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.
As Christmas approaches I am reminded of 6 years ago. I was very fortunate to travel home during the holidays. Not everyone was so blessed. Some had to stay and work and there are others, others that will never come home again. My thoughts as I write are of you, your families, and your sacrifice. I am truly sorry for your loss.
The Table at Christmas! 2009.
Home for Christmas…
Many of the members of Roto 8, Task Force Freedom had been home to Canada for their first of two 14-day breaks from theatre; myself included. For those of us exposed to ‘outside the wire’ operations everyday; trying to calm down for two weeks was mentally challenging. Although friends would see the relaxed attitude on the faces of the warrior, family members would recognize that our minds and souls were not relaxed – that they were still in KAF.
For me, my first break was surreal. I arrived in Dubai at Camp Mirage on Christmas Eve Day. In MIRAGE, there was green grass, clean buildings and civilized happy Canadian soldiers supporting the daily airlift into Afghanistan. It was nothing like KAF. There was an outdoor entertainment stage that played evening movies. Tonight it was celebrating Christmas eve. A pastor gave a sermon and soldiers sang carols. I could tell I was already affected when listening to a midnight Christmas eve mass. I tried to appreciate the gratefulness but being angry at the ‘excess’ we took for granted when soldiers and innocents were being murdered preoccupied my judgemental psyche. Within days of this meal, numerous Canadian soldiers died as well as three girls at a girls school near KAF – slaughtered just for going to school – yet I was enjoying a turnkey dinner in a tropical shangri-la. It was delightful, yet I couldn’t release my thoughts from colleagues who at that moment were tracking IED planters or providing over-watch. I know it was wrong to be judgemental, but I couldn’t help this subtle anger; I carried it. I couldn’t get past my thoughts of the next mission in January; yet I was suppose to be relaxing. On return, I was to participate in some large-scale missions that would use all NATO helicopters in southern Afghanistan; but no information was passed at this point. Only that it would be really messy.
The next morning, Christmas morning, I spent a day at the beaches in Dubai and touring the malls and world’s largest skyscraper – mechanically trying to enjoy a bit of tourism. I walked to the beach and observed young men playing soccer, a dad and daughter playing frisbee and couples shopping. Initially not noticing the difference. Then it occurred to me. There were no teenaged women anywhere. No young females without escorts, and the burka wearing women walked several steps behind their husbands. The man playing frisbee was with an 8 year old daughter; pre-pubescent. No young adolescent girls were out without older women or escorted. I had to return to Camp Mirage in the afternoon to catch my evening flight to Canada. A man dressed as Santa Claus was entertaining the Christian families at the resorts. It was ironic how a primarily Muslim country would offer the respect to indulge the western traditions; yet in Afghanistan, Taliban would execute the same behaviours and claim it justified under sharia law.
I arrived in Canada on the 26th. I met my family in Victoria, on the west coast of Canada. For the first time in my life, I truly embraced the early morning walk in the cold drizzly west coast weather. No dust. No poo-pond. I remember one drizzly morning I strolled in the cold rain to a local coffee shop just prior to New Years and pulled up a street-side seat with a newspaper. I read the first page: ‘4 Canadian soldiers and one reporter killed.’ I started to shake as I read the article: 21 year old Zachery McCormack from my home town was dead. He was just a kid. It hit me hard – my eyes swelled up and I turned to the window in the coffee shop to hide my tears; sipping coffee to cover up and gain composure. I couldn’t stop thinking about his family. After shakily gulping back some air and inhaling some moisture from my eyes, I walked back to the hotel to be with mine. He was so young, not much older than my son, and from my neighbourhood. I visited relatives for a few more days and then proceeded back to Sherwood Park to re-integrate into regular family lifestyle for the second half of my time off.
I was at the arena and I watched my daughter win her first ever ringette tournament. The girls played ‘pump-up’ music in the locker-room before the game to get motivated. All the parents could hear the music from the stands as the 9-year-old girls proudly tried to out party the other team as they entered the ice. My boys sat with me on the cold bench also enjoying the pre-game show — a family event. Although, I was smiling and happy outside, I was stoic inside. My mind had to go back to KAF soon, outside the wire, and wouldn’t release my soul to fully connect in the moment.
