war – Stephen Robertson Consulting

5. First Flight

September 21, 2015

MY FIRST FLIGHT.

“BLOWTORCH 60 flight is clear to the north,” the radio cracked advising KAF tower that the section of two griffons and one chinook was proceeding outside of the control zone.

As part of my introductory flight, a Chinook was deployed to move some passengers. So my first flight in theatre was actually a mission day.

“Alright guys, let’s practice some tactical formation turns.” Chip announced over the radio.

“Tac Right!” the radio announced. The Chinook veered to the right sharply. This led to a sequence of three aircraft doing an organized ballet of twisting through the air. The sequences allowed the Chinook to avoid enemy fire while allowing the griffons to position for counter attack; all while maintaining formation defence integrity.

The chinook then completed some un-announced surprise turns. “Shakedowns shackle.” 26 called asking us to switch sides for better use of space and tactical integrity. I slid over over the the right side of the chinook while Grumpy avoided me and crossed under and behind to the left.

We twisted through the dessert sky east of Kandahar city for about 15 minutes practicing shackles and tactical turns until our rusty handling proficiency was back to normal after not flying for several weeks.

“Shakedowns, hate to break up all your fun but we have a task coming in, so time to go into Nathan Smith.” Blowtorch stated. It wasn’t uncommon for missions to come in once airbrone. Most missions happened that way. BLOWTORCH had to drop passengers and cargo into the city-central FOB called Nathan Smith. It named after one of the first Canadian soldiers killed in Afghanistan.

kandahar easbound with 134 — Kandahar City at sunset

The scenery enroute was surreal. Brown ground, brown city and bright blue sky making for golden reflections off the mud walls in the city. The city was massive but lacked tall buildings. The tallest and only colourful building was a bright blue domed mosque which was part of the religious university. The remainder of the city was a series of walls, which formed a labyrinth of homes, roads, canals and courtyards; all made of mud which hardened into concrete-like strength. Outside of the main city were smaller villages of compounds along the green zones. The Arghandhab river flows towards the south. Canals, hand-build, veered off the river, which irrigated the vast areas of grapes, watermelons, pomegranates as well as easily seen marijuana and opium poppy fields. All of this was brown due to the dusty summer season. The only green areas outside the waddis were acres of marijuana that were to be harvested in November.

Poppy shadow — Griffon over opium poppies

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA — Bright green marijuana ripen for fall harvest.

“Inbound Nathan Smith.” BLOWTORCH advised us he was on final approach.

Chinook at CNS — Chinook in Nathan Smith

“Two-five checks,” Chip acknowledged. “Two-six you go cover high, we’ll take low. Deconflict at 700 feet.” He further instructed Grumpy. This allowed each griffon to individually maneuver. The top griffon was not allowed below 700’. In case we lost visual with each other, it was ceiling or floor to separate us.

There were numerous tactical methods that could be executed to conduct escort operations and overwatch protection. Sometimes the situation developed that would require a different protection style so it was worthwhile to do a quick radio confirmation. Sometimes the biggest threat was the risk of colliding with each other – easily preventable with simple communications and deconfliction plans.

Once the Chinook was on the ground, the Griffon teams either climbed up to leave the area quiet to respect civilians around the FOB or operated in a distracting, aggressive manner to prevent Taliban from positioning for an attack. This depended on the briefed threat from Intelligence. Shakedown crews also looked for anything strange such as a dishka 51 calibre heavy machine guns, POL changes or rockets (RPG) teams maneuvering to ambush the chinook. In most cases, just enemy dickers were spotted. Dickers were Taliban positioned to report and/or strike if the conditions were favourable to attack the Chinook.

RPG hole in chinook blade — Example of chinook surviving an RPG attack.

Our griffon team tailed BLOWTORCH into the FOB checking the flanks for any dickers. I saw nothing peculiar; but then again everything was peculiar. I was so hyped up from training and anxious from the past two days of incidents that I could not tell the difference what was normal and what was not. It was a very overwhelming situation.

In training we became conditioned that people with shovels were digging IEDs. But now that we were there, I realized almost everyone had a shovel. They were filling in irrigation holes for the winter so the waters from the river could be trapped in the fields. Additionally, a shovel over the shoulder looks remarkably similar to an RPG from a distance; and RPGs were not uncommon in the ANA (Afghan Army) or Police. So it became evident very soon to realize that an RPG (especially a shovel) was not necessarily a threat unless pointed at you. Everyone had weapons. The question then became what are they doing with them? Are they concealed or open? Are they shoulder slung or aimed? What is the behaviour of the person with the weapon?

