRAS (school); where a small unit of Canadian Infantry was based. It holds many memories and the area became personal to my crew.
All the landmarks were close together – basically the effective range of an RPG round. To the south of MADRAS (school) was THREE HILLS, the west was a north-south creek called WEST WADI and immediately on the other side was STEEL DOOR. It was a three-story grape-hut with a steel door facing east and a solid roof as opposed to most grape huts that were open. To the north-west was BELL GRAVE yard, from the air it looks just like it’s name. To the west another 200 meters from STEEL DOOR was a group of compounds known as the Adamz-eye chain.
Nakhoney Area
The overwatch in Nakhoney was my favorite mission. It involved being the helicopter directed by a patrol commander on the ground: for observation, fire power, lifting injured soldiers, or whatever they wanted. Scrappy knew this and he tried to arrange it so I could go support our troops there when the opportunity rose. And by this time, my crew seemed to prefer it too. Everyday I would meet our team at the Table bringing back scheduling news for our next mission.
I could present, “We got Nakhoney over-watch at 5:00 am!”
Followed by: “Awesome. Woohoo!” or,
Or “We’re walking the dog all morning.”
Answered with whiney, “Oh man….can you get some over-watch after they’re done.? When are they done?”
Being in Nakhoney also offered the advantage of being central to respond to any other TIC or IED activity in Panjwai. MASUM GHAR was a two-minute flight, CHALGOUR one minute, SALAVAT 30 seconds and SPERWAN GHAR three minutes. All the Canadian’s getting into TICS were often in this area; and Shakedown’s wanted to be here too.
After taking on fuel at the FARP, our section was waiting, with the engines idling, for our next mission to come over the radio. The guys got out to stretch their legs, take a piss, have a Redbull and Pop-tart – the standard food supplement. Some guys even slept in the shade of the helicopter lying in the jagged rock; while still connected to the intercom system. The ballistic vest and helmet helped the protruding rocks from being too piercing our skin.
“Shakedown 25, this is Ops, TIC in progress at MADRAS.”
“Roger, Go for Shakedown.” I responded on the radio. I looked around at the guys who sat up and started prepping their weapons.
“25, they have shots fired from the west, platoon of 40 friendlies dismounted and under fire, contact SLAYER for an update, call when airborne.” Scrappy ordered.
“Roger that.” I responded.
I held my hand out the door and spun my fingers in the air signalling it was time to go. Skipper was already boarding his crew as he heard the call and returned the thumbs up. Irish wound up the throttles. The silence of excitement and cautious anxiety could be sensed in the cabin as everyone completed their individual duties with precise professionalism.
Irish lifted the helicopter and departed west, Skipper dropped into the wingman position slightly behind and right. As we flew west, I contacted Slayer.
“Slayer, this is 25, checking in.”
“Shakedown 25, this is Slayer, the ROZ is hot, the guns are hot at WILSON, Gun line is north. TIC in progress at Nakhoney, contact India 21 with your numbers.” he advised.
“This is Shakedown, copy that and switching to India 21.” I confirmed before talking to Skipper.
“26, Switch India 21 to follow along.” I stated. Skipper acknowledged.
We had about six minutes further to fly at this point. In these six minutes, we needed to build a complete picture of the battle on the ground as well as visually identify all friendly and enemy targets. There were no explosions this time so pin-pointing the objective area would be tougher.
“India 21, this is Shakedown checking in.” I called to the Infantry unit getting shot at.
“Shakedown, this is 21, we have shots being fired towards us from one or two insurgents. They are in the vicinity of STEEL DOOR. We are on a foot patrol in a north-south line 200 meters north-west of MADRAS near BELL-GRAVE. Possible RPG and IED west of our locations. We are thirty Canadians and ten ANA soldiers. We are spread out over 250 meters at grid XXXXXX. From my location, enemy fire is coming from one of the grape huts near STEEL DOOR, approximately 150 meters west. We do not have PID (positive identification) on enemy at this point. I say again. No PID. Request assistance to PID and suppress.”
We could hear the occasional snap of gunfire in the communication. My crew became excited the helicopter got closer, they would expect the shooting to stop and the insurgents to hide. However the Taliban would most likely take several shots towards us if they were in a position to conceal the muzzle flashes from their AK-47 rifles.
google images: View from inside a Grape-hut
“26, this is 25, did you copy all that?” I asked Skipper to ensure I didn’t have to repeat the battlefield report. I was programming the GPS while he replied.
“Romeo – Tango.” Skip understood everything.
“You guys copy?” I asked over the intercom.