‘I got a feelin’
That tonight’s gonna be a good night.’
There was the song. The Black-eyed Peas began to dominate the rink as the doors from the change room opened allowing a stream of young warrior princesses out to rally. Some stumbling on their skates, others tripping onto the ice as they forgot to take their blade guards off. Parents chuckled and big smiles could be seen clearly through the face guards of the young girls’ helmets.
‘Tonight’s gonna be a good night.’
“Sure is nice that you could get some time off at Christmas.” One of the parents stated.
“Yes, I’m glad to be home.” I answered.
“Your daughter has really improved this year, you’ll be surprised when she starts skating!” He added.
I hadn’t seen her skate since the summer. She was pushing with one leg, the other was stiff. Only one blade was used for braking.
“There she is,” my wife pointed.
“Wow! She’s skating normally now…and she stopped sideways.” I was amazed. “Oops, she just fell!” I laughed. She smiled back at me proud to show off her new accomplishment.
“She can only stop one direction so far but she’s getting better.” The other parent said.
“Did you notice her helmet?” My wife asked.
“Hey, she’s got a yellow ribbon sticker on it from the military base.” I noted
“They all do.” She added.
I looked around and noticed all the girls had yellow ribbons. I straightened up and took a proud breath.
“Why do they have those? Does the league have the girls wearing them for the soldiers?” I asked.
“No.” She looked in my eyes seriously. “It’s for you…the team put them on for you.”
My body tripped over the next breath I took, shaking a tear from my eye. I froze my face and could feel myself losing emotional control. I quickly got up. I needed an excuse. (Even now as I reread this one line, it shakes me up – it is so vivid.)
“I’m gonna grab a coffee, anyone want one?” I was overwhelmed by the support from the team and parents. However, my mind couldn’t leave KAF. I couldn’t allow the emotions to cut through my focus. It may have been psychologically naive, trivial, but it was the ‘war-face’ that had to maintain despite wanting to be home. I was so grateful at the freedoms my family had, and how the young girls could play, yet, I couldn’t help thinking about a few days prior to coming home for this break, a bomber blew up a school two miles from KAF. It was a girls’ school. Three girls died. Girls my daughter’s age. Why? The souls of numerous families were fractured. Would there yellow ribbons on the compounds for those families? I had to stay this way.
My break vanished quickly. I wanted to be home, but I needed to get back to KAF and get it done. My soul was locked up until this year in Afghanistan was complete. I wasn’t sure if I was guarding my soul or just accepting mortality in order to quit worrying about it. How could one tell the difference?
Blog 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.
This entry is based on true events. However, the time line has been modified. Characters and dialogue were fictionalized.
When pilots are away from flying for a few weeks, it takes a day or two to get past robotic skills and smooth again. It’s like any other skill; you get rusty and lack fluidity. Combine that with war stress, the threat of people trying to kill you and poor sleep due to poo-pond stench and it takes a little longer to get into the “groove.” But today I was feeling the ‘groove’. I was in the aircraft, my scan and feel was normal and I started to relaxed again…vigilant yes, but relaxed (although my crew may have different opinions). I was ten kilometres outside the wire looking ahead to Fender’s aircraft. I was enjoying the beauty of the ruggedness. The image of the griffon helicopters against the jagged peaks of the mountains were surreal. The sky was intensely bright, piercing blue and captivating.
One of the most beautiful of Wiggy’s shots over Kandahar
My glaze over the terrain was broken as shots of smoke bursting near Fenders aircraft.
“Breaking right, threat 10 o’clock!” Fender’s aircraft jaunted right following the Chinook who lumbered right while making the call.
doodle doodle doodle doodle …a high pitched tone and light illuminated indicating a missile threat left from our ASE gear.
“Do you see a plume left?” I yelled to my gunner. “I got nothing.” Referring to the potential missile coming our way.