As the chinook flared its speed to land at Camp Nathan Smith, Chip peeled off low level and flew around the FOB looking at anything suspicious outsie a quarter mile. Meanwhile, 26, with Grumpy, popped upto a much high altitude and observed the overall perspective. He maintained a position to protect us and maintain the potential energy to respond by diving in like a hawk, while concurrently being out of harms way to observe. Based on what he saw, he would call the Chinook and give the safest departure direction.

“Blowtorch lifting in 15 seconds southbound,” the BLOWTORCH 60 announced. 15 seconds gave us time to get quickly organized, assess the departure path and fly to arrive in a protective position as Blowtorch lifted away. When this was done well, the choreography would impress a crowd at an airshow. This ballet continued as we flew our griffons in behind Blowtorch as it cleared Nathan Smith’s walls; 26 diving in from above.

“That worked out better than expected. I guess you got a good demonstration on the first day.” Chip proudly stated admiring his smooth execution.

“Sweet.” I was impressed. We accelerated over the city at a low level escorting the chinook back to KAF. A short trip for BLOWTORCH today.

The radio sounded: “Blowtorch is clear to the south. Thanks, we can take it in solo guys, you can proceed with training.”

“Roger that.” Chip replied.

“25 this is 26, Ops cleared to the Reg for dustball and gunnery.” Grumpy announced from Shakedown 26’s radios. He was monitoring Freedom Operations frequency and I was monitoring Slayer’s air space. We then shared info on a common air-to-air chat frequency. The gunners from the Devil’s Infidel’s in the back of my helicopter vibrating with excitement hoping for a TIC every-time Slayer talked. However, there was no TIC for us yet.

“It’s good to be finished walkin’ the dog.” A voice stated over the intercom. It was a friendly rivalry between the two helicopter types. The Chinook could travel much higher and faster and often annoyed by our slow speed. Our retort to them bragging about speed was that we were “walking the dog.” It was just like having a big dumb dog on a leash constantly pulling us along; we always had to remind them to ‘heel’. Although formally it was stated as “Buster 10” over the radio; requesting them to slow down 10 knots. Some Chinook crew took that insult personally. However, the statement proudly bonded the Shakedown crews.

“Absolutely, time to practice for TICs!” An eager voice replied. “Let’s go shoot some shit.”

I aimed our section south and as we approached the Reg desert, we broke into single ship training, 2 miles apart. The threat was minimal in the Reg for single ship training. If an insurgent wanted to take a shot at a helicopter, he would have no place to hide so it would be a suicide mission. Most people who take out helicopters are not suicide bombers. They are specialists wanting to collect a bounty and esteem – it is not a job for a martyr thus not much of a concern to us.

Typical dust explosion from brownout landing near Dand DC.

I lined the griffon with the landing spot and slowed my approach.

“On final approach.” I called.

The dust began to rise behind like a surfer’s tidal wave. It approached the cabin and the right gunner called: “dust ball by the door.”

About 2-3 feet above the ground the ball of dark brown talcum dust entirely engulfed the helicopter; the dust rushed in the open cabin doors, up under my visor burning my eyes forcing me to close one eye. I held the controls smoothly as Chip called the radar altimeter and ground speed:

“20 feet, 10 feet, 5 knots…cough, cough.” Pooof!

The sky darkened as the griffon grabbed the ground. The dust matured into a cloud about 300’ in height, it blocked the sunlight. This talcum powder was NOT like anything I had experienced before. I could barely see the pitot tube on the nose of the helicopter. We waited for the dust to clear enough to depart.

I coughed and rubbed my eyes. “I can’t see a fuckin’ thing.” I coughed again.

Chip wiped his chin and cleaned dust from his visor getting ready for the departure. “Many FOBs are still like this so we have to practice. You did okay, let’s get a few more in.”

I briefed the take-off plan to the crew. “Alright guys, Its clear right, moving up.” I called my actions.

“Clear left, gun ready,” the left gunner called.

“Clear right, gun ready, skids free, move up,” the right gunner called.

