The Taliban Don't Wave (15 page)

I was about to say, “You can't order us to do jack shit! We're the OMLT, we don't work for you!” but I realized we had to maintain good relations with the outgoing guys, and we were meant to be fighting the same enemy. It wasn't their fault they had a complete spastic for a boss! Besides, I was getting into the war rhythm and figured,
what's one more op?

I replied over the net, “Seven Two Alpha, I ack your last. Sure,
why
not? Over,
ksscchh
!” I made the static radio noise from the old seventies cop shows.

“All right ladies,” I said to my team, “you heard the man, and you
know
the drill! Assholes
and
elbows!” I pointed at Hetsa and snarled, “Hudson, come here. COME HERE!”

“Good one, sir,” he said. Every true infantryman loved the movie
Aliens
and its obvious star, Private Hudson.

“Rebomb your water, grab some chocky bars and get 'em downrange, quick,” I said to the team. “We're going back outside the wire, and we want to get it done before Timothy knows we're rooting around in his backyard.” I wondered if in the short time I'd been in the Stan, for this round anyway, I wasn't becoming a bit of a war junkie, a guy who enjoyed the highs of adrenalin you got when you were getting kitted up, you had a mission, or rounds were cracking over your head. If it wasn't so terrifying, it would've been exhilarating.

“Sorry, sir, what are we doing?” Fourneau asked, visibly perplexed.

“Right, sorry, I forgot you
don't
have the implanted comms chip in your brain, so you can't hear the transmissions from the mother ship, like me. Okay, here's what's going on,” and I quickly briefed up the boys on what we'd just been ordered to do by the CP.

“Shouldn't the QRF be taking this one, sir?” Fourneau asked, and then immediately regretted it as the angry father (the warrant) shot him a look that would kill a yak at fifty yards.

“Technically, yes, but they—” I started to say, but the warrant quickly cut me off.

“Fourneau, get your kit on, and get ready, we're going out again. Top up your water and eat something, quick.” The warrant shook his head and I imagined they'd have a private chat when I left the room to go and ask Lieutenant Aziz if he wanted to come and join us for some more excitement outside the wire.
No rest for the wicked, and the righteous don't need any!

I knocked on Ali's door. He was a good sport, and together we went and found Lieutenant Aziz. He was surprised to see me at his door for the third time today, and quickly said it wouldn't be possible, as the sun was about to set and the Afghans would finally be allowed to drink water and eat something. I said I understood completely, but the corpse was a mere twenty metres away from the gate, and it would be one less RPG launcher on the mean streets of Sperwhan Ghar. We'd need twenty guys, max. We'd go find the body, strip the RPG off of it, and be back no later than 1830 hours.

“Fifteen men, and I don't come with you,” he said, raising the bet with his men like they were poker chips.

“Okay, but who will be in charge of your men?” I asked, re-raising him.

“Sergeant Major Khan,” he said, “and you must be back by 1830 hours.”
He's all in!

“We will, thank you very much. How soon can they be ready to go?”

“Five minutes,” he said and brushed past me to go and prep his men.

I told Ali to say thanks to the back of Aziz's departing head, and we walked over to my shack. I asked Ali how he was doing and he said fine, “but a little tired.” In the few short days I'd been working with him, I'd realized he had a great attitude. He was observing Ramadan as well, so he hadn't had anything to eat or drink all day, but you would never have known it. The Afghans' resolve and ability to maintain their fast, while still conducting operations in plus-fifty-degree Celsius heat, was truly astonishing. I know I would've dehydrated at the start of the morning and died of heatstroke if I hadn't been able to keep topped up on water.

Aziz quickly scrambled his men, who never once complained or shot us dirty looks. They were needed and so they went, and that was enough for them. I apologized through Ali as my team of Canadians joined us, and promised them we'd be back as soon as possible. I radioed in our composition to the CP as we began marching down the slope toward the main gate, for the third time today.
Hopefully this'll be a milk run
, I thought to myself. Fourneau called my name so I turned around.

“Sir, you're not going to believe this, but I think we all just walked over an unexploded RPG warhead, and that Afghan there is kicking it like it's a rock down the street!”

GEEEWWWW!!

“Stop stop stop!” I shouted. “NOBODY MOVE!” I trusted Fourneau completely. He was smart so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. The warrant doubled back to join me and the Afghan sergeant major as I walked past Fourneau and looked back up the hill to where an ANA soldier was about to boot an unexploded RPG warhead, just like Fourneau had said.