“Roger that Haycee…Romeo Tango Cap.” The gunners replied calmly.
“Irish, just head straight there, I put their position in the GPS. Follow the needle and offset right so first turn is left over the friendlies. Plan a north-south figure eight, low level down the road to identify them. Got it?” I directed.
“Got it.” Irish knew exactly what was going to happen.
“Snapshot, your side will be exposed first, get ready!” I cautioned.
“Check.’ A simple response. The camera was put away. He was tuned in. Everyone was vigilant. We were about to get shot at.
“Skipper, my plan is Left base. North to south figure eight to P-I-D friendly and enemy, fly along the friendly line. If we engage, all effects west.” I ordered to my wingman. He didn’t need to respond. He would just follow along since he knew I would be busy coordinating. We were about two minutes back.
“India 21, smoke the target area.” I requested of the ground commander. I wanted him to identify exactly, which hut the shots were coming from.
“Roger that, red smoke,” he answered. “This is the target area. I can not confirm exact spot yet.” Five seconds later a stream of red smoke landed near STEEL DOOR.
Very much like Steel Door…this is US troops 2012
Zorg called out. He usually got really excited about these tasks as the guys on the ground were from his regiment; his army family.
“Visual friendly troops on the nose, slightly left, behind the wadi wall!…’bout 40 of them!” He called bringing our attention to the line of troops.
“26, I’ve got a visual on the friendly patrol at twelve o’clock about 1000 meters. Call when you are visual, red smoke is target area.”
“Visual friendlies and contact smoke,” he responded.
“Irish, Left gunner, right gunner, Friendlies are a line of troops 40 long on our nose 800 meters, they are taking cover along the road wall,” I formalized the situation as per our procedures.
The two gunners stretched their necks out of the helicopter door and took a verifying look.
“Visual friendlies, contact smoke!” They each called in sequence.
We were turning onto the north-south line. I could see the soldiers leaning up against the wall. Princess Patricia’s soldiers. They would take turns leaning over the wall to try to locate the enemy fire. However, most were sitting in the shade taking a break now that the helicopter would take over observation. They were pretty casual about getting shot at; it was daily for them. The five minutes of waiting for us was an opportunity for a break. They carried over a hundred pounds in combat gear on their backs in 40 degree temperatures and would take a break whenever they could get one; even in the fight. And they couldn’t chase them. They had to be cautious as the grape-rows were rigged with IEDs. The Taliban often baited our soldiers; hoping for them to pursuit. And we did the same in return.
A few days earlier I worked with the same platoon in CHALGOUR. The instructions from India 21 were a little different than today.
“India 21, Shakedown’s checking in.”
“Roger that Shakedown. I need you guys to stay about 8 kilometers back.”
“What? Irish stated rhetorically over the intercom.
“Confirm 8 km?” I answered on the radio. I was confused why he didn’t want me there.
“Ya, we got some dickers visual but they ain’t pulling the trigger yet. We need him to attack so we can chase the fuckers down. If you guys get too close you scare them away. So pretend your looking at something about 8-10 km south and I’ll call as soon as they engage and you can chase ‘em down.” He requested.
“Copy your plan India two-one, proceeding south.” I acknowledged in reservation.
It wasn’t a typical battle plan I had heard before. We didn’t practice that one in Wainwright Alberta, but it seemed like a good idea. ‘Find em, fix em, fuck em up.’
Nakoney
“Snapshot, to the right of the friendlies 150 meters is a grape-hut with a steel door, closed roof.” I directed.
“Contact hut, contact red-smoke,” they both responded.
“That is the target area, no P-I-D yet, do NOT SHOOT unless self-defense – observe only – all effects west but mind the village on the other side.”
“Roger that!” they acknowledged.
All our inter-plane communications were being done on the Freedom Ops frequency. We had an agreement that they would not interject and only listen. It offered immediate feedback to Scrappy and the CO.
Operations:
“You asked me to come and get you when they got there boss.” The RadOp interrupted Scrappy at the Operations Centre.
“Roger that, coming.” Scrappy acknowledged, placing the phone down and followed the RadOp. He reviewed the text information on the TV screens to orient himself with the situation. However, the text prompter was a little behind.
“What’s up?” he stated to the duty warrant.
“They’ve been give a target area brief by India-21 and it seems shots are being fired at them.” The warrant officer explained. “No damage reports so far.”
“Seems so.” He breathed some relief. “Alright – go get Skipper.”