“Keep the bank light. I gotta keep my guns on the ground.” The left gunner commented. “I’m lookin’ for plume…..Its just a false alert…no worries. But if you bank to hard, my guns are too high and I cant shoot back….fly the guns…remember?” He added to coach me.
“Roger that, fly the guns.” I repeated. I was beginning to get the hang of it.
My training kicked in and I turned left toward the threat. Realistically, we can’t beat the missile…that’s why the flares were there. We have to be smooth and let them do their job. However, if we can find the source of plume, we can shoot back and get the bastard before they send the next one.
“Counter left! 10’oclock. ASE alert! Looking!” I responded over the radio…after being coached.
“False alert.” The radio cracked with Fender’s voice.
“Roger that.” I answered.
“Yup…I am really starting to get annoyed by that.” Fender’s heightened voice transmitted. The veterans chuckled at us new guys again.
“You won’t even pay attention to it in a week from now,” the desensitized left gunner added over the radio with a chuckle inspired by his amusement to my over reaction.
“Check the impact at two o’clock, 5 kilometres.” Someone commented over the intercomm.
I looked over to the right and in the distance, explosions of dust were rising near the Salavat mountains; it was the artillery from the Canadian arty guns at Sperwan Ghar. They were firing as briefed at our Ops Walk earlier in the day, hence the reason for flying the Reg route.
“Damn! Someone’s having a bad day!” The left gunner commented as he stretched his head forward to look at the activity.
“It’s best stay out of the way and then check-in with Slayer on the return route, after we get rid of the dog.” Fender radioed referring to the chinook task as the priority.
“Roger that.” I replied.
“Woof – woof.” Another voice added sarcastically over the radio, obviously from Blowtorch inputting his displeasure with being referred to as the dog.
As we neared RAMROD, our formation of helicopters dropped off the high dessert and into the lower plains along the Tarnac valley. There wasn’t much of a valley; just a dried river bed scorched from centuries of heat. Most of the water was underground. Hundreds of miles of tunnels existed deep beneath the dessert floor where water supplies were sought. It was easily marked by water fetching tripods every few hundred meters stretching for dozens of miles.
Reg meets the dessert.
“Ramrod is on the nose 5 kilos.” Blowtorch called. “Going straight in from here.”
“Check that.” I answered. “31 you got the base?”
“Check.” he answered as he called the FOB on the radio.
“FOB Ramrod, Blowtorch 60 inbound landing in 3 minutes, Shakedowns will stay airborne and loiter. Got anything for us?” Fender asked.
“Roger that Blowtorch Flight. I got a couple pallets to load. For the Shakedowns we had an RPG and SAFIRE from the South West earlier today. It seems to have quieted down, but can y’all put a little pressure on over there? Take a poke around please.”
“Blowtorch 60 Flight, roger that sir. The chinook is on final now. Shakedowns breaking off to the south. You got any friendlies we need to know about?” Fender responded.
“Roger that. Along Highway one to the north, we got an IED team along the highway, maybe just show a little support for them too. Otherwise, no-one else outside the wire.” The southern accent responded.
As we finished the conversation, Fender led our two helicopters around the FOB. We watched Blowtorch land as the dust exploded totally engulfing the FOB. We then focused our vision onto the small village of compounds west and the highway to the north.
“Blowtorch, wheels down.” The radio sounded. It was a confirmation that they were okay. Otherwise we wouldn’t know for several minutes until all the moon-dust cleared.
Blowtorch landing
“Check that.” I answered.
“Got some clutter on the Highway. Let’s check it out. High then low.” Fender stated.
“Roger that.” I answered.
“RAMROD, this is Shakedown, is there an IED ROZ? Any flight restrictions?” Fender asked over the radio.
“Negative. It is blown, they are just clearing wreckage right now and want to make sure no one takes any pot-shots at ‘em.” The FOB answered.
“Roger sir.” Fender answered. His aircraft was high above the highway, we could see a black scorch mark and a flipped vehicle along the road. Local traffic deviated into the dessert to bypass while several Afghan National Army and American military vehicles scoured and secured the smouldering truck.