“Ali, get that man to STOP what he's doing, and back the hell away from it!” Ali shouted at the man who, looking like he just aged twenty years, slowly crept back from the rocket warhead.

“Everyone, very slowly and carefully, do your fives and twenties! Make sure you're not standing next to any more rockets or mortars that haven't exploded!” As Ali translated, I looked around my personal space and performed my five- and twenty-metre check, like I'd been taught by the Brits and then relearned in the CF. Look five metres around you, and when that's clear and you're happy, look twenty metres around you. But they never said anything in the training about Afghans kicking pieces of UXO.

I radioed the CP and advised them we had a UXO that the Canadian engineers would have to come and deal with,
rapido.
CP said the 'geers would be notified.

“Hungo,” I spoke into the PRR. “On me,” I said, meaning
come and see me.

He quickly jogged over. I breathed in deeply and paused, then quietly said, “I've got a sinking suspicion the CP has once again run afoul of
das kinderspiel
‘whispers.' To that end, being very careful where you step, be a good chap and make your way down to the front gate and find the Canadian who sent up the report of the
alleged
dead Taliban with the RPG on his back. I'm guessing he actually sent up a report to the command post about there being a UXO on the western slope. I'd go, but I'm afraid the Afghans are going to start an impromptu game of soccer. There's a good lad, cheers.” With that, Hetsa carefully began making his way to the front gate.

The warrant called out to him, “If you see something green and shaped like a cone, whatever you do, don't kick it!”

“Yes,” I smiled, “that's some good advice. But I'm not going to lie to you, Warrant. I'm a bit embarrassed that three-quarters of our platoon nonchalantly bumbled over an RPG warhead, and none of us noticed it sticking out of the dirt!”

“I know,” the warrant said, not laughing anymore. “All we would've heard was a huge boom behind us, and we'd turn around to find two Afghans missing, and ten unconscious and bleeding out!”

“Yes, almost a ‘bad day in Kentucky!'”
Un-fucking-lucky!
The sun was under the horizon now; it was becoming dark very quickly, and the Afghans were getting bored. A dangerous combination: bored Afghans and unexploded ordnance. A nasty feeling started bouncing around in my mind as Hetsa jogged over to us.

“You were right, sir. The guy at the front gate was totally pissed when I asked him. He said he told the CP there was an unexploded RPG warhead and he could see it, so he went over and marked it with an illumination stick.” I looked over at the UXO, but I couldn't see an illum stick. Someone had probably kicked that one too!

Hetsa continued, “He also didn't say jack about any dead Taliban and a motorcycle or an RPG launcher. The only thing he told them was about the unexploded RPG warhead, on the western slope, inside the actual base.”

“Let this be a lesson to all of us,” I said in my officer voice. “The best, most active listeners in the world do
not
get the CP radio-shift duties!” I looked over at the Afghans.
Poor bastards
, I thought,
they haven't had anything to eat or drink all day.
I called Ali and Sergeant Major Khan over to me, and politely thanked the CSM for bringing his men out, but there had been a miscommunication between the front gate and the CP. We were called to find the warhead,
not
an RPG launcher attached to a corpse rapidly undergoing rigor mortis.

“Thanks a lot for your help, but we'll take it from here; you guys can go back and have supper now. Thanks again.” Before I'd even finished translating, the ANA were on their way back up the hill. I thanked Ali for all of his hard work and cut him loose, too. I didn't have to tell him twice.

The Canadians quickly formed a four-man cordon around the UXO, so that no one would be overwhelmed by the same deadly curiosity that had been infecting the ANA these last few days. After the last Afghan passed, we walked down the hill, got behind the cover of the blast walls, and hunkered down.

“Honestly guys,” I asked no one in particular, “someone please tell me, what the Sam Fuck is going on around here?” Although everyone laughed, you could tell no one found the joke particularly funny. I thought about it for a second, and realized that it wasn't maliciousness on anyone's part; that was just how war played out sometimes. There was a reason the term
fog of war
had been around for centuries. Some things didn't change, and as technology increased, the problem only got worse.

The CP spoke over my radio again, and told us we'd have to wait out. An American chopper was scheduled to land at Sperwhan, so the engineers weren't allowed to BIP the UXO. So we waited. And
waited.
To keep team morale up I would act as the chair over nonsensical debates, like whether or not the actor Haley Joel Osment would successfully transition from child prodigy to serious adult thespian. The debate was fairly even: some of us cited precedent for such a thing, others felt it wouldn't happen for him. But I had faith.

