Yes! This weekend. In Edmonton. I am excited to see old friends and anxious about my official book release. I’ll be in the North Hangar Friday all afternoon to say hi and see old faces. I look forward to seeing the past, present and future geese.
In addition, I have found that ‘Shakedown’ is in the kobo store portion of Indigo Chapters. I have started to discuss consignment with Chapters but it will be some time before I have further news on that – (I have to return to my day job).
It’s been awhile since I posted a blog. I have been running the gauntlet of publishing, marketing and answering questions. My dear Florence told me that writing the book was only half the work — the marketing aspect would be very busy; she was right.
First, thanks for your support. I hope you continue to share and enjoy. It was a great pleasure to make the book and a lot of fear. There are parts that could be better but there comes a point when you just gotta let it fly…and it’s flying. It is making its way into the market at an easy going pace. However, the first launch forward was from all of you people that have been following and sharing – it actually made it to the best seller’s rank two weekend ago at #57 in kindle and #99 in books in Canadian Amazon – that was an awesome feeling…so I (we) celebrated by going fishing. LOL. Fishing with red-wine that is and a gourmet boil-up near Petty Harbour b’y. No bites on the trout though.
Anyway, Go for Shakedown is getting out there and it is reaching people in unique ways. I dont think people expected it to be quite like it is. The aspects of attempting to bring in local, operational staff and other different perspectives is also helping to raise some empathy and consideration which is what I was aiming for.
“On the ramp, I was conducting a quick preflight rub of my Griffon, checking the flares, gun mounts, and MX-15 before climbing in. I looked over to Skipper’s chopper—he seemed to be doing something similar.
“What the hell is this?” I heard a loud holler and turned my attention to Skipper. He wasn’t aware of Arnie’s ritual. He was bent down behind the aircraft under the tail end. He smeared his fingers along a puddle on the ground and then lifted them under his nose. He was suspecting an oil leak but instead discovered Arnie’s ritualistic piss puddle.
“This smells like . . . piss. Who the hell is pissing on my tarmac?” He was furious.
I looked at my crew in panic. There would be an inquiry. And I definitely couldn’t look at anyone else for fear of breaking out in laughter, revealing my knowledge.
“Start it, start it!” I called to my crew. “Before he comes over and asks.” Irish held his index finger up, signaling Snapshot to start number 1 engine. Irish hit the starter just as Skipper started to walk toward them.
The engine igniters snapped, and then the turbine lit and whined to life. The rotor started to turn. Skipper stopped. He lowered and clenched his jaw. He knew something was up and retreated to his own chopper.
Arnie’s eyes were big. He slid his visor down, covering them, and then tucked his chin low, hiding his expression.
“I think Skipper tasted it!” Zorg stated, laughing over the intercom. Everyone broke out laughing.
“Ohhh, Arnie is so busted!” Zorg stated.”
Excerpt From: Stephen Robertson, CD BA ATPL. “Go for Shakedown.” iBooks.
Blog 12E. Senjeray PID RPG…the busy day continues (Still Irish’s mission)
Sunrise in SenjeraySenjeray and the Canadian A.O.Green Zone near Senjeray
……“Shakedown this is the FOB (Forward Operating Base Senjeray), wait out.”
“Contact FAM (Fighting Aged male) with one times RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) and AK47 (assault rifle).” Prof called excitedly over the radio. His helicopter closed in from the higher orbit onto the potentially lethal target. Was is a single RPG shooter? Where was his support team. There could be others in the immediate area with AK47s to join into the attack against the Chinook as it departed. Those insurgents would be deeper into the green zone a few hundred meters; covertly hiding and ready to attack. They usually ambushed in multiple teams from different locations all focusing their fires onto the airborne target. Like a fly into the spider’s web, everywhere you turned there would be more havoc to get tangled into. Prof’s crew would make himself vulnerable in order to defend the chinook. As we teamed into battle formation, we became much more lethal, accepting certain risks to get our gunners into optimum position to defend – or attack.
The FAM was now partially hidden from the FOB under some trees in a cut-out in the wall. His RPG could be seen moving but he didn’t seemed to be aiming it. It went from over shoulder to under shoulder. Then held, then disappeared as he leered from behind the concrete hard, thick compound. The shape of the warhead on the tip occasionally emerging.
“I’m tracking him with my gun…if he pulls any shit, he’s done.” Snapshot called. “Can we get in lower?”
‘Roger that, coming in behind Prof! Cover his ass and watch that green zone for support shooters!” I yelled over the intercom. I was concerned about what we couldn’t see. I then pressed my radio foot switch to talk to Prof on the radio. “Professor you got him?”