“Standing by.” Chip answered indicating he was ready on the controls in case I lost control and needed assistance. The dust thickened and swallowed the helicopter again. I held my breath and looked at the instruments and went vertically to clear the obstacles and pitched the controls forward. 5 seconds later, the helicopter re-entered clear air and a bright sky. I climbed and turned around to see a thick ball of dust that resembled an explosion. I exhaled forcefully clearing the dust from around my mouth. I was shocked by the difference between the dust balls between Arizona and Afghanistan. It was significant. Arizona was grainy, this was moon dust. I looked over a few miles and saw 26’s similar dust explosions that lingered in the still air.

“That was nuts — my eyes are burning!” I announced.

“Yup” Chipper coughed out clearing dirt from his mouth. “Let’s do some more – pfft pfft.” He answered while blowing the dirt out of his microphone indicating he was also suffering but used to it. The gunners wore full face shields resembling storm troopers from StarWars, on so the dust wasn’t as bad to them.

Canadian Gunner with a 50 — Door gunner in mask – with a 50 cal.

We continued another twenty minutes taking turns at landing until our roles as the pilot flying and not-flying went smoothly. Once Chip was satisfied, he announced fun time:

“Shall we get some gunnery in?”

“Yes pulleese.” I hollered excitedly.

“Woo-yea!” The gunners responded. They finally got to have some fun shooting now that this ‘pilot shit’ was done.

“26, its 25. You ready for some gunnery?”

“That’s a big Romeo-Tango (Roger That),” 26 replied I could sense the smile behind the voice.

“Check that – We’re going to Texas Helo, call when your in position.” Chip commanded as the two-ship formation journeyed east to an isolated mountain where many of the coalition helicopter forces used as an aerial gunnery range.

I watched the other helicopter aim towards us from the right as we passed eastbound. He climbed and banked sharply over and behind us then drop into the left rear bout 100 meters away.

“26 is in.” Grumpy called indicating his helicopter had caught up and in tactical formation again.

“Steve, first thing we do is a fly-past to look for people. There are Bedouins living in the range, so we will just overfly a few times to make sure they get out of the way before we shoot.” Chip informed.

canadian at texas helo — Canadian Gunners at Texas Helo

“What are you talking about, people live there?” I was perplexed.

Chip pointed to the ridge of mountains oriented southward. There was a deep cut from the sand edge of the dessert easily three hundred feet deep and two-hundred meters wide. At the lip when the sand wall levels out, the dessert continues for over a hundred miles west and fifty miles south to Pakistan. Often caravans of camels or vehicles could be seen slowly migrating across the rolling sandy hills just to the west side of Texas Helo.

“Over there, on the west floor are Bedouin tents.” He pointed. “They come out and collect the brass casings after we shoot – They sell it back to us at the KAF market in the art form of brass camel sculptures and stuff.” Chip added.

Bedioun Camps — Example of Bedouin Camps similar to those at Texas Helo.

I was astonished. These groups of tents had been set up for several years. Women and children (WACs) were playing amongst the tents but they moved out of the way as we circled. It was a brass collection tribe. The hot brass casings from the helicopter machine guns would naturally fall quite close to them; if not on them at times. Bedouin children will playfully wrestle over collecting them as we fired thousands of rounds from directly above. The brass was sold to artisan merchants. These casings were often turned into brass plates, statues and other artifacts – and strangely enough, resold to soldiers at the KAF open-market on Saturdays.

“Area Clear. Bedouins clear – Target Brief. Target is the red boulder, 1 o’clock 1 km, marked by lead’s rounds. This will be a single pass, 1 plus 1, right gun attack, 200 meters, 200 feet high, All effects East.” Chip gave the fire orders over the radio.

“26, visual friendlies, tally target, check brief,” a happy tone responded from Grumpy’s radio.

Chipper continued internally: “Right gunner, copy brief and target?”

“Roger dat sir, tally target, standing by,” the FE Gunner acknowledged mechanically.

Chipper steered the aircraft to about 200 meters left of the targets and about 200 feet above the valley floor. As we approached the target, he commanded:

“Right gunner, are visual with 26 and the Bedouins?” Chip asked.

“Roger.” It was a last chance check just to note where the closest friendlies were in order to ensure no one got hurt other than the targeted red rock rapidly approaching.

“Cleared to Fire.” He commanded

Up until that point, the only weapons I had commanded was the C6 (M240). I knew it wasn’t going to be the ‘chug-chug-chug’ that I was accustomed to, but I never expected this. The initial noise spike painfully penetrated my skull.

BRAAAAAAAAAP….BRAAAAAP…BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP.