“Skipper’s the number two sir, he switched out the Professor this morning before you were here. You were at the TFK meeting. He’s 26,” the radio operator summated. Scrappy walked over the manifest to check the crew names.
“Oh right!” Scrappy realized. Perhaps the lack of sleep catching up with him.
“Go get the second in command – Butch.” Butch was a Chinook pilot and Skip’s Deputy. He listed through the protocols of getting the chain of command informed of the fight.
The radio operator added, “He’s at the FARP, just got back from FOB TERMINATOR — you’re it, sir”.
Scrappy paused, looked at each of his staff, reviewed the screen, grabbed his chair, placed it up on the bird table, sat up high and smirked.
“I’m it lads! I’m in command. Let’s watch and listen to the show boys!” he stated as he leaned back, hands behind his head crossing his legs. “I need a coffee.”
Nakohney
Inside my aircraft, all eyes were on the grape-hut near the red smoke.
“26, keep your eyes near the red smoke, go trail be prepared to counter. I’ll stay low.” I briefed. I figured I’d be in best position to draw fire, identify the source then Skipper could release hell on the target.
Skipper acknowledged. He slid into position climbing slightly. Irish flew the guns: low enough to observe and engage if required. My aim was to visually look into that hut to see any persons or fire arms. Additionally checking the fields to see if any Taliban would pop out of a grape row. But they stayed in the shadows. We flew by the hut at 50’ off the ground and very close to it. Small explosions of dust from bullets were impacting the walls beneath me.
“Who the fuck is shooting?” I retorted over the intercom.
“India two-one, this is Shakedown, are you shooting? I got impact strikes on the hut.” I called.
“Negative.” 21 answered after a brief investigative pause. “The ANA are firing on the smoke.” I could hear the snaps of the ANA AK-47 assault rifles through the radio.
“Do you have P-I-D?” I radioed back.
“Negative, it’s the ANA, no Canadian PID. We still can not verify the target.” He cautioned.
Despite our Rules of Engagement, the ANA interpreted them differently. They were great soldiers, just not all that savy with NATO protocols. It was their land, their rules. They saw red smoke, so their section commander started shooting at it, even though our helicopter was almost directly in front of them. However, the Canadians still did not have the legal criteria to fire simply because there was no positive target yet. It was only suspected area and person(s). The smoke was an indicator to investigate the area, not shoot at it.
“I can’t even suppress yet?” I stated rhetorically thinking out loud.
Irish answered: “Nope.” Re-enforcing my interpretation of the rules.
“Skipper, it’s the ANA. They are shooting on the target area, Canadians do NOT have PID yet, do you have PID?” I asked hoping he might see a target.
“Not yet, still looking,” the Skipper stated inquisitively.
“They might not even be in the hut, they could be anywhere…keep looking guys.” I stated.
We continued in the pattern while observing and moving back slightly as the ANA continued to shoot. Everyone, including the ground troops, was trying to find the spot. The ANA didn’t care, they just fired at the sound and the smoke. After a couple of threatening patterns from the griffons, the enemy revealed themselves.
“Shakedown, I’ve got I-comm chatter, do you want it?” the ground commander radioed signifying relevant intelligence was available.
“Roger that.” I answered. Everyone in the cockpit was quiet ready to hear the message.
“Bring the package!” India 21 answered. “The TERP says the voice on I-comm chat sounds anxious,” he added. A local Pashtun Interpreter was assigned to the Canadian unit to assist in communicating with the ANA and listen on enemy radio frequencies. He also advised on the emotional behaviour of the voices he heard.
Bring the package? I pondered on what that could mean. He must be bringing a heavier weapon, RPG maybe?
“Guys, keep eyes out for anything suspicious, watch for RPG plume. Icomm sates: Bring the Package.” I cautioned my section. RPGs were a weapon of choice for the Taliban and they were easy to acquire. They had been firing RPGs at India 21 almost daily during the past month so it was probable.
Operations:
Scrappy came to his feet. He read the screen showing the icomm chatter. He was concerned about what it read. ‘Bring the Package’. Could it be some thing that would harm the helicopter? He needed more information. “Go get the Int briefer now!” he told the radio operator.
The Intelligence Briefer arrived. Scrappy update him with the situation. He outlined his concern and asked for a threat analysis.
“Sir, it is most likely an RPG or possibly a dishka 51 caliber weapon system. But if it isn’t in position already, they wouldn’t be moving it while in contact with us.” he reported.
“What about SAMs?” Scrappy was asking if there was any change to the Surface to Air Missiles threat from his understanding. He needed all the info to pass to our team should we need it.