“Roger, I got him.” Prof answered. His voice alert and focused. The target had bunker like walls all around him. It was an ideal place to shoot from and stay somewhat concealed.
“Standby, he is still not a legal target, I am coordinating through the FOB. It will be your shot, I’m on high cover dropping into your trail.” I further answered. I looked out to the Chinook on the ground in the FOB. The last passengers were loaded. He would be lifting right into that ambush. I had to warn him.
“Blowtorch, this is Shakedown. Stay on the ground. Possible RPG threat to your south east.” I called to Butch. “Man with RPG about 250 meters on your nose in a compound.”
Prof interrupted with a report. “I’m in position to fire….He seems to be hiding behind the wall – He looks suspicious – spying.”
“Check that, standby.” I answered. I had to get more intelligence. I hoped the FOB had a sniper also viewing. I may have to call him onto the target or smoke it to mark it. For identification – but time was fleeting.
“Shakedown 25, this is Blowtorch. We are ready to lift. Holding position. Holding position.” Butch’s voice answered.
He wanted out. He had to stay for the time being. It became a time crunch from his perspective. The longer he sat there, the more likely he would draw indirect enemy mortar fire into the FOB. But if he departed right now, he could be flying into an ambush. The Chinook had enough power to depart the opposite direction – it was an option but because of the semi-overt presentation of the RPG holder, it could be a decoy trying to encourage the Chinook to fly into another direction for a possible ambush. All these defensive options racing through Butch’s mind – yet inevitably, if he delayed much longer, the mortars would definitely come.
“Roger that Butch. Standby. We’re in firing position. FOB also investigating….standby!” I cautioned him. I could feel his impatience. Everyone’s vigilance was heightened. It could be felt and heard in the tone of voice. We reversed course, aggressively following Prof about 200 feet over the ground. The gunner’s both intently scanning the RPG man and the surrounding wadi and compounds for any other unusual activity or persons with weapons. I looked over to the higher terrain to the northside of the FOB. It seemed normal, I hoped.
Both of our griffons were now ready at any moment to release weapons onto the target should he shoulder the RPG. The man with the RPG moved behind the wall, then in front. Was he trying to avoid our griffons? He held his RPG but not in a firing posture; yet. Snapshot was ready within a second. If the man shouldered and aimed the weapons towards the chinook, Snapshot was ready to open fire. Target was in his sites. He was ready.
“Shakedowns, this is Senjeray. Do Nawt Fire! Do nawt fire! He’s an ANA soldier! He is friendly!” An American accent announced over the radio. “The son-of-a-bitch was layt for his guard duty that’s why he was running and not properly dressed. That’s his normal position.” He continued.
“Wholly shit! Check fire Snapshot.” I yelled over the intercom then replied on the radio: “Roger that –visual friendly – visual friendly.”
“Stand down Prof! Stand down gunners! ANA soldier – friendly. Resume normal orbit.” I advised.
“Roger it’s a friendly. Check that.” Prof answered to me. He was pissed off. He continued onto the other radio. “FOB Senjeray this is 26, you tell that son of a bitch he almost got his ass shot off – 26 Out!”
“Rawger that Shakedown 26.” The American accent answered, “We gawt this.” There would be a debrief to the ANA security team.
“Check it’s friendly.” Snapshot stated and raised his gun level.
“Okay, We are outta here! Lifting in 15 seconds eastbound.” Butch’s voice announced in relief from his Chinook. He had had enough time sitting on the ground being a potential mortar magnet. The dust began to erupt around him as the Chinook started lifting. Our two griffons aggressively split apart and circled around to the flanks and rear of the departing heavy helicopter; protecting his flight path.
“Well that would have been a bit of paper work sir?” Zorg added sarcastically. He was proud of his calm, yet cheeky retort.
I looked at Irish and shook my head in disbelief. He looked relieved as he sank into his pillow seat about an inch. He let out a nervous chuckle towards me; laughing at me as my eyes were bigger than my head.
Our crew continued to laugh at the ridiculous intensity and bantered about the possible comical outcomes while finishing our morning escort missions.
“…Achmed has 50 holes in him. Why? He was late! The rest of you guards take note.”
“…Guards, how many times do I have to say, don’t take your RPG home at night after work!”
It had been a long day. Six continuous flying hours since first starting, we finally walked into operations for our debriefing with Scrappy.
He looked at our frazzled team of Shakedown 25 Flight. It had been a few weeks since first arriving. In his opinion, we needed to maintain vigilance but also except the realities that existed here. Scrappy needed to put some perspective on it.