The Black Hawk chopper arrived, landed, and took off again, and still we sat there with our backs to the hill, with no end in sight. Another hour passed, and finally the Canadian engineers arrived and took over our protective cordon. We thanked them profusely and marched back to our shack, where we dumped kit, topped up our water, and then went off for “Hollywood” showers, in which, as a special treat, you kept the water running and didn't shut it off after you'd lathered up. I figured we deserved it.

Later that night, as I typed up numerous reports, I heard a rap on the door. I got up, eager to get away from the screen blindness I was suffering from, and answered it. If I thought that day couldn't have gotten any more surreal, I underestimated fate's sense of humour.

Next to Ali stood Mr. Snippy-snip, the young ANA engineer, standing in his best clubbing outfit, with hair neatly slicked back and shoes polished, looking surprisingly smart. He said something in rapid-fire Dari.

Ali smiled. “He says ‘You promised.'” And with that, the engineer stuck out his hand, palm up.

“So I did! Tell him to wait one.” I laughed and went back to my bed space to take my Leatherman tool off my combat-painted belt. I smiled and handed it to him and said, “Be careful,” and “May Allah watch over you.” I was going to add, “
because you are certainly not long for this earth
,” but I didn't want to jinx him. He thanked me, and walked away into the night.

The next morning I approached the battle group store man and told him exactly how I came to be missing one times issued “Leatherman tool, the.” He just laughed, walked to the back, grabbed a new one, and handed it over to me.

“Lost in combat, sir.”

Chapter 7

We said goodbye to the fighting cowboys of the PPCLI as they packed up and began to depart Sperwhan. I took Stephens aside and thanked him again for his briefings and dedication to making sure we would be okay. I hoped I would do half as good a job as he had, with
my
handover. Some RGs arrived from Masum to pick them up; we walked them over, they wished us luck and then took off. And as per, completely blanketed us in dust, just for old times' sake.

“Seriously, what the hell is the matter with those clowns?” I demanded.

“It's just their way, sir—don't take it personally,” Longview replied, as he wiped himself down from the coating he'd received. I took the boys over to meet Captain Shafiq Ullah, the ANA First Company OC, who had arrived late the night before. I happened to be awake—I couldn't sleep in the heat—so I had grabbed Ali and the ANA captain and we talked for a bit. He seemed a decent-enough guy, but like all Afghans, he was wary of the new OMLT team—afraid we would be trolling for a fight and would ultimately get him and his ANA killed. I didn't go into our activities of the last few days for fear of making him think I was another Captain Rich (call sign “Bad Karma”) . . . I didn't want him to think trouble was attracted to me, although after the last few days, I was starting to wonder about that myself.

We moved across the street into our new digs, the actual OMLT HQ, and were happy to finally be hanging out in an air-conditioned building. Back in the store room, we couldn't sleep at night due to the extreme heat: we'd toss and turn because we were so uncomfortable from sweating buckets in our sleep. We'd only been on the ground a week and we were already going into sleep debt.

“Am I wetting the bed again? Or is
that
really sweat?” I asked after peeling myself off the cot and looking down at the sweat silhouette I had left on the sheet. I would wake up each morning and literally down a litre and a half of water.
Damn night terrors!

After the IED haystack, the base attack, and the UXO warhead on the slope, the next couple of patrols had been milk runs, comparatively speaking. On one patrol we got lost in a marijuana field. We patrolled through it, thinking it couldn't be any bigger than an acre. But it was as long as a football field. The stalks were eight feet high, we couldn't see each other, and I realized I was allergic to pot. My eyes were watering like crazy! As a joke, I began calling to Fourneau saying, “I can't see you; where are you?” and “I can hear them, Fourneau! They're all around me!” I remembered a movie that had terrified me as a kid,
Children of the Corn
, and I still cursed Roddy Striker's parents for letting us watch it at his birthday party. I thought about the heroes running through the tall stalks of corn as demented children gave chase.

Even though we were armed to the friggin' teeth and could easily have handled a bunch of knife-wielding patricidal brats from Iowa, if the Taliban had attacked us at that moment, it would've all been over. I could just see the ANA firing madly in all directions, mowing us down. Being lost in a pot field, although undoubtedly the dream of many Canadians from the BC interior, was a little bit creepy and surreal when it happened to you in Afghanistan.