“No change sir, yes there are SAM possibilities but no recent reported activity – the chance of them using these limited resources on a small helicopter is low; they’d be saving it for one of our Hercs or C-17s.” He advised.
“Thanks, that’ll be all.” Scrappy released him.
“25 Flight, Freedom OPS, do you have the icomm chatter?” the radio asked.
“Roger that, do you mean the package?” I responded.
“Roger, we can’t make out; just keep safe. No change to the Int from this morning.” Scrappy quickly reported. He said no more. He knew we were busy, but he was also concerned.
“25, 26 checks all from Ops.” Skipper called to acknowledge he heard the report rom Scrappy.
“Actually, watch out for the fuckin’ ANA friendly fire, it’s more likely to hit us!” Zorg practically hollared. The bullets from the ANA rifles continued to splash off the walls of both STEEL DOOR and the next grape-hut south despite us flying directly between the target and the friendlies. It was only 30 meters away at times. I tucked my head and shoulders a little more inside my armoured seat on subsequent passes fearing both enemy and friendly fire.
“Shakedown’s, I’ve got PID!” announced India 21, “Are you ready for a 5-liner?” he asked. Wholly shit! This was it! We are going hot. This was our authority to fire on his command.
“Go for Shakedown.” I responded.
“Five liner: Friendlies are patrol N-S line west of MADRAS. Enemy is one times FAM with AK47 rifle in STEEL DOOR. My plan is advance upon that target from east. Required you to provide continual suppression for five minutes, all effects west, maintain fire line over the friendlies to cover my advance.” India 21 ordered.
I read it back quickly, “Visual friendlies, Talley target. All effects west”.
“Roger.” he stated. “I-comm chatter still repeating to bring the package.”
“26, this is 25, did you copy 5-liner?” I radioed to Skipper.
“26 is in.” He acknowledged curtly.
“Attack plan, next southbound pass, start with right gun attack, figure eight pattern.” I commanded to my wingman.
“Roger that.” Skip’s response.
Irish started his turn towards the south as I indicated with my hand to roll in hot. We were going to rain down pieces of led for the next five minutes in short blast of fire. The Breath of Allah, as the enemy had been heard to say, would be echoing through the Panjwaii valley, raining down on the building and the FAM inside to finally finish his days of killing Canadians and ANA soldiers. We had to be careful to cover the attack of the Canadians yet protect them. Everyone was focused. We had a clear target, PID and permission.
“26, 25 is rolling in HOT.” I stated to Skip. No response was required.
In Operations, Scrappy heard the attack brief and read the teleprompter on the TV:
Time XX:XX Shakedowns HOT at MADRASS. Supporting I-21. Grid XXXXXX
“Wholly shit, there going hot.” Scrappy stated outloud as he heard the news. Butch had just walked into the room still in his flight gear from the mission we were previously on.
“Shakedown is rolling in hot in Nakhoney right now; you’re just in time. They’ve been getting shot at and are in overwatch for India 21 patrolling.” He reported while pointing at the battle map on the table between his feet.
Butch smiled, raised his eyebrows, and looked at the screen while tilting his head in contemplation. That was his initial body language response for everything; even after taking the bullets near Tarin Kowt, he calculated all situations with the same physical response.
“India 21, Shakedown’s in HOT, get your heads down.” I advised to the Patricia’s infantry below. I watched them take cover but watch. The shots would be about 150 meters from friendlies and we were about 75 meters from the target at the closest point. Hot shell casings would be raining down on their heads of the Patricias. We dove to get low to shoot inside the narrow windows and cracks of the grape-hut.
“Right gunner – confirm visual and talley?” I asked Snapshot before releasing the fire command.
“Roger Haycee, visual troops and talley target!” He took aim at the openings.
As the griffon crossed over the friendly troops I ordered, “Fire.”
There was a pause. Was it jammed? Why am I not deafened by the Dillon?
“Its No good!…Its No good!…Checking fire, Checking fire.” Snapshot yelled back just as I was covering my ears from the anticipated intense blast of the Dillon.
“I got a WAC, 75 meters other side of STEELDOOR in my arcs; No, it’s a man! He’s dragging a child towards the grape-hut.” Snapshot called.
I immediately shifted my eyes beyond the target and onto the Taliban soldier dragging a child by the arm.
“Check fire, check fire. Child west of STEELDOOR.” I called to 26 and then repeated it to the Army commander.
“Fuckn’ bastards. Cowards.” I swore profusely over the intercom drowned out by the sound of the rotor blades. We passed the target but continued in the patter to observe, firing no shots.