Fifty rounds per second of 7.62 mm tracer volleyed off the painted rock target. It was a lava flow of light and a piercing noise so loud it overcame any cockpit communications. The smoke from the rotating barrels spooled out beside my head and filled through my cockpit window. The gunner stopped every 3-4 seconds for a quick communication break. If no one was yelling “check fire” then he continued blasting at the target. Out the left, young Bedouins were running towards the falling casings, fighting each other along the way. I looked right and saw splashes of ricochets from 26 joining our stream of bullets.

“Out of arcs.” The gunner stated checking his fire. This advised the pilot that he couldn’t accurately or safely shoot anymore and it was upto us to adjust or escape. At times he may yell “kick right or left” to twist the griffon in the air allowing for continued firing time.

“Same attack, left gun south to north.” He commanded to 26.

“Roger that.” Grumpy acknowledged from 26.

“You have better view, you have control Steve!” Chip stated.

I turned around to re-align on the target for the left gunner to fire. I aimed the helicopter just left of the Bedouins to not drop casings directly on them.

“Left gunner, Bedouins WACs right, same target, Fire!” I called.

“Visual WACs, tally target!” he replied.

BRAAAAAAAAAAAAP

“Out of arcs. Weapon safe.” Called left gunner as we passed.

“After this pass, we quit.” Chip advised over the radio. “The Bedouin WACs are too close now, they’re gonna take a ricochet. Let’s go to the Reg to finish up.” Chip made a safety call.

brass camel — Bedouin Brass Art – former shell casings

We proceeded out to the middle of the dessert to continue shooting; near an old dead lake bed where the sand was smooth.

“For fun, we’re gonna do a double gun, full forward fire to show you — just cause it’s cool.” He smirked. “Now keep your hands inside the window or they’ll get sawed off!” He grinned but was serious. If I stretched my arm out the open window it would be sawed off at the elbow in less than a second. With that in mind, I slouched and dipped my body behind my small armour plate on the left of my seat. Chip noticed and shook his head smiling at my expense.

We overflew the target. A piece of brush easily identifiable to both aircraft.

“Target brief, Reference east west lying Lake bed 2 km south?” He directed to 26.

“Contact lake.” the quick answer.

“Centre of lake south side is a prominent bush.” Chip further described.

“Contact bush.” Grumpy answered.

“That is the target.” Chip stated.

“Tallllleeee target.” Grumpy sang triumphantly.

“Dive attack from 500 feet, left egress!” Chip called over the radio.

“Roger that!” the acknowledgement.

We raced across the dessert floor at maximum speed and pitched up aggressively to 500’. 26 was 800 meters behind. Then dove towards the target re-accelerating.

“Gunners do you have the target?”

“Roger that sir.” They both replied.

“Left-right gunners….Fire!”

The sound was deafening beside my head. Chip flew directly at the target and wiggled the peddles left and right steering the bullets across the target. The dessert floor exploded into a dust cloud with splashes of tracers occasionally bouncing off small rocks. I squeezed my helmet tighter to eliminate some of the noise.

He turned left hard at 200 meters away. The left gunner stopped firing but the right gunner continued suppressing until 26’s bullet stream matched his before stopping.

All I could smell was cordite and my ears rung.

“That’s bloody nuts!” I yelled totally overwhelmed with the smoke, fire, noise and dive-attack! “But so cool!” I couldn’t help but smile as I wiggled my jaws trying to clear the ringing in my ears.

“Ha-ha-ha” Chipper was laughing proudly. The other guys followed.

“Woo hoo, yee ha. Fuckin’-A!” the heavy French accent gleefully cheered from the back left.

“That’s why the Taliban call it the breath of Allah!” the FE on the right proclaimed. He laughed. “Are you okay up there Steve?” he asked mockingly. I smiled. I knew they were laughing at my shock.

“Dat’s why dey call us za Devil’s Infidels!” the left gunner proudly stated referring to the enemy’s description of them.

“It’s getting dark soon.” 26 advised over the radio. His smile could be heard through his voice.

“Roger that, let’s go to the FARP and head home.” Chip agreed as he directed me with his arm pointing in the direction to fly.

The FARP means Fuel and Ammo Replenishment. All the helicopters stopped and fuelled with the engines running so they could be ready for the next mission immediately without shutting down.

“You can lead us back, we’ll take number 2 and get some formation practice.” Chip advised to Grumpy in the other helicopter.