The warrant had to find his way out, and then shout at us to call us over to him. It was all very embarrassing, and we redefined amateur hour that afternoon.

When we got back to our shacks I radioed the CP to say we were back, and I was told “Comms Lockdown.” My heart sank. Another Canadian soldier had been killed. I told the guys and a dull feeling passed over all of us. I experienced a lot of the same feelings I'd had the first time we were told “Comms Lockdown,” but now I was feeling angrier than I had before. It was hard to describe. We found out later that night that Sergeant Shipway from 2 PPCLI had been killed in action by an IED in Panjway province. Seven others had been wounded as well. I reminded the guys that if they wanted to talk, I was there for them. We cleaned our kit in silence and got ready for the morning patrol.

On that patrol, I was running down the length of a narrow grape-field wall, trying to get some definition on what was going on up ahead of us, when the wall collapsed under the combined weight of my gear and heavy musculature. At least, that was the reason I told the team. They said the wall collapsed because I was fat. Either way, I walked with a nice limp for the next two days—the fall had really jammed my knee. The warrant told me to have the doc check it, but I knew he would put me on a sick chit for the next week, and I had patrols to lead.
I just got here—how would it look if I was already injured?
My high school football coach's words came back to me: “Rub a little dirt on it, an' get back in the game!” I continued patrolling, but I was a pitiful sight (more so than usual), limping up and down the road.

We had done a couple of patrols to the north and east, and I noticed that something odd kept happening: whenever we approached a village or a field where there were donkeys milling about, they would immediately begin braying loudly, alerting everyone within earshot of our presence. I started calling them DEWS, for “donkey early-warning system.” Clearly the Taliban had trained the animals to act like guard dogs and alert them when we were sneaking around. It became a running joke on the tour. Whenever someone heard a donkey braying he'd shout, “DEWS! They're on to us; we've been compromised! RUN! RUN!”

We did a patrol the next morning and it turned out to be one of those foreshadowing moments. Fourneau and I were with Lieutenant Mujahedeen (whose real name was Azmar, but when we found out he'd fought the Soviets as a teenager, he quickly became “Mujahedeen”), when the lieutenant hopped over a small wall into a farmer's compound. Longview, Hetsa, and several ANA had gone the long way around as Mujahedeen and I walked up to the front gate and realized it was secured with a thick lock. With zero hesitation, he asked me to shoot off the lock. Now, that may work in movies and bad TV shows, but the only thing in real life that worked well on a thick lock was a shotgun slug round. Pistol rounds and rifle bullets didn't always cut it. And to top it off, I didn't think the farmer wanted me to shoot his lock.
Not exactly “hearts and minds.”

But it didn't look like we had a choice. I was just about to get everyone out of the way and do it when Ali told me to stop because the farmer was going into his house to find the key to let us out. Longview and Hetsa damn near pissed their pants—they couldn't stop laughing at the thought of a farmer rummaging through his house, trying desperately to find an old key to let the infidels out of his compound.

After about five minutes he stomped out of his hut, let us out, and basically said, “And don't ever come back!” or words to that effect in Pashto. But the warrant and Hetsa got a good yuk out of it, seemingly at my expense, although I couldn't really have cared less. I guess shooting a lock would remain on my war to-do list.

Our OMLT company's second-in-command, a captain named Sean, radioed to inform us our OMLT OC, Major Hobbles, had arrived and was setting up in Masum. But more importantly, Major Obermann, the OC of Mike Company from 3 RCR, had finally arrived at Sperwhan, so I invited him into our OMLT HQ to give him an update on the situation so far. I explained in some detail the things I'd been up against, and didn't pull any punches regarding Major Bane. Comments like “one hundred per cent certainty” before he'd give his snipers permission to fire didn't sit well with Major Obermann. He thanked me for the briefing and said, “Stand by for change.” I couldn't wait!

Major Bane called a BUB the morning Major Obermann was scheduled to take over. All of the outgoing officers were present with the sniper sergeant and the two OMLT teams (the new incoming OMLT artillery team was made up of Captain Brannon, his warrant, and his two young guys I quickly nicknamed “Ginge and Swede.” They had turned up the night before, and were now living in our old accommodations). Major Bane, in a surprisingly gracious gesture, thanked everyone for their hard work, and then handed the briefing over to Major Obermann. The new incoming battle group commander discussed a few handover issues, and then said, “I've been hearing a lot of talk about having to be one hundred per cent certain. Well, gentlemen, that ends today at high noon when I take over. As of 1200 hours today, fifty-one per cent is good enough.”