The man jogged fairly quickly dragging the stunned boy to the other side of steel door. The boy’s face pale with fear. A man came out of the west end of STEEL DOOR, he grabbed the boys other arm and he glared directly at me over his shoulder. We made eye contact. They jogged over towards the compound. He knew the helicopters wouldn’t shoot if children were around. He used that child as a human shield.
“India 21. It’s the package! A small boy. A human shield, check fire.” I reported.
“Continue to monitor, tell me where they go.” He requested, frustrated.
We overflow the corner of the road they rushed up. The Taliban men went into a compound, left the boy with a woman who collapsed onto her young child embracing him. She was distressed. The two men then disappeared into the labyrinth of mud walls. They were not seen again.
“I almost pulled the trigger…that kid was in the back-line of my aim. They would have taken rounds for sure.” Snapshot sounded somewhat distressed.
This could have been the worst nightmare for my crew. The act of accidentally killing an innocent weighed heavily on everyone’s thoughts. No-one wanted to have to deal with that. The Taliban won this battle today…but hopefully, not against that family.
MONTREAL route. It was a standard logistical resupply mission conducted by BLOWTORCH. I was in Shakedown 30 and 31. Our mission was to keep them from getting shot at. Basic training 101 – Keep your fire-team partner alive. It was no different in aviation. My fire-team partner was Shakedown 31. And BLOWTORCH 60? Well it didn’t have a fire-team partner. It just seemed to run quickly with it’s tail between its legs hoping not to get it’s butt smacked by a Taliban rocket. I say this entirely in jest but its part of a long, loving rivalry between pilots of varying feather.
I had been in theatre a few days and remnants of 430 Squadron, a few gunners and copilots, were still flying with the new 408 Squadron captains: Fender and myself along with a Blowtorch captain were commanding the three aircraft for MONTREAL route today. The Operations Officer and Commanding Officer were having their first day of command by quarterbacking the operations as the 430 management stepped aside.
The Commanding Officer ‘CO’, Skipper for brevity, had been in theatre for a week. Skip had been meeting with all the major players affecting our operation. He was a young, keen commanding officer with a dry sense of humour. It was not uncommon to see him routinely cycle around the rugged, dusty 10 km route from south-side to north-side KAF; spitting out the dust on arrival from between the teeth of his grin. He was a keenly aware person, easily recollecting detail from incidents as complicated as battlefield TICs to as unrelated as which DFAC omelet chef served the best yolk free breakfast. Today, Skip was over-watching our mission planning and pre flight launch authorization brief; he was taking official command.
“Shakedown 30 and 31?” Skip asked taking role call.
“Yes sir, and this is my crew. Fender? “ I pointed to the guys and asked Fender to answer the same.
“All here.” Fender answered looking at his team.
“Go ahead Scrappy.” Skip passed on the reigns to his Operations Officer.
Scrappy (a well suited nickname for these blogs.) This was his first in-theatre dispatch briefing in which he had full control. We called them “Ops-Walks”. All crew had to be walked through the leadership for the latest briefings on the threat and environment before flying. Scrappy was not a stranger to this as he had been to Afghanistan in earlier years in a tactical role. Scrappy was stalky and strong; organized and thorough; but feisty – yes he had a temper. He was both blunt as a manager yet respectful of experience and position. He did not like to be crossed. He was not one to use discussion to resolve an issue. His response to someone frustrating him was usually a covert physical ‘smarten up’ shot or kick to the shins when no-one was looking. And if you were fortunate to experience his playful side, it was not uncommon for him to follow up a few fine tequilas with “da boys” and embark on his version of UFC athleticism.
“Alright. Intelligence…go.” Scrappy directed to the Sergeant who pointed to the ‘bird-table’. It was a small table in operations that mapped out the entire AO and showed where all the FOBs were located.
“Along Highway One, several IED attacks overnight here and here.” The Int Sargaent started. “On a positive note, a bicycle bomber was getting ready near the prison and his bomb pre-detonated taking only himself out.”
Edge of the Reg
The crowd of the a dozen onlookers chuckled. “Poetic justice.” Someone stated rhetorically. The sergeant continued.
“You have 3 Canadian patrols in these areas here, here and here.” He pointed to roads near Sperwan Ghar to Wilson. “The guns have been alive from Sper to the area here so I suggest you take the Reg Dessert route to avoid conflict with their artillery.”
“Roger, got it.” The Blowtorch captain stated. He would lead the formation. Shakedowns would picket the landing zones and protect him enroute. Picketing means going to check it out and do a quick look before the chinook lands.