“Roger.”

It was my turn to fly protection. I slipped in behind Grumpy and practiced maneuvering to cover lead to KAF. It was quite an orientation so far. The sun was setting in the west and the sky was a bright rusty-orange. It was beautiful considering the lifelessness. Yet, with such a hostile environment, there were villages and Bedouin towns every few miles all throughout the desert. The people here were rugged and able to make life survivable despite the harshness.

“Let’s grab some gas, food and brief. We have a mission later transfer tonight and we’ll do the familiarization again, but on NVG.” Chip concluded and briefed to all over the radio.

“Roger that. 26 out.” Grumpy responded.

griffon jelwar sunset three — Dusty Sunset

“Shakedown 25, this is Freedom Ops, over…” the Squadron TOC was calling.

“Go for Shakedown 25.” I replied.

“Gas up and top your ammo, Pax at X-ray for GRACELAND are ready.” He informed us of our new tasking. As what would become normal, a mission came in while we were airborne. My night orientation was just turned into a mission as well…with Special Forces.

4. The Devil’s Infidels

September 17, 2015

A wonderful woman I am acquainted to, fought for her life against stage 4 cancer and shared an inspirational Buddhist quote which I shall use here (I read this in your story Sherry):

“Like a lotus flower that grows out of the mud and blossoms above the muddy water’s surface, we can rise above our defilements and sufferings of life.”

The Devil’s Infidels.

I thought I would sleep soundly. However, after settling from the rocket attack, my bliss only lasted for about 2 hours; my body adjusting to the 12 hour time change. Then finally I slept. Then up again. It was a rough sleep and at 5:00 am I couldn’t force the slumber any longer and decided to explore the gym. Perhaps some exercise would help loosen up the stiffness of numerous days of sitting. On the way out of the tent, through the partially hinged flapping door, I collided into Grumpy.

“Morning. Are you going to the gym too?” I whispered.

He smirked. “Just coming back, I’ve been there since 3:30,” continuing his stumble to his bunk.

I turned, admiring his dedication, and walked slowly to the American gym. The road was dimly lit. Combined with the pot-holes and large cable bundles covering it, rolling an ankle was something to be careful of. I cautiously placed my feet, step-by-step in the dark and arrived at the gym unscathed. Hoping for a peaceful early morning workout, I was surprised. There was about 200 soldiers varying in size from the body-building gorillas to the lean marathon runners. It was difficult to find an apparatus without waiting a few minutes but I still managed to complete a 40-minute mind clearing treadmill jog and some weights before starting day two. I felt ready to start work.

After the gym, shower and a quick breakfast, I waited for the bus with the other newly arrived and enjoyed the cool twenty-five degree air. It only had a vague hint of poo-pond lingering. The sun was rising over the dessert to the East, not a cloud in the bright blue sky. No coughing yet. The morning air was breathable until about nine a.m. Once the traffic started rolling up the dust; it became debilitating. Over the concrete barriers the sound of the bus could be heard. It was prevailed by a tidal wave of moon dust. Once the bus stopped, the wave of continued and bathed us all in a brown-film coating.

“What was the point of showering?” I coughed out rhetorically only to have it returned with a few moaning coughs of displeasure.

This was my first trip to the other side of the airfield. A twenty-minute slow drive; but we enjoyed it like enthusiastic tourists. The living side of the airfield seemed to stretch forever; the entire length of the runway. The rows upon rows of military vehicles and aircraft never seemed to end. Of course the dusty trip was made longer by the slow moving traffic jam which was a normal daily event. Aircraft were taking off and landing every few seconds roaring just a few feet above the vehicle traffic at the end of the runway. Two F-16s zipped by in afterburner, staying low to the dessert floor before popping aggressively upward, banking and shooting off defensive flares as they broke their trajectories and proceeded high into the atmosphere. It was an airshow every few minutes.

Finally we arrived at work; our new office for the next year. A warm welcome given by the outgoing 430 Squadron from Valcartier, Quebec. 430 always had their way of dong things as does 408 from Edmonton, Alberta. The fundamentals are the same but the “how to” interpretation has always been different. It’s just like Quebec and Alberta in real life: same grass root pride but different cultures. Same end result.