It was great to see Bane finally get his in front of all of his men. The sniper sergeant looked like he had tears of joy in his eyes. Shortly thereafter, Bane and most of his crew were gone. I think after that official handover, he basically stayed in his room until it was time for him to leave. I didn't waste a single tear over him.

We did our standard patrol in the morning and then showered and ate lunch. I was finishing my patrol report when I heard two friends of mine with Mike Company, Captains Declan and John, begin speaking quickly over the radio. They had turned up with their platoons the night before and were now out on the ground on a handover patrol with Reg. They had just given chase to some bomb makers and my ears had perked up when they trapped the men in a grape-drying hut, just outside Sperwhan's front gate.
Good on 'em
, I thought to myself.

Then I heard them request, “OMLT and ANA personnel to breach the grape hut.”

I wasn't sure why they were requesting us; maybe there were angry farmers who didn't want them to enter. Maybe the Canadians needed the ANA to be diplomats. Either way, 72A had seen the Bat-Signal in the sky, and we were always game for some good action outside the wire. I jumped out of my seat and shouted, “X-Men! To me!” as I ran over to put on my gear.

The warrant came in from the picnic table and asked, “What's going on, sir?”

“Rohan calls for aid! And Gondor shall answer! Get kitted up, we're outside the wire in five.” That was all he needed to hear. He ran over to Fourneau's bed space, rudely shoved him awake, and started getting kitted up. Hetsa had been reading on the couch, so he was well ahead of any of us. Hetsa and I always competed on who could get all of their gear on first, because the loser had to help the winner with his clips. He was good at it, and we were about even so far. As I got dressed I briefed the guys on the mission.

I grabbed the radio mic and told the battle group CP that OMLT had heard the request and were en route. “Dress me, Hetsa!” I said, all smug because I'd beaten him. “Fourneau, get out there and fire up the Millennium Falcon!”

I jogged outside, found Ali, and then asked Captain Shafiq Ullah if he could spare some men for a quick compound raid. He said no, because it was almost last light, when his soldiers could finally eat.

I said I understood completely. “Just give me twenty guys, and I'll have them back in time for tea and medals.” The rest of 72A jogged past me, heading over to the RG.

“Fifteen guys, and be back in ten minutes,” he said, haggling over his men.

“Fifteen guys, back in fifteen minutes, done! Thanks.” I turned and jogged over to the RG. I hopped up the back step and swung inside, and as was my custom, promptly smashed the top of my helmeted head into the ceiling.

“Aw, damn it!” I screamed, “Every freakin' time!” The shockwave sent a shiver all the way down my spine to my toes. Everyone laughed. I was glad my one-man clown act was keeping team morale high. I radioed the CP to let them know 72A was about to roll.

“Fourneau, give me full power and put shields on double front. Weapons, report!”

“We're good to go, sir. Weapons fully charged and ready!” Hetsa responded. He used the joystick on his remote control console to swivel the .50-cal heavy machine gun on the RG's roof back and forth for good measure.

“Well done, Mr. Starbuck. Warrant, how's our six o'clock, any sign of the ANA?”

“Some guys are hopping into Rangers now, sir. One's pulling up behind us.”

“Roger that. Good hustle, men; well done. We've got two, possibly three IED makers hiding in a grape hut. It's almost ANA supper time, so we gotta get back here in fourteen minutes, or Shafiq Ullah will never let his soldiers go to war with us again. So let's make it quick and dirty! We're going in hard, we'll point the ANA at the right hut, and then cut them loose and see what happens!”

“Sir, we've got three Rangers on our six,” Longview said.

“That's all we're gonna get. All right, punch it Chewie!” I shouted. “We're going in full throttle; that oughta keep those fighters off our back!”

“Yee-haw!” Hetsa shouted. Fourneau punched the gas and we went flying down the slope, sliding sideways on the turn until he regained control, and screaming up to the front gate, pinning the brakes before we could crash into the barriers. He slalomed the cement barriers like a professional Formula One driver, and we went blazing out the front gate.

“Mr. Fornicator, we've only got thirteen minutes left; give me full power!” I shouted.

“I'm trying, sir, I'm giving it—”

“Damn your eyes, man! What have I told you? Honk the frackin' horn!”