“You are heading out to FOB RAMROD. It’s here in the middle of no-where. Few threats but you need to watch for infiltration from compounds here and here.” He continued to point out where previous assaults have occurred. “…and stay away from those locations while waiting.”
About 20 km from RAMROD…This was an actual photo on that day of an enroute IED.
“That’s not what happens. Ya know Steve.” My French co-pilot interrupted, whispering over my shoulder.
“I know. Chip told me the first thing the base asks us to do while waiting is to go and probe those areas for any POL.” I answered. I was now getting the gist of things and it had only been a few trips. “Fore-checking.” I summated.
“Yes, fore-checking.” Fender joined into the interruption as he liked the hockey term.
The Int sergeant shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“I’m just telling you what I have to guys.” He added. He knew we were already keen to start poking and provoking. Basically help the soldiers in the FOBs to look at their problem areas while we are in the area…but it included some risk.
“I know you want to help the guys on the ground, just be careful.” Scrappy closed. “We are still getting use to things around here.”
Scrappy spoke from experience. He had operated the UAV in previous Afghanistan tour and had seen ugly things. He knew what risks were involved and was in his executive position for a reason.
“The threat is real!” He continued. “Out in BASTION earlier today a Chinook got hit. That’s only a few kilometres from where you will be. Pictures Sarge.” Scrappy raised his eye-brows suggesting the sergeant add some graphics regarding the threat.
A picture of a clean hole with 4 razor thin fin marks at the key clock angles was displayed.
“Wow! Did it detonate?” Fender asked.
“No. Brits got lucky. This RPG round went clean through the side of the helicopter, then a seat back and out the other side without exploding.” The Sergeant briefed.
Camp BASTION – Helmand Province
Eyes in the room were large. He had everyone’s attention.
“And check this picture out.” He showed a picture of an RPG round sitting in the back of a chinook. Undetonated. Then a subsequent picture of a scraped helmet and a 4 inch diameter hole in the wind screen.
“Tabernac!” A gunner swore in astonishment.
The round had gone through the front window, off the helmet of the pilot and spun around like a hot potato in the chinook.
“What happened?”
“They were on approach in Helmand province (about 100 km west) and this happened. They continue the landing into the FOB, completed an emergency shut down and everyone scrambled out racing the possible explosion. Fortunately, it didn’t. E-O-D later secured it.” The Int sergeant briefed trying to keep a professional tone but a few intonations surfaced from the near fatal misses of the day. EOD is Emergency Ordinance Disposal. They are specially trained to disarm and destroy explosives. If you saw the “Hurt Locker” it is basically like those guys.
“I guess it sucks to be a dog (referring to the Chinook)…Dat’s why we stay with the griffons and shoot back.” The French accent from a gunner cockily added.
The levity helped add a chuckle to the crowd, but not so much for the Blowtorch crew (Chinook).
“Alright gents. Time to get a move on. You got wheels up in 35 minutes….just take ‘er easy out there.” Skip added and left the room.
“Section brief guys, come over to the main briefing room.” The Chinook lead stated.
The three captains walked into the next room and stood having a quick chat.
“Okay, you know the route and the FOBs. The only one new is RAMROD. I will do my approach from this direction and exit this way unless you see anything.” He threw his map on a table and pointed near the FOB. “I have a large tractor load to take so I may be on the ground an extra 20 minutes. You have enough fuel?” He asked.
“Yes. I should be good. But they have gas there so if there are any delays, let me know and we’ll top up.” I added looking at Fender who nodded at the refuel plan.
“What’s gonna really happen is that we have extra time and this FOB always asks you to look around at this town here.” He pointed at a small village very close on the map. “They get rocket attacks and RPG attacks from here. They also have numerous IEDs in the area and are looking for an explosives factory in the town too…so expect you’ll be requested while we load.”
“Alright, got it.” I added.
“How you wanna do it?” I looked at Fender.
“Well, let’s go high and get an overview first then go into low-trail formation and poke at anything that looks interesting….the rest we’ll coordinate on the radio.”
“Sounds good….check in on the radio in 20 minutes?” I confirmed.
“Check.” The other two captains acknowledged as we walked out the door. The blast of heat and light shocked me back into Afghanistan climate reality as I left the darker, air conditioned building.
I could smell the dust in the air again and a few steps later beads of sweat started rolling down my forehead. It was only 34 degrees but with multiple layers of flight clothing on, it made your body heat up quickly.