Task Force Faucon (Falcon) had just finished a 6-month tour and were extremely happy to see Task Force Freedom arrive. They had accomplished a few mile stones. One was moving the operation centre to a new location on the airfield without affecting flight support to the Army. They had also integrated the Dillon cannons into operations. Sadly, they also lost 2 members of their squadron in a terrible accident up near Qalat. Additionally, they were also enduring the war-fighting season without being scathed too bad. This all led them to being physically and emotionally drained. It was time to be relieved.

Jo Pat Crash — July 6, 2009. RIP: Master Cpl. Pat Audet and Cpl. Martin Joannette

430’s tour was from April through September. Counter Insurgency Operations (COIN) occurred with a focus on diplomacy through the winter. During the summer, Taliban fighters and foreign fighters joined from the north, west from Iran and from Pakistan in the south to fight against us apparent “infidels”. Once the poppy resin is finished being harvested in April/May, the Taliban sympathizers exchanged their farming tools for AK47s. As one Canadian General stated: “We have three seasons of COIN followed by one intense season of war.” 430 Squadron had just endured the war; they were hardened and seasoned veterans, but exhausted.

They had been involved in some fights and had been shot at to the point they could differentiate between the sounds of the 7.62mm and a .51 caliber missing their helicopters. I was awed from their stories and tactical tips. It didn’t help lower the anxiety. And I only wondered how I would ever expect to get that sharpness and focus.

After introductions and tactical banter, myself and Grumpy were assigned to merge with 430 crews. The aim was to fly with the experienced crews for a few days before they left for home so they could part some knowledge with us. This helped orient us to radio, airspace, ground forces and tactical realities. Once 430 crews departed, the first officers and gunners from 408 would arrive and be oriented by myself, Grumpy and the other new Task Force Freedom captains.

Despite appreciating the mentorship of the outgoing crew, the feeling was not 100% reciprocal. From the Faucon’s perspective, a new ‘green’ captain would be in charge making life and death decisions for these veteran teams. And what credibility could we possibly offer at this point?

Our tour commenced with the 430 Commanding Officer introducing himself then passing us to appropriate specialists and section leaders to guide us through our orientation. I was directed to the Tactical Operations Centre (TOC) for the helicopter Squadron to meet the aircraft captain I’d be replacing.

“Bonjour, it’s nice to finally meet you.” A tall slender man stated in a heavy french accent. “Now I can go home.” I knew him from Canada. I had worked with him at 403 Squadron. He was always perky and chipper; a professional and engineer educated. I’ll refer to him as Chip due to his upbeat personality (Short for Chipper the Skipper).

Chip looked younger than his age. He raised his eyebrow in an inquisitive manner, studying me for readiness. He had confidence in me but knew I had a lot to learn and my education was about to start – as did his a half-year earlier. But he was happy to finally see me; I was physical fruition that the end of his tour had come.

He showed me the TOC. It resembled the bridge of the StarTrek Enterprise. All the chairs oriented towards the front of the room where numerous map screens and text boards showed conversations of platoon commanders talking to each other live over the Canadian A.O. – mostly Panjwaii. Center stage was a large-screen TV showing a live video feed from a surveillance drone in the south Panjwaii district; near Canadian troops at Sperwan Ghar. A few staff soldiers were manning radios and following the flight paths of the Canadian helicopters currently airborne. They were keenly paying attention to immediately brief the Operations Officer or Commanding Officer should they enter for a Battlefield Update. A senior shift supervisor, a Sargent, calmly announced in his raised voice:

“We got a TIC in progress at Howzie!”

There was an IED explosion and fighting along the main highway, which circled Afghanistan. Each day it seemed, logistical supply convoys, escorted by security call-sign COMPASS, were hit with IED and engaged by small party’s of enemy fighters often injuring or killing people. There were frequently vehicles destroyed, craters made in Highway One (almost daily) and not uncommonly, deaths associated. The unscathed traffic just veered around the holes and continued. This was normal. Despite the news, most Canadians in Canada were not aware that it was a daily event.

“We got Shakedown 25 flight responding for over watch,” I overheard the duty Sergeant state.

“Go get the CO (Commanding Officer),” ordered the duty officer to his Radio Operator, a corporal.

Wow! This was a first hand ‘real-life’ demonstration of how things were going to unfold for my days, weeks and year to come. This was just like an exercise back in Wainwright; but real. And this was day two – already action. My contemplations were interrupted as Chip and I were asked to leave. The Commanding Officer (CO) arrived and was requesting an update; it would be too disruptive to run an operation and a tour at the same time.