“So in summary, you flew in a war zone, had the potential to get shot in a mortar attack, saw a medieval stoning that we were all briefed could be part of our experience here; and almost perforated an ANA soldier?” Scrappy sternly lectured our physically and emotionally drained crowd.
“Yup, pretty much!” Professor stated matter of factly as he looked at me then spit chew tobacco in his cup.
“This is my second time here. This is normal. And you did a good job…you didn’t get killed and you didn’t kill a good-guy.” Scrappy summed, paused, then curtly and left the room.
There was no discussion. No sympathy. Just an acceptance of the way life was in Afghanistan. All these events affected everyone. We can accept shooting, being shot at, mortars and rockets landing around us…but the stoning? It affected everyone. Those people weren’t even the threat but the act of stoning a young girl was deplorable. Or is it deplorable for me to judge the judgers? Some things just never sit right.
“Why the fuck are we here if we can’t help the innocent?” I heard Zorg quietly mention to Hawk. “And these are the people we are liberating from the Taliban?”
I looked over and saw Hawk shrug as he glanced at me. I was stoic. I got up to leave the room. I paused and looked back at the other seven.
“Irish! Your mission was well planned and the timings worked out flawlessly! Well, for awhile anyway.” I smiled. “Good job!” I stated in front of the team and departed. He was happy to be acknowledged but there were more significant things being processed in his mind than the exactness of a complex planning sheet.
In operations, Grumpy’s team had just come back from their mission towards Helmand Province. Helmand was one of the most brutal areas in Southern Afghanistan. The Brits were losing soldiers weekly just like the Canadians and Americans were losing people here in Panjwai. We had similar grim expressions on our faces.
“How’d it go?” I asked recognizing a look of exhaustion on his face.
“Let’s see.” He looked up reflecting on his day. “Craters, TICS, burning vehicles, arguing with copilot, suicide bombers, TICS, medevacs, IEDs.”
“Huh. Pretty standard day I guess.” I said.
“I heard you saw a stoning. It’s medieval times! I guess that’s pretty normal for this place.” He summarized twisting his face. He held his arm up at a vertical angle about the elbow. He had enough bullshit for the day – not from his colleagues, but from the mission.
I nodded. “I heard you got called to a TIC?” I enquired.
“Yup, but the Taliban put down their RPGs and picked up shovels by the time we got there.” Grumpy shook his head. “Can’t kill a sand farmer can I?”
“SNAFU?” I asked.
“Yup.” Grumpy smirked, turned and walked away. “SNAFU.”
(Situation Normal – All Fucked Up!)
So much shit happens in a day here, that it takes a long time to reflect, contemplate and try to organize it into something that makes sense; even if it isn’t acceptable or understandable from a western cultural perspective. Some will never make sense of it and it will linger. Even as I write and edit this a dozen times over the past 4 years, new revelations still come to me.
….“Zorg, we gotta carry on with our task, we’ll talk later!” I was concerned due to his tone.
“Too many people dying for stupid reasons here.” He stated quietly.
continued….
“Shakedown 25, this is SLAYER TOC, I copy your report and it has been passed up.” His tone was the same. To him, it was a routine report to file and pass. I was amazed by the lack of intonation. He had probably received so many inhumane reports that he was numb to the lack of humanity witnessed each day.
“Airspace Update Report.” Slayer continued seamlessly. “No change to the airspace but WILSON is HOT. TIC in progress. Two times enemy mortars have been shot into WILSON. SHAMUS Flights are continuing operations south of WILSON with rockets and 50 cal. All effects are east-west, approach from north and contact LZ controller in WILSON to de-conflict your arrival. I say again, WILSON recently under mortar fire.”
“25, roger copy that, are you in need of our support at this time?” I asked.
Irish’s eyes got big. He realized I was asking to get into the fight. Zorg yelled a huge battle cheer from the back.
“We gotta straighten these fuckers out!” Zorg hollared.
“The General has to be picked up, he’s expecting us.” Irish stated.
“Yup, your right. I’m sure the General will tell the FOB Commander that he can use us if they need us.” I added. “He wont mind waiting.”
“Well boys, be prepared for anything.” I said in nervous anticipation of Slayer’s Fire Mission; directing us into battle.
Slayer responded after a short delay, “Negative, Shamus has got it, they have too many choppers in that location as it is, thanks but proceed on task.”
A quiet filled the cockpit. Not sure if it was relief or disappointment.
“I guess I can put my gun away and pick up my camera again.” Snapshot joked.