I went to the armoury containers where my ‘go-bag’ and rifle were prepared and waiting. I quickly put on my armour and tactical vest. I put my bag on my back, picked up my rifle, loaded it and hoisted two tourniquets around my upper thigh. As I walked towards the helicopter to meet my crew, they slipped and fell around my ankles so my last 50 yard macho walk was a shuffle so to not lose my tourniquets under my feet.
I held arms out palms up. “What? What?” I barked at the right gunners shaking head. He laughed and continued feeding the ammo link into his Dillon gun.
4000 rounds of link – 75 seconds on target.
“Okay let’s brief.” I ignored their me-directed humour.
“If we go down, 31 becomes our over-watch. Immediate drills are establish a fire-base around whatever main gun is working, you two are Right fire team.” I pointed to the right gunner and right seat co-pilot. “You and me, left fire team.” He nodded.
“Priority review…Fire base, Combat First aid, then first aid, then we grab gear and bound….rest we make up as we go. Check you gear, check your codes, any questions?”
Everyone nodded. Their faces became stoic. Eyes connected. They all knew what to do. A briefing was not required. But it set the tone. It was a reminder. There were individual rituals and there was a personal transitions that occurred. Everyone went through it at some point. Usually between the safe air-conditioned room with bravado and cocky banter to actually becoming the stoic warrior. And it was visible. Not every trip posed tremendous hazards. But every-trip had the potential of turning into a TIC, IED intervention, or responding to an attack on the chinook or yourself. There seemed to be an acceptance of mortality that had to occur for a person to get their job done. That is what I felt; and that its what I think I saw in everyone else’s eyes as we prepared to start the helicopter. We stopped becoming Steves, Fenders, Snapshots, Scrappy’s and became a focussed fire-team. Shakedown.
Two Canadian Armed Forces soldiers salute on the last Remembrance Day ceremony in Afghanistan at Camp Eggers in Kabul on Monday, Nov.11, 2013. Canadian Press, DND – Sgt Norm McLean.
I saw this many times. I speculated through dialogue and imagined a plausible situation. How would it transpire? What would the outcome be? What are the other perspectives?
There are so many casualties in war. Perhaps the most damaged veterans are the one’s that didn’t even know they were in the fight.
It was a late March afternoon. The sun was beating down, searing the desert and the mud walled compounds that lay below. It was well above 40 degrees. The locals kept cool in the afternoon by carrying out light chores or resting in the heat. In some areas, local men were preparing the fields for the grape harvest. Others were tending to the poppies that would be ripe soon for the opium harvest. Some were repairing their compounds from the winter rains of January and February. Many irrigation fields had corner holes to allow water to fill from the Arghandhab. They had to be repaired but in the afternoon, very little activity occurred.
146 in the Reg
“How’s the POL?” I asked my first officer referring to his awareness of any life in the compounds below.
“Quiet today.” He answered as he looked around.
“Don’t see too much…too hot.” Snapshot, my right gunner, added.
I looked back and he had his camera up. Occasionally, he would see unique sites that few others had the eye to appreciate.
“I don’t know how the ladies in these compounds have beautiful blue gowns yet everything else is dusty brown and dirty.” He observed.
“Ya, interesting. How do they keep those shimmering clean?” I added noticing a woman with her child in the corner of a compound near a shaded area.
We zipped by about 75 feet above her as we crossed over Nakhoney towards the Adamz-eye chain of compounds that stretched from Salavat mountain to the Reg in the south. It was a narrow band of homes, but extremely tactical for the insurgents. They could easily attack the Canadian FOB in Nakhoney and egress through the mine-filled grape-fields to the wadiis and compounds west.
“There’s a man and a woman with a little boy.” Snapshot noticed.
“Unusual this time of day.” I answered.
Men were usually at the market selling produce or working in the fields. Regardless, it was rare to see them together in compounds. They seemed to be dialoguing. The child seemed to be stuck to the mother not like a child would behave near a father.
“Who knows? Keep your eye’s out…this place is crazy.” I added. But nothing would ‘likely’ happen today. The opium harvest was the most important action this month. Fighting us infidel’s would be secondary. The prime mission was to sell the drugs, raise money and then take up arms after harvest in May.
We proceeded west to SPER for an over-watch task ignoring the events below. It was just another day.
Nakhoney and Adamz-eye area
“Look at the helicopter.” The woman told her son as they worked in the yard. She had a way of keeping her clothes shimmering in the sunlit sky as she tended to her chores.
“Yes, will they hurt us?” The boy asked.
“No, look at them; they usually wave if they see you.” She added.