“Sir, Shakedown 25 Flight responding to TIC in progress here. They’ll be on target in 7 minutes, fully armed, 45 minutes playtime…” I heard him briefing the CO as the door came closed separating us from the action.

“You’ll get acquainted to that soon enough. Its daily.” Chip advised leading me upstairs to a lounge and offered me a Diet Pepsi. I hadn’t had a soft-drink in a week. What a treat! It was ice cold. The room was cool and I sat back in a recliner and put my feet up. That was the most refreshing Pepsi I think I have ever had. I almost felt like I was on vacation for a second. We bantered, exchanging stories and listened for any news of the unfolding battle for Shakedown 25 Flight from passer-byes in the hall.

“They were stood down.” someone reported.

“That was quick. Why’s that?” I raised his chin toward Chip.

“The Taliban broke contact. Once they hear the helicopters, they stop fighting and hide because they know they will lose when we find them.” Chip explained.

“They hide, pick up shovels, fake being farmers and escape in the green zone.” He added pointing to a map of the irrigated, treed area of the Arghandab River.

The_Arghandab_Valley-0 — Green Zones of the Arghandhab

The Arghandhab valley filled with great tactical concealment in the form of canals, tunnels and grape huts for Taliban to hide in and ambush from. Pursuing them by foot was lethal as they often placed explosive traps to protect escape routes. However, it was very difficult to escape from a helicopter once they had PID. PID is an acronym that meant ‘positive identification’. Once a bad guy was caught in the act and PID was attained, their life expectancy was minutes. Thus the Taliban, upon hearing any helicopters, broke contact and hid immediately.

“Let’s go back to the TOC,” Chip stated.

In the TOC, the situation had already moved forward. A black and white TV screen was showing 3 men walking in the mountains near Sperwan Ghar.

“What’s going on there?” I asked to the duty sergeant.

“It is a UAV (Unmanned Aerial Vehicle) drone feed”. He advised.

“HHQ (Higher headquarters) has been covertly tracking these FAMs from a known enemy arms cache near the Reg Dessert for several hours; if not days.” He pointed to the screen, then the side screen. “If you follow the text on the prompter over there, you’ll get the entire story since late last night,” he added.

The insurgents had been using weapons and explosives from this cache to conduct ambushes near Sperwan Ghar, Gundi ghar and Haazi Me Dhad. They just trekked up this mountain and just placed some new material in a secret stash near the top. It was all captured on UAV camera. It was all very surreal. These guys looked like normal local people. How would I be able to tell the difference? I turned to leave the TOC.

“Dead-men walking.” The radio operator stated to get my attention.

“Pardon me?” I leaned back in the door.

“You don’t wanna leave sir, there’s a Shamus team coming in and these guys are about to be hit.”

Shamus was the call sign for a team of Kiowa warrior helicopters that patrolled the entire area 24 hours a day. They were armed with 50 calibre forward firing machine guns and rockets. They had been in theatre over a year and were known for taunting fights with the bad-guys. They knew how the Taliban played ROE (Rules of Engagement) games and countered with the art of provocation. Basically, the ROE at that time was that you can’t shoot a suspect, only someone directly proven to be trying to harm someone. But you can always use self-defence and match lethal force with lethal force. The “art of provocation” would eventually be taunting the known bad guys to engage you which included making your self a target and getting face to face with your enemy. The Roto 8 pilots and gunners would eventually get some informal mentoring with Shamus.

I watched the video feed. Three men were sauntering casually up the mountain. Moments later, numerous clouds of dust and white-flash exploded all around them. The TV screen flashed black and white, then went blurry and slowly regained focus. There was a massive dust cloud. The camera operator scanned left and right quickly to try and track any movement. It panned out. It found one person staggering down the hill to the left of the screen. It went to colour mode. A shadow of a Kiowa warrior flew over and disappeared off screen. Seconds later, the ground around this last man exploded like popcorn in what appeared to be a 50 calibre strafing run – then two more rocket explosions. Obviously the second Kiowa’s follow on attack. The last man standing took a direct hit from a rocket. I actually saw something flash in from the right of the screen directly onto the FAM. Then the details obscured by an exploding cloud of dust that dominated the TV screen. I switched my focus to the text bars rolling information on the other TV screen. It was the factual play-by-play.

Time XX:XX Shamus – “Shamus contact 3 FAM hill top.”

Time XX:XX: TOC – “That’s your target, no friendlies in the area, cleared to fire.”