“Do you think that girl is okay?” Zorg dwelled in a concerned tone.
“What did you see?” I asked quickly.
“She took a bunch of stones to the body, hunched, then a big one directly to the head and fell over.” His voice stated flatly. “I didn’t see her move.”
Everyone was quiet. We were about to go into WILSON; it was under attack.
“Focus Zorg.” I raised my voice. “We’ll talk after.”
The crew was quiet except the radio filled with combat activity near WILSON. Again, the landing zone was jammed. We were able to approach into the same place where the General was dropped. There was a medevac. DUSTOFF, a Blackhawk helicopter was inbound, five minutes after us to extract casualties. This was being orchestrated while four Kiowa Warriors were rotating in and out of battle only 400 meters away. GUNSMOKE was also still high above using 30 mm cannon to augment the SHAMUS teams. The radios were blaring with activity to the point that the crew couldn’t even talk on the intercom. It was confusion and the air was congested with choppers all within a one-kilometer radius.
We were just landing in the FOB when a plume of smoke rose a few hundred meters in front of us on the south edge of the FOB.
“All call signs. Rocket attack. Rocket attack.” The WILSON LZ coordinator called. “A mortar just landed on the south wall of WILSON.”
This was all happening as the General was approaching the helicopter. He was poised and taking the appropriate time to share hand-shakes with the person he was visiting. Slightly ducking as he heard mortars explode a few hundred meters south. His pause, grip and grin was aggravating both myself and Irish. He looked over his shoulder to watch the rising black smoke of the Taliban attack and turned to watch the kiowas release their rockets adding to the smoke in the valley. He seemed to be enjoying the stroll while we just wanted to get the fuck into air where we felt less vulnerable.
He boarded, smiled from the back seat and gave us the thumbs up. He yelled to communicate over the noise of the helicopters, mortars and rocket war just a quarter-mile south.
“Got ourselves a bit of a war going on here. Didn’t think you’d make it!” He smiled.
“No problem sir, that’s what were here for.” I yelled back faking my extreme confidence. “We’ll be off in a second.”
“Ahh, we should go now, the General’s on board,” Irish directed.
“We’ll stay together as a section, it’s best.” I trumped. “Wait for Prof, we’ll go together.”
Prof’s aircraft was still loading the General’s entourage: a Chief Warrant Officer, Staff Officer and a guard. They were shaking hands, doing their final good. They were almost ready to go. Nevertheless, our section couldn’t split up and go independently with all the other helicopters in the air, it would have added too much confusion. All the players expected two helicopters to move for one radio call. There was always higher risk of crashing from confusion than from the enemy.
Another plume rose across the base from our location, 400 meters away. Our eyes enlarged, pausing to look at each other to share the SNAFU excitement.
“Those mortars are getting a but close, don’t ya think? We gotta get going!” Irish insisted in a slightly elevated voice of concern.
“Yup. What the fuck’s taking them so long out there.” I looked as they shook hands and jocularly smiled in what appeared to be non chalantly at the plume of rising mortar smoke.
Irish looked out towards them, eyes grew enlarged with palms up gesturing the “let’s get the hell moving people” signal. They moved towards Prof.
“We’re good. They are aboard, we’ll be outta here right away.” I encouraged faking a smile. Moments later, 26 called ready and we departed as the Dustoff Medivac arrived.
The General put his headset on. “Thanks for coming back and getting me guys.” He said cheerfully. “It’s getting a bit exciting down there but the RCHA (artillery) are doing well and getting some business today – it was a good visit. Bit of a change gents, you can take me over to the Lord Strathcona’s now at Masum Ghar.” He informed.
Example of mortar – in training
“No problem sir, I told you we’d be back. Have you over there in a jiffy.” I answered. Irish was quiet sorting through his paperwork as there was now a change in timings and location.
“Shakedown, this is Freedom Ops.” Scrappy’s voice came over the radio breaking our silent tension.
“Go for Shakedown 25.” I answered.
“After you drop off the General, escort Blowtorch to Senjeray. He’s just loading and will meet you north of Senjeray in twenty five minutes.” Scrappy stated.
This was the norm: changes, add-ons and re-routing. This is what I liked. No paper, no extensive wasted planning. Just fill with gas, bullets and Redbull and make it up as you go along.
“Roger that.” I responded and continued on the intercom. “Guys, we’re walking the dog to Senjeray.” It was followed by the normal acknowledgements. I smiled. I knew this was the straw to break the camels’ back of the time table.