She was about 25 years old. She was taking care of her wifely duties inside her compound – her home – about 600 meters west of Nakhoney in the Adamz-eye chain of villages that stretched from HYENA through LAKE EFFECT to the Reg Desert. She stayed in her home and tended to the needs of her family. Together they tended to the yard until some weapons firing commenced in the east towards the Canadian base. She was used to this. It was nothing unusual; occurring almost daily; she knew the difference between the sound of an AK-47 and a C7 assault rifle. She recognized the AK47 shots. The fighting had been going on long in her country. She had heard tales from her parents about the Russian invasions some thirty years earlier. She had witnessed her own horrors and wondered if the fighting and the hatred would ever end. Now the Taliban, and the ANA and more foreigners were in her land.
“Stay close to that wall.” She pointed east knowing it was the safest part of the compound.
She interpreted these shots as a Taliban ambush against a Canadian or ANA patrol. It was no concern of hers. The bullets would not be going towards her. Even if they did, the walls were thick and bullets could not penetrate them. She was safe as long as she did her duties inside the walls. Her and her son continued to tend to their work.
A man ran into compound from the east.
“Move inside.” He commanded fiercely.
“You can not be in here…my husband is not home.” She said humbly with her eyes to the ground.
“I know where you husband is…be silent and do as I ask.” He firmly stated moving towards here.
She pulled up her bright blue burka and covered her face as per customs; she grabbed her son and pulled him inside the house within the compound.
The man moved in the corner of a compound door, he maintained a watch down the road as he spoke with her. He was well aware of the combat occurring between Taliban and Canadian troops. He scanned in all directions. He held a small cell phone and was talking in short concerned yet angry bursts into the phone.
“Bring the package. Bring the package now.” A faint but panicky voice stated over the phone in Pashtun.
She could hear. She knew. The Afghan mother protected her boy and curled up with him in the corner across the room in terror. She recognized him, but he was not family. He had arrived from Pakistan during the winter. He had been working with her husband in the opium fields. He was a buyer, a soldier, and an insurgent.
The young boys whimpered in a shallow cry and leaned into his mother. She stroked his head holding him tight; covering his ears as the man looked over to him. They rocked together worried of the situation.
“Tell that boy to be quiet. Allah demands it.” He hollered. He was perturbed at the whiney interruptions towards the sensitive phone call.
“Now?” the man asked in the phone looking at the boy.
The mother saw his eyes and pulled her boy tighter.
Gunshots continued to echo a few hundred meters to the east. Then helicopters started to arrive. The sounds of AK-47s shot and also shot back. An occasional bullet zinged overtop of the compound.
Taliban fighter with AK 47
“I am trapped. The enemy is engaging from the north. I cannot get a clean shot at the Infidels. I need the package now.” The voice stated.
“No!” You cannot take him. No!” She argued. She held her son tightly. The boy started to cry.
He walked towards her angrily. “You insult me, your husband and Allah. Stop it.” He rose his hand threatening to strike.
She cried silently as tears fell down her face.
He grabbed the boy and pulled his arm. He started to whimper. The other hand holding the phone, which faintly but persistently continued demands.
“Yes, I am bringing the package.” The man answered into the phone looking directly at the woman.
The man took a deep breath and calmly kneeled down to the boy.
“Do not be afraid. It is time for you to become a man and stand up against the infidels and what they bring to the land.” He preached intently.
“This is a great noble task and Allah will protect you; you will be safe.” The man continued as the boy intently listened as he dried the tears from his cheeks. His mother went into a private room to hide her fearful tears.
“Allah will stop all the shooting when you go into the field of battle. You are special. All men will stop fighting. The man on the phone needs you. Allah will protect you.” He preached to convince the boy.
He pulled the boy out of the compound. The mother looked out from the shadows tears rolling down her face. The boy went limp with terror. The clenching grip of the man dragging him down the road towards the fire-fight. His face paralyzed and flushed of all emotion.
The helicopters buzzed above their heads as they walked towards a large grape-hut. He heard the bullets zipping above his head. Dust-splashes of bullets impacting the grape-huts a hundred yards ahead.
“I am bringing the package to you.” The man yelled into the phone.
The boy looked up to the helicopters. He saw the masked face of a door gunner looking directly towards him. He was aiming his weapon on the grape-hut. The boy knew the gun; it delivered the breath of Allah. The noise. The dust. The gunshots. The door gunner was not shooting yet but the boy could see him taking aim. He felt the painful squeeze of the man yanking him down the road forcing his numb legs to move. Numb with terror…
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 