Fender’s helicopter subtly dipped a wing and he began plummeting from the sky. Obvious he was going in for a closer look. We followed. Our mission at this point was to protect him. He was looking around for ambush sites that the American’s couldn’t see. Our job was to simply protect him, our fire-team partner, while he did his job.
“Got nothing.” Fender stated as we flew a few orbits around the vehicle. We also looked into the mountains and nearby wadis for any possible dickers.
“Me either….Follow me, lets split it up a bit. I’ll stay low you go high.” I took the lead and veered towards the town.
Fender climbed high out of small arms range but stayed close behind to draw attention away from me. I turned towards the north side of the town and was really low off the deck, about 50 feet.
“30 this is 31, you got a couple guys just on the back side of the compound roof observing from behind those trees at 11 o’clock.” Fender advised.
“Check that, 11:00? 1500 meters?” I asked.
“Roger that.”
“Rolling in.” I steered the chopper directly towards them altering my course abruptly. Fender followed but more central over the small compound – he stayed high.
As we approached the trees and the wall of the compound. A head popped up to look at us. His eyes got big and he rapidly dove down behind the wall in surprise.
“Ha Busted!” the right gunner called out. “Contact FAM, 1 o’clock,” he continued. His voice was calm…this was normal.
“He just dropped off the wall and is scrambling into the compound.” 31 stated over the radio.
I popped the helicopter up and banked slightly to give the right gunner freedom to protect us with the gun. A man, maybe a boy…teenager ran into the compound. They all looked the same age from 15 to 25 it seemed; then they turned 40.
“I’m breaking it left down the wall.” I called.
“Them fuckers use kids to dicker too.” The gunner stated.
“How’s it look up there?” I asked Fender.
“Really quiet. Just that dicker. He’s gone. Probably a WAC.” Fender answered.
“It was a WAC…dicker no doubt.” I answered. “Let’s keep patrolling.” We rejoined a tighter formation and circled for more observation.
“RAMROD, this is Shakedown. You got a Dicker-WAC on the wall, North east corner by two trees.” I reported then chuckled realizing how that sounded.
“Roger that. They have the kids reporting on all the activities while the fighters lay low…What’s the POL?”
“Pretty quiet. Don’t see anyone out.” I answered.
“Ya alright. Usually there is more activity than that. Maybe something brewing. Just keep a little overt presence if you can. We’ll see if the Cell-phone i-comm chatter is active. Y’all keep your heads-up.” The radio responded. The voice was different; probably the duty officer stepping up instead of the radio operator suggesting our vigilance was necessary.
“30 flight this is Blowtorch…we’re gonna be awhile. They just drove the forklift into the side of the chopper. Got some ribs damaged. We’re trying to get Scrappy on the Sat Phone.” The chinook called.
“30 roger, you broke?” I answered.
“Dunno yet, still seeing if we can fly it like this. Standby.”
“Check.”
“Fender, how much gas you got?” I asked.
“Maybe twenty minutes but no TIC reserve.” He answered stating he would have to go straight back and wouldn’t be able to fight along the way if we delayed much longer.
“Okay.” I paused. “Give him ten minutes then we will go fuel?”
“Roger that…they have a couple FARP (refuel) points available by the looks of it. Sounds good. I’ll advise RAMROD.”
Meanwhile in Operations.
“Sir, we got a TIC in Howzie Madad.” Shakedowns can be there in 10 minutes if we leave Blowtorch.” The radio operator informed Scrappy.
Scrappy was sitting on the bird table. When it wasn’t used for planning, he often placed the chair on the table and looked forward as if he was Captain Kirk on the Enterprise.
Initially it was for humour. But he soon realized he could monitor everything more easily from above all the staff-heads. People could still walk around in the crowded floor space so it became operationally practical. It looked funny but practical.
“Got it. I see on the text board that Shamus is responding. They have 30 minutes fuel. I expect our guys will have to swap in when they BINGO fuel.” He pondered. “Get Shakedown to refuel now and we’ll have them available to cover Shamus in 30 minutes when Blowtorch 60 gets back.”