As we approached MASUM GHAR, Irish shook his head and threw his papers beside his seat surrendering to the changes. He smiled with his palms raised mouthing silently the familiar words: “What the Fuck.” I felt vindicated; for now.
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…
(From my recollection this is fairly accurate. I may have blended some events over those initial days into the one day. I was tired, it was a long trip, a little nervous. Oh hell! A lot nervous. And these first moments were surreal. There are some colleagues you remember forever just for the little things.)
3. Dust On My Boots
I spent a year in Afghanistan yesterday.
October 2009. It’s 5:00 a.m. Roto 8 had arrived from Canada after 3 days of transit to what seemed to be from all corners of the earth to get to what most would refer to as the dustiest shit-hole on the planet.
I disembarked the Canadian C-17 Globemaster from our layover in Cyprus and shuffled across the tarmac just as the sun was illuminating a beautiful bright yellow across the blue sky. An orange band topped the yellow where the light met the dust suspended in the air. Everything was brown, covered in a thin layer of moon dust. Even the green trees were covered in dust; making them brown. As I marched off the concrete, each step resulted in a small explosion of talcum-like powder that engulfed my pants to mid-shin. I chuckled in disbelief as my new boots already looked like they had ‘time-in’.
After “checking in” to the new resort, my chalk of air-soldiers were ushered through numerous stages of orientation. Since no one had slept in the past 3 days, except for a few winks on an airport floor in ‘secret’ isolation in Germany, most of us were aloof to the detail of material presented. However, coffee and snacks were a welcome provision as we listened to what sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher professing.
Following this reception, we were ushered through the equipment issue process. Side arms, ammunition, administrative forms and videos on combat first aid techniques were all completed with a focus on the most recent tactical situation to sharpen our purpose.
I retrieved my pistol, a Browning 9 mm sidearm and 30 rounds of ammunition. I loaded it, made it safe and holstered it over my shoulder. Later that night we would go to the ranges to verify they were working. Then like a flock of sleepy sheep, we were herded onto another bus which crawled down a dusty channeled road through the rocket protection barriers and sea-cans.
I arrived at the temporary accommodation called BATs (Big Ass Tents), which would be home for the next two days until the crews of 430 Squadron, who we were replacing, departed so we could take their lodgings. The BAT was a huge white temporary housing haven for soldiers transiting in and out of KAF. It had numerous rows of bunk-beds easily being able to house a company of 150 soldiers.
At the BAT, we were granted a couple hours of personal time. This was very welcome after 3 days of travel before further orientation started in the afternoon. Many flopped on a mattress and immediately slept despite the noisy infantry platoon that had also arrived. Anxious to go home, they were all telling their war stories – adding another realistic dimension to the anxiety of our newly arriving aviation team.
I couldn’t sleep. My mind was nervous about the unknown. So coupled with my body vibrating in sleep deprivation, I could do nothing other than explore. I needed to look around. I clung to a respected colleague who had already completed a tour in KAF several years earlier. He was a fellow Griffon captain and section leader. He was respected for his experience, meticulous work and detailed planning. A person who anyone could look upto for both friendship and advise. However, he had little time for non-sense, which was quite plentiful in a military organization. It wasn’t uncommon for him to look wide-eyed at someone who was presenting a ridiculous comment. And with his head sternly tilted forward and forearm held out across his chest, he would slowly raise his finger-tips pivoting about his elbow, vertically representing and analog meter as he sarcastically warned his conversant:
“My fun-meter is pegged! Conversation over!”
He was proud of this demeanor and often referred to himself as THE grumpy old man. This in itself was contradictory since he was positive and smiled most of the time. However, at one point in our training for Afghanistan, he comically labeled our entire cadre of captains ‘Grumpy Old Men’ depicting the gruff attitudes of our group of senior captains – most of us older than our supervising majors and colonels. Unfortunately, the overwhelming majority of young copilots would have to learn to deal with us for 8 months of pre-training followed by the year in theatre. In order to protect the confidentiality of the not so innocent, I shall refer to him as “Grumpy Old man – Grumpy for short.” (No offense Grumpy)
Grumpy noticed my perplexed look from the realization that we were actually arrived. Conversely, he looked excited to be back and anxious to do some ‘show and tell’.
“You gonna sleep?” he asked.
“Nope.” I responded.
“Timmy’s for coffee?”
TIM HORTONS ON KAF BOARDWALK 2009
“You bet, I need something to keep me up, I’m sleep-fucked and won’t be sleepin’ with those guys in there tellin’ war stories!” I enthusiastically requested.
