The Taliban Don't Wave (29 page)

We rounded a corner and the ANA saw something and took off at a dead sprint.

“
Goom-lie
[runner]! Ginge, stay right behind me,” I said as we took off after them. “Omer, if anything happens, go low and hide against a wall, okay?”

“Okay, Captain Rob,” he said as he pulled his
shemag
up so it would cover his face better. He had told me the night before he had relatives in the area, but they thought he was working in Kabul. He didn't want them to get murdered because of his chosen career. Or to get murdered
by
them.

We ran for about a hundred metres and then the ANA fanned out; they lost their
goom-lie
and were heading into the fields to find him.
They're surprisingly good
, I thought as they professionally moved into chase and block positions without having to be told.

The ANA shouted at CSM Shamsallah and together we entered a tall grape-drying hut. I looked for IEDs at the entrance, but Shamsallah just stormed in (
Geeewwww!)
and began rooting around. I told Ginge to stay outside while I went in, just in case Shamsallah grabbed something attached to a string, which was attached to a detonator, which was attached to a mahoosive IED. It was eerily reminiscent of the Taliban farmer's compound we had raided with the Brits outside of Salavat.
Was that two months ago now?

A tall ladder was balanced against a wall with a viewport hacked out of the mud bricks at the top. The tall grape-field walls between the COP and the grape-drying hut were negated by the fact that the ladder reached almost two storeys up in the air. They could observe us at the COP from
inside
the two-storey hut and we'd never even know it.
Clever.

Shamsallah found a Quran and a large map of southern Afghanistan in the corner. I was about to ask why they would need that, but then it became obvious:
They're not from here, they're probably from Pakistan. So they would need a map to get back.
We found some old PKM ammo and a few grenades, but no IEDs or parts thereof. I took a ten-figure grid and spoke directly with Major Obermann over the battle group net, letting him know what we'd found. He said, “Good job, continue with your patrol, over.”

“Seven Two Charlie, roger, out.”
Hmm, 72C—that didn't sound so bad after all.
Maybe the Wizard had found something in his book of spells to remove the curse of call sign “Anthem for Doomed Youth.” Shamsallah tasked some ANA to muckle onto the Taliban kit and we continued heading south. We patrolled for another twenty minutes when, suddenly, we heard mortars start to fall in the vicinity of Zangabad. Knowing the Canadians were coming under mortar attack motivated the ANA to pick up the pace, and we marched quickly farther to the southwest.

We had been following a different footpath, with two shoulder-high walls on either side of the path, when the ANA stopped for an orientation moment. Shamsallah walked over and motioned with his arms to borrow my C8. The Afghans would often ask to look down our scopes to get a better view. I handed it over, and told Omer to let him know it was loaded, made ready, and on safe.

“I know ‘loaded' and ‘safe,' but what is ‘made ready?' ” he asked.

“There is a bullet locked inside the chamber, ready to fire. If he puts the weapon on ‘fire' and pulls the trigger, it will go
bang
,” I patiently replied. He told Shamsallah my weapon state and Shamsallah just shrugged, which was his way of saying, “Yeah, whatever.” I walked over to one of the shoulder-high walls, facing east, and got out my map and GPS. I thought the mortars had stopped in the last few minutes; I couldn't hear any more explosions coming from the COP.

I was just about to send up a locstat when I saw three figures all dressed in black scurrying down a grape-field trench toward us. Time began to slow down as I realized one of them was carrying a long-barrelled weapon. It looked like a Chinese-made SKS rifle.
Timothy!
I couldn't believe my eyes. I had never seen him like this, out in the open, not surrounded by dust or haze like a shadow, but right in front of me! They were only a hundred metres away and coming closer.

As I watched them, duckwalking down the trench toward us, they kept looking to the north (the direction of the COP), where they thought the infidels were hiding.

“Down, everyone get down!” I hissed, ducking behind the wall. They were perpendicular to us, in a perfect ninety-degree angle to the ANA at the wall, coming right at us.
We've got them in perfect enfilade! We just have to wait until they get closer, then we'll gun them down!

Where's Shamsallah? He's got my rifle!
He had moved up to the wall and was glancing over at Timothy, through
my
scope!

“Stay down, everyone stay down!” I whispered as I crouch-walked over to him.

“Hey,” I whispered, “give it back.” I reached over and gently started tugging on its front cover. He snarled something and tugged back. “Hey, I'm not kidding . . . give it
back
!” I snapped, and began reaching over his arms to take my weapon back.
Really? Am I really having a freaking tug-of-war, over my own damn rifle, as we're about to ambush Timothy?
I could just see the headlines: CANADIAN OFFICER FIGHTS OVER PERSONAL WEAPON WITH AFGHAN SOLDIER, GETS SHOT IN HEAD!

“Give it back, damn it. Give. It. Back.” We were both standing up now, fighting like two kids over a hockey stick signed by Gretzky.

Then I heard the swan song, the proverbial fat lady singing, to announce the sudden and violent death of my dream of getting the drop on Timothy. Some moron ANA soldier had stood up so the sneaking Taliban could see him in plain view. He had begun to whistle shrilly at them, as though he was trying to call a taxi in downtown traffic!

I let go of my rifle and shouted, “No!
Nooooo!
What are you doing?” I ran to the edge of the wall and looked over to see the three Taliban fighters stopping dead in their tracks, quickly pulling a one-eighty, and sprinting back the way they'd come. Shamsallah was already up and beside me, and began to fire round after round out of
my
rifle, trying to hit the fleeing Taliban. The rest of the ANA joined him and began pouring fire down at the fleeing insurgents.
Oh no no no no.
I was shaking my head, completely downtrodden.

Ginge shouted out, “Sir, can I fire?” He looked at me pleadingly.

I sighed deeply and said, “As long as you've got a legitimate target, go ahead.” I looked back over the wall at nothing but an empty ditch. They were long gone.

I already had my map and GPS in my hands from before, so I radioed in the contact report and said we had engaged three times FAMs, who were now currently running for their lives to the south.

An unexpected thought ran through my head. I remembered a scene at the end of the movie
Jarhead
, where the sniper team was wigging out because an officer wasn't going to let them take their dream-shot and engage the target. I had laughed at the time, but I wasn't laughing now. I figured I knew
exactly
how they felt.

Shamsallah, realizing only now what he had done, slowly walked over and handed me back my rifle. He quietly said, “
Man mutasef astaam
,” meaning
I'm sorry.
I looked him in the eyes; he was genuinely upset about our little pre-ambush tug-of-war. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “
Khob-as, beraader
,” which meant
It's okay, brother.
He smiled when he heard
beraader
and then quickly marched over to the whistle-blower, the smile draining off his face with every step. Soon it was replaced with a feral sneer.

He grabbed the mad whistler by the neck and banged him up against the wall and started shouting in his face. I nodded at Omer, meaning I wanted him to come over and translate the epic “jacking” this ass-clown was receiving.

Omer began to translate Shamsallah's shouting: “You are Taliban, why else would you be whistling at them, if not to warn them?” The whistler