The satellite phone rang. Scrappy hopped down and picked it up.
“Fuck…Blowtorch is damaged in RAMROD. Fuckin’ forklift damaged the bird….get me the Squadron Maintenance Officer (SAMEO),” he hollered waving the phone. Things were starting to get complex.
The Radio Operator (RADOP) picked up his phone and called the SAMEO. After a quick explanation he hung up.
“On his way Major,” he reported to Scrappy formally then continued onto the radio….”Shakedown 30 Flight, this is Freedom Ops. I need you guys to FARP up now. Another task possibly coming in.”
“Roger that.” He heard my voice acknowledge.
“Blowtorch 60, this is call sign 5 (SAMEO). What’s the matter?” Scrappy observed the SAMEO chatting on the satellite phone.
“Bulkhead ribs and ramp actuator? Roger. Is anything leaking? Does the ramp work?” He asked.
“Roger that. You guys feel comfortable bringing it home? If not or if anything structural, we can shut you down and get ya later.” He advised over the sat phone.
After listening and while rapidly researching a technical manual, he confirmed. “Okay, nothing is structural. Bring er back boys. Okay, Shakedown is fuelling…see you in 30 minutes.” He looked over to Scrappy.
“Scrappy, just bring it back. They described the damage to me and it appears superficial. Forklift twisted and the load damages some parts of the rear ramp and walls near the bulkhead. He described the damage and no systems were wrecked. They can bring ‘er home.” The SAMEO coached. “We’ll fix ‘er back here.”
“Roger that. I’ll dispatch them.” Scrappy answered and pointed to the radio operator who got on the radio.
“Hey check the text prompter…our guys just called in some dicker near RAMROD.” Scrappy rhetorted.
Time: XX:XX Shakedown 31 reports one times FAM dicker at grid XXXXXX 2500m SW RAMROD. Dicker ran into compound. Shakedown continues observing.
“Okay, I’ll close the loop with Ottawa.” The SAMEO concluded as he went into a side office to call his superiors in Ottawa.
“Let me know when they get airborne, I’m going to brief the boss.” Scrappy called to his radio operator who was monitoring the satellite tracker on the Chinook. “Hey, how much playtime does Shamus have?” he asked.
“About 25 minutes sir, according to their last check in with Slayer.”
A voice raised interrupting the office. “What the hell are you talking about?” a muffled and angry voice called from the next room. It was the SAMEO on the phone.
“It’s airborne now, I am NOT going to ground it. I know it’s not in the minimum equipment dispatch list…but I need it here to fix it.” Everyone stopped to listen to the rage.
“Jesus Christ! You want me to send a Mobile Repair Team half way to Helmand for a dent in the aircraft….do you have any idea what the fuck is going on around here? Get me your supervisor!” He paused. “I don’t give a fuck that it’s 11 pm over there. We’re in the middle of a war over here and shit happens…right now there’s a dicker on a wall ready to fire an RPG round into FOB RAMROD as soon as the griffons leave, so the Chinook is fuckin’ moving. Put this in your log and have him call me when he wakes.” Slam, the phone hung up. He walked out of the room and frowned towards Scrappy shaking his head.
“I better talk to Skipper, there’s gonna be shit storm coming from Ottawa. I’ll be fucked if some junior duty officer watching TV at a duty desk downtown Ottawa is gonna fuck up my day here.” He stormed out of operations.
AT RAMROD
“Freedom Ops, this is Blowtorch 60 Flight, skids up. Back in 20 minutes.” The Chinook lead’s voice called in.
“Roger Blowtorch out to you…Shakedown 30 Flight, I need you to escort Blowtorch to the KAF Control Zone then get back to Howzie. TIC in progress, Shamus has two-zero minutes playtime until refuel.”
“Shakedown 30 roger that. Re-task to Howzie. We’ll break off near Dand.” I called in. “Blowtorch are you guys okay solo from Dand?”