Grumpy proceeded down a narrow dusty road walled by sea containers over 5 meters feet high on each side. I was entirely disoriented but he knew exactly where he was in this labyrinth. I surrendered to my curiosity by plodding along in tow. It all looked the same. Shipping containers (sea cans) were piled up row on row making kilometers of a maze-like roadways re-enforced by other tall concrete barriers to prevent rocket attack shrapnel from injuring people. Everything, of course, covered in dust. I followed along watching the little dust-explosions climbing and wrapping around his knees as he pointed to land-marks.
“There’s the TLS again, frontgate, HQ, barber, Canadian gym…” he toured with his arm pointing out landmarks. I was excited to see all these things but figured I need a three kilometer long string to find my way back to the BAT through the all-brown maze.
Tim Hortons was a kilometer away, which was really 2000 dust exploding steps making my shiny, virgin, tan-pattern uniform instantly looking veteran due to the thin film of dessert talcum brown. As vehicles slowly passed by, the intensity of the rising dust forced people to stop until the visibility increased. I coughed out the excess dirt; learning quickly to cover my face by raising my undershirt over my nose. Even after opening my eyes, the sweat from my brow streamed the stinging dirt back into them. I couldn’t escape the talcum powdered invasion. Additionally, combined with damp clothes from immediate heat induced perspiration, the dust clung to my clothing forming a darker brown in those affected areas…it was the typical Kandahar attractive look: dusty brown framed by bacon stripe butt and pit-shadow. Despite only two hours since arrival, my uniform appeared like everyone else’s. The differentiator was the white skin tone and wide, but red, eyes.
The boardwalk was the social centre of KAF. It was a large square with each side about 150 meters in length. The centre courtyard shared a basketball court, a gravel football field, a stage, a memorial rock garden and of course, the Canadian hockey rink. There were market stores and a few cafes offering some psychological reprieve from the ruggedness of the operation. It was comfortable in KAF, especially to those soldiers who lived and worked outside the security fence (outside the wire). To them, this was a resort. Our aviation Battalion aircrew worked outside the wire but lived inside. We understood and respected what the troops lived (and died) through and never tried to take the “resort” feeling for granted. There was already some animosity between soldiers living in the FOBs and soldiers that worked entirely inside the wire. They patrolled every day and night, risking their lives and experiencing pain and death. Yet, everyone serving in Afghanistan was on the same danger pay and received the same campaign medal. Aircrew respected that, and appreciated KAF, but knew that one small bullet in the right place would make us instant foot soldiers outside the wire….that was always in mind. So respect for those living ‘outside the wire’ was never yielded.
Thermometer in the shade at Tim Hortons.
“Steve, check this out.” Grumpy directed. “You can walk in, or take the walk through.”
“How’s this work?” I inquired looking at two long lines with several dozen people in each.
“If you have a small order, you go in the walk through line. It’s faster. If you want a larger order, go inside”. Grumpy explained. “We’ll stand in the walk-thru outside line. There is a lot to watch from here.”
It took about 10 minutes to serve the 20 people in front but it gave a chance to say hi to various people. It wasn’t uncommon to meet Australians, Russians, Brits and especially Americans who quickly fell in love with Iced Caps and donuts. Newly arriving American soldiers were escorted around KAF by a designated colleague for orientation. Tim’s was part of the tour. I felt unusually proud to overhear them telling their colleagues about how the Timmy’s was a MUST place to go with the best donuts, bagels and Iced Caps.
“Dude, you just gotta say black, which is black. Or regular, which is one cream and sugar. Or double-double which is two of each. They automatically know.” An American with a southern drawl explained to another.
“Oh alright, I got this.” The new comer replied.
“But you gotta order a Wayne Gretzky.” He added.
“What’s that, a hockey player?”
“Ya but it’s a large coffee with 9 creams and 9 sugar. I recommend it highly.” The southern drawl expertly advised.
Grumpy and I both astonished, looked at each other silently repeating in disbelief: “9 and 9?” It was an extreme Tim’s order but nevertheless, I was proud of our national institution in coming to KAF and influencing others from afar to choose Timmy’s over Green Beans, the American choice on the boardwalk.
Timmy’s was perched beside a small patio which overlooked the ball hockey rink and also had the best wifi connection. Many soldiers had coffee while concurrently skyping home and watching the game. The hockey games were almost continually on-going — even on hot 40 degree days. Some Canadian night shift workers were currently playing hockey following their shift; soaked in sweat. I noticed the thermometer anchored above the door at Tim’s. It was only 33 on this dusty autumn day. However, it was also only 9 am.