Time XX:XX: Shamus – “Shamus tally target and rollin’ in hot.”

Time XX:XX: TOC NOTE – “Shamus engages, standing by for Battle Damage Report.”

It was an unemotional account of communications regarding the event. I looked at the TV feed again as the picture started to clear. The camera operator on the UAV was switching camera modes from Infrared to colour attaining the sharpest perspective. It then went white hot and held. Pieces of hot metal, presumably rocket shrapnel and heated rocks illuminated along side what appeared to be warm pieces of body parts spread around 100 square yards of mountain ridge.

The text screen reported:

Time XX:XX: Shamus: “Shamus BDA (battle damage assessment), Grid reference XXXX-XXXX, 3 times insurgents destroyed, 6 rockets, 50 rounds of 50 caliber expended, continuing on patrol with Slayer…Shamus out.”

That was it. A simple aviation task while patrolling the Panjwaii district resulted in 3 insurgents being killed. Several small arms and explosives caches were also discovered. Then the Shamus flight of two Kiowa warriors continued on patrol as if it was normal. Possibly several weeks of intelligence reports, finding the targets for days, then tracking them hours, all culminating in a ten minute aviation task at the sharp end.

“Wholy shit!” I caught myself muttering. It was a reality check. I had an immediate epiphany that the last 8 months of intensive training was now coming to fruition; with a real purpose. There was a war going on here in Afghanistan. People died daily. I was at war.

Chip saw my face empathizing with it from his own feelings six months earlier.

“Oui Steve, that was real. You’re not on exercise anymore….welcome to Kandahar.” He affirmed staring me right in the eye. He saw my novice apprehension.

“Wow. Rocket attack last night, TIC an hour ago and watching an engagement of what we will be doing all within 24 hours of arriving. I’m a little overwhelmed.” I mentioned.

“Watch.” He stated focusing me back to the UAV feed.

I looked at the screen as it panned over to the village a few kilometers away from the Kiowa strike. The locals heard the explosions. They knew there was dead. People started to come out of the village and were walking up the hill.

“What’s going on?” I inquired.

“The women and older children will go up the hill and collect the bodies; apparently they have to be buried before dark.” The sergeant guessed. “These insurgents terrorized those people and may not have been respected; but they share the same religious traditions, and are given that dignity.”

Agfhan collecting the dead — Collecting the deceased

I nodded my head. The learning never seemed to end.

“Anyway, you have a big day tomorrow sir.” The duty sergeant concluded las he reviewed the schedule. “Might as well get back and settle in for some sleep – you’re up tomorrow with the Devil’s’ Infidels,” he advised.

I raised my brow and smirked inquiring silently that I wanted more info. He said nothing. He nodded and gestured with his chin to follow Chip out of the room.

Chip guided me to the flight preparation room. This is where all the pilots, gunners and engineers gathered to determine their tasking for the following day. The crews were divided into 4 sections with table time, briefing time, and launch time for the next subsequent task. The board showed that I was scheduled for a day familiarization and one at night which was combined with a night BLOWTORCH escort mission to move some Special Forces personnel.

chinook sperwan ghar — Canadian riding BLOWTORCH to Sperwan Ghar

“Devil’s Infidels?” I queried.

Chip laughed explaining. “We got into a TIC. An overwatch task suppressing a tree-line with a few thousand rounds. The bad guys were engaging our troops from from the green-zone. The Infantry Company Commander we were supporting (the officer in charge in the battle below) reported that i-comm chatter used that description of us from an enemy conversation he heard. I-comm chatter is the intelligence network that listens to the enemy radio and interprets what the Taliban are saying in real-time. In this particular case, the Afghanistan interpreter reported that the man being shot at was cursing because he could not escape:

Man One: “You must leave now, the helicopters are engaging.”

Man Two: “I can not leave, I am pinned down and getting shot at by those flying devil’s infidels!”

We chuckled at the story. Chip continued: “This is my section and they are very proud of this.” He unzipped his flight suit to the waist and showed me his T-shirt beneath further educating me. “Ironically, we are Quebec Catholics who proudly mock the enemy by wearing this.” He pointed to a logo of a Griffon logo and words stating “THE DEVILS INFIDELS”.

Stephen Robertson Consulting

Counsellor (CCC) – Pilot – Author – Veteran

Tag: war

5. First Flight

4. The Devil’s Infidels