“Roger that! My machine is solid, damage isn’t affecting us at all.” Blowtorch 60 responded.
“31 checks.” Fender also acknowledged. I noted and empathized with his tone. Howzie had a bad reputation. Many helicopters came back from there with extra holes. It was the shit. The big game in town. There were more bullets flying there every day then the rest of the A.O.
“Woo-hoo. Alright. Last day in theatre and gonna get me some payback.” An excited gunner called over the intercom.
“Yaaaa, go Infidels!” The right gunner added.
I tried to add my excitement but at this point of the game it was more anxiety than excitement. We were going to Howzie. I looked out in the direction of Howzie. It was about 10 kilometres to my left and abeam, smoke was rising from obvious combat. The small silhouettes of the kiowa warrior choppers were buzzing in circles. Shamus 11 and 12.
My vet copilot sensed my newness. “Alright Cap…no worries. When we get to Howzie, the shit is all within a few hundred meters of the highway, but north of the highway is safe, dessert… I suggest getting a tactical talk-on from the north, maybe fly the guns into the threat area, and then…well we get into ‘er.” I nodded and held my thumb up.
The Chinook peeled off as we approached Dand. KAF was a few miles away and visual. He was on his own. Fender and I broke off towards WILSON northside of the mountains and climbed high.
“You guys be careful, Blowtorch 60 out and switching to KAF tower.” the chinook called.
“Roger that Blowtorch.” I answered then switched to Freedom operations.
“Freedom Ops, Shakedowns 30 Flight is breaking off from Blowtorch. You have them now. We are heading to Howzie.” I relayed my actions and intent.
IN OPERATIONS
“Shakedown, roger that. We’re monitoring.” The radio operator stated referring to the text board. As he turned he looked at the duty officer, “Better get the boss, Shakedown’s going to a TIC in progress.”
A few moments later, Scrappy and Skip entered the room with the SAMEO in tow. Additionally, in the hallway were a few fresh 408 co-pilots were being oriented – first day on the job. The watched as the 3 senior officers walked by dealing with one crisis as another rose.
“Welcome guys. Good to see you. Wait here we’ll chat when I’m done but Blowtorch 60 is damaged; Shakedown 30 and 31 are going into a TIC. Welcome to the war.” Skip stated matter of factly as he rushed by. Leaving their eyes-widened in awe-struck reality shock.
“Scrappy, mind getting your Enterprise chair off the bird table.” He jested as Scrappy cleaned off the table. The senior officers gathered around watching the UAV feed and text prompter for the pay-by-play.
This complexity of multiple activities would be the daily norm. Both Scrappy and Skipper would actually go flying outside the wire about once a week just to relax from operations stress. It was probably mentally easier to go get shot at than deal with the constant bull shit from the varying layers of headquarters and national command. I am sure there were many frustrated Colonels in Ottawa, trying to get feedback from our CO while enjoying their morning coffee only to be greeted by our radio operator, who would sarcastically state: “Sorry sir, he can’t come to the phone, he’s outside the wire getting shot at right now.”
“Update please.” Skipper asked as he stepped behind the bird-table.
“Roger sirs.” the radio operator started to brief. “We got Blowtorch 3 miles out estimating the ramp within five minutes.”
“Any problems reported?” The SAMEO asked concerned not knowing how the airframe or severity of the damage may have extended.
“No sir, all good…and Shakedown’s are enroute to Howzie to cover for Shamus while they refuel.”
“What’s the update for Howzie?” Skip inquired.
The radop looked over at the teleprompter screen and summarized: “IED, rocket and small arms attack from the south. American’s lost a vehicle and a platoon dispatched on foot south. They are moving slow due to the mine traps. Shamus put a few rockets down and pursued some FAMS into some compounds around here.” He pointed to an area near the FOB on the bird table.
Skip took a breath. “Who is out there?” he asked as he went over to the manifest list beside the door.
“Steve and Fender’s crew. They refuelled in RAMROD, should be good to sustain for awhile.” Scrappy added.