KAF Hockey Rink – Tim’s patio view
Grumpy Old Man treated me to coffee and we continued walking. 200 meters away was our home to be. We proceeded that direction. He gave me the change from the coffee at Timmy’s, a POG. There were no coins used in theatre, only cash. And instead of coins, a paper POG was given representing 5, 10 and 25 cents. My first souvenir.
The accommodations were beside the American post exchange (like a mini-Walmart) and the Niagara DFAC (dining facility pronounced Dee-Fack). This was where the majority of their meals would be for the next year. It was primarily an American cuisine but had huge variety.
Home Sweet Home for a year.
I entered the small weather haven. A dusty partially torn tent about 60 feet long and 14 feet wide with an arched roof. It would soon be home to 17 pilots. It was dark. It took several minutes to for the eyes to adjust and likewise just the opposite as one returned outside into the bright sunlight. I introduced myself quietly to one of the guys; I recognized him from Canada.Tactical aviation in Canada is a small community. We all cross paths with each other at some point.
In a whispering French accent he excitedly welcomed, “Bonjour! Bien venue KAF! I am glad you ayr haiyr. I keen gow howme now”. He snickered.
“Deese eeze your chamber”. He said. “You can feex it up az you –pray-furr.”
I shook his hand as he directed me to a vacant bed-space. My room was a small 7′ by 7′ square with a sloping roof. It had a bed and some handmade furniture from scrap wood for a desk. It would eventually provide my 6 square feet of living space which I would eventually occupy with a swivel office chair. This took up all remaining floor space. So access to my bed, desk and shelf-dresser had to be gained via the chair. However, it would become home and a sanctuary. It even had cable wired through providing a motivating but not very reliable internet service. Air conditioning seemed to be holding out but we were cautioned not to adjust it or it would fail…this eventually proved as true advice.
My room from my beds perspective – a little tight.
Since crews were sleeping, as we worked 24/7, Grumpy exited to continue leading the tour. We proceeded to the laundry facility and Grumpy demonstrated the routine. Stand in line, zap strap laundry bag closed with several straps, fill out paper work, keep receipt (or you may never see your clothes again), pass to Afghani laundry clerk, hope you see your laundry in three days.
As we approached the laundry, my eyes began to sting. A penetrating ammonia odour scoured my sinuses making my eyes water. This, in addition to the dust, cause my eyes and nose to go into foreign sensory overload. I had to take short little breaths to minimize the sharp sting.
“What is that smell?” I asked half covering my face.
Grumpy was smiling. “Next on the tour my friend,” he smirked leading me forward.
Just around the corner was the poo-pond. It was the open pit circular sewage sump that is so large it can be clearly seen on a Google satellite image. It was right behind the laundry. During a westerly wind the entire camp was infused with the sewage stench. It was so strong that it often choked most people and burned the eyes. Unbelievably, I did get used to it. However, there were some days the intensity was overbearing. With a west wind, I had to sleep with my nose covered as the fumes easily penetrated our tents. Grumpy smiled as he showed me the pond; and pointed to the ‘no-swimming’ sign. We both laughed.
We continued touring around, dusty step by dusty step, getting the first kiss of sun burn on our faces as he showed me the other two kitchens, the NATO, American and Canadian gyms as well as the Canadian barber shop and Canadian lines. We finished at the D-FAC for lunch.
All the D-FACS were similar. One stood in a long line to get to the cafeteria style service. Food was usually excellent. Additionally, there was a salad station and an a’ la carte grill to serve primarily American style food: burgers and deep fried. After over-filling my tray to satisfy my starvation from the near 4 day fast, we sat next to a few young American infantry soldiers. The newest was rapidly stuffing his face with what he thought were French-fries while the experienced colleagues smirked and chuckling, hiding the truth. The french-fry eater, twisted his face and slowed his chewing:
“These fries are awful!” he disgustingly reported in his southern accent.
“That’s not fries Bob, that’s whut theys calls cal-i-mari,” his colleagues chuckled.
“Cali-whut?” he responded.
“Squid y’all!” They both broke out in laughter as the novice calamari eater had never been exposed to such flavour and began politely spitting it out; silently dry-heaving in the process.
Grumpy and I chuckled at the entertainment and finished lunch. Satisfied that KAF had not changed very much, he showed me to our next required location. I did not know how we returned to where we started. I was still geographically confused, but a little less disoriented.
That afternoon was filled with more administrative paper work, training and briefings. The entire team was required to walk through a mock-up IED mine-field reviewing safety drills and IED hazards. By this time it was 36 degrees. Wearing fighting gear and helmets gave us a taste of what was to come.
“The first group was getting hammered with instruction. “Stop Stop Stop. IED IED IED.” the sergeant yelled.
“So who’s in charge of everyone in this vehicle? What the hell are you gonna do now? 5 and 20…do it!” We could hear him yelling recurrency instructions expecting immediate action from his trainees. Also adding graphic detail to what would happen if we did not do it right.
“Some of these IEDs have enough explosive power to rip a tank apart!” he taught with enlarged eyes. “Get your shit together ladies and gentlemen.”
First few days in theatre, Public Highway road halt due to IED – Oct 2009Highway One traffic stop due to IED – Oct 2009
This was quick for the our aircrew. We had conducted this training extensively and repeatedly over the past six months. Not only the basics, but also with respect to being shot down and concurrently being in a fire-fight while treating casualties. It’s called combat first aid. And we briefed it daily in our jobs…it was real.
“Roto 8, you are finished for this afternoon. Next timing is busses at the BATs at 19:30. Bring your fighting order to prove your pistols.” A voice bellowed.
At this time, I don’t recall much. I must have slept in the bus and then I think my head hit the pillow for a quick nap. And what seemed like seconds later, someone woke me. It was dark, 19:20 and time to go to the pistol range.
The drive was unique. The rows of 5-meter high stacked sea-cans on either side of the narrow road made it appear like a dust-trof to navigate through. The dust was like a brown fog rising from the vehicles and obscuring vision to only a few feet at times. Since the road was barely two cars wide, the driver proceeded at a walking-pace in order to veer from the on-coming headlights. Despite the heat, the windows remained closed otherwise it would be incapacitating.
We arrived at the pistol ranges. It could have been Tarnac Farm but I don’t recall for sure. It was once outside the outskirts of KAF but was now part of the area. I mention Tarnac because it is significant. In 2002, the first 4 Canadian soldiers were killed here by an American F-16 pilot. The pilot had mistaken them as enemy and attacked them despite attaining PID. It served as a reminder to always have positive identification of the enemy prior to releasing fires. The rule was if any doubt existed, wait for another day. One public speaker briefed us before deployment that the bottom line on pulling the trigger is whether you can personally live with the multitude of results that could occur, not just the obvious result. Appropriately, this affirmation of restraint and patience would come to challenge us on a daily basis. The result lead to many nightmares that some soldiers still have to this day— sorta damned just by being there.
At the range, I stepped off the bus into a another cloud of brown talcum. Dim lights illuminated the 25 meter pistol range at the corners offering just enough light to function. We marched into rows behind 10 targets down range, approximately 5 person deep in each row. This wasn’t about accuracy, it was about proving your weapon worked. A quick 5-round shoot and review of safety drills.
It was an assembly line shoot. A normal indoctrination procedure on arrival. Along with most others, I had now not slept properly in over three days. I was mechanically reacting like a cow in the herd. Brain activity had shut down, it was all muscle memory. Is this safe? What could go wrong?
“First row, at the 10 meter target, on your own time, fire!” commanded the lead gunner sergeant. He was in charge of safety.
Blam blam blam.
“Cease fire, make safe your weapons!” he bellowed.
This required removing the magazine, cocking the weapon as many times as required to clear any remaining bullets, then test firing down range to ensure it clicks but doesn’t fire.
Click – click – click – blam. The gun fired. ….”Oops,” a humble voice embarrassingly called out.
“Number 4 , check fire, is your weapon clear?” boomed the sargeant.
“Well, it is now Sargeant.” was the sleepy reply attempting too, but failing to add levity.
“Number 4 clear your weapon and test fire again!”
Shick-shick, blam. “Fuck!”
The safety Sargent approached the individual and took the firearm.
“You need to remove your fuckin’ mag first soldier!” The Sarge cleared the weapon, test fired – click, and returned it firmly to the candidate with a small shove.
“Against the back wall for remedial drills!” He ordered. “Next line advance!” He continued onto the program without waste.
“With a 5 round magazine – Load!”
And the progression continued. At the end, everyone loaded onto the bus and waited patiently – sleeping – until the remedial training was complete on the four failures.
I’m not too sure what happened next. The bus stopped and robotically each of us staggered into the BAT. I do recall my face falling on a rolled up jacket being a make-shift pillow. I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I never thought I would get to sleep with my mind racing and body buzzing with the huge sleep debt. But obviously I did … until about 2:00 am…
A deafening siren shook the camp; repeating its oscillating and screaming sound. I sprung out of bed, disoriented. Where was I? What is that noise? I coughed out some dust. Oh ya, it was coming back to me. I covered my ears.
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 