“They haven’t checked in with Slayer yet; I expect a text prompt and update shortly sir,” the radop stated.
“Okay – roger that. That’s why we’re here guys.” He paused looking at the SAMEO and Scrappy. “SAMEO with me. Scrappy, you have the helm. Call me when things calm or get worse.” He left the room and walked through the new copilots who were in the hallway listening attentively to the action. The facial expressions revealing a group polarity from fearful jaw dropping “wholly shits” to gritty excited “fuck yahs!”
Airborne near HOWZIE:
“Slayer TOC, Shakedown 30.” I called the airspace weapons controller in charge.
“Shakedown 30, Go for Slayer.”
“Hey Slayer. We are two times CH146, 8000 rounds seven point six-two dual Dillon door guns, sixty minutes playtime, ten minutes back from Howzie, request an an airspace update.” I replied.
“Roger Shakedown 30, my ROZ is HOT, Guns are HOT, Gun to target line is two-five-zero degrees from WILSON to Howzie. Two times Shamus call-signs on site, require BINGO fuel now. Check in with Shamus one-two on frequency four five point eight for your handover. Fires is controlled by my FAC (Forward Air Controller) same frequency Slayer three five.” Slayer ordered.
“Roger all that Slayer, switching over to Slayer 35 for the Battle Update Brief (BUB).” I responded.
We were just passing WILSON, we had 4 minutes to go. No one talked on the section radio nor the intercom, everyone just listened. TICs were very busy with fighting, artillery, mortars, infantry movement, and casualty evacuation (casevac). Everyone was on the radio. And everyone followed strict protocols. If protocols were screwed-up and nonstandard due to battle, then you just listened. Everyone had to know what was exactly happening before engaging with lethal force. Smoke was rising about 500 meters south of the FOB HOWZIE due to 2.75 inch rockets from Shamus. An American vehicle was burning on the road from an IED or RPG strike. Its was pretty obvious where the fight was happening. Now it was our turn.
“Shamus this is Shakedown, inbound two minutes from the north, ready for your Handover brief.” I called on the radio.
“Shakedown, roger that, we are visual with you. Egressing south of you to WILSON to refuel. Lotsa shit happening. Head over to the north of Howzie. Contact Slayer three-five for an update brief. We’ll be twenty minutes.”
“Roger that Shamus.” I answered as we went to the north about 1000 feet above the ground. Everyone could see the area well and could quickly orient to the fight.
“Slayer 35, Shakedown’s checking in.”
“Roger That Shakedown. I check your status from Slayer TOC. We got FOB HOWZIE. 200 meters south is twenty five dismounted friendlies.” he stated.
I looked frantically. The left gunner called it. “By the gas station, down the alley, visual.”
“Okay thanks, gott’em,” I answered. “Slayer 35, visual friendlies.”
“From the friendlies, two hundred meters south is smoke. West of smoke 50 meters is a compound.” He continued to talk my eyes onto the target. I could see in my peripheral vision my entire crew stretching their neck to follow. Some holding thumbs up acknowledging they could see the target area.
“3 times FAMs last seen entering that compound. Shots still being fired towards my infantry. My plan is to advance friendlies on that compound. Mortar fire is under my command directly from WILSON is cold (not shooting currently). Your mission is to set up close observation over my friendlies on that area on an east – west pattern and be prepared to suppress that area while my guys move. All your effects to the South of friendlies…how copy?”
I then repeated back to Slayer as I rolled the helicopter and dove out of the sky towards the objective. “Slayer – Shakedown is visual friendlies. Tally target area. All effects south. Rolling inbound for overwatch.”
“31 checks.” Fender responded as he rolled in with me.
My face and hands tingled; and for a second I could feel my heart beat…but just for a second.
“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 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.
Griffon over opium poppiesBright green marijuana ripen for fall harvest.
“Inbound Nathan Smith.” BLOWTORCH advised us he was on final approach.
Chinook in Nathan SmithCNS
“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.
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?
RPG
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
Near KAF FARP.
“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.
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.
Stephen Robertson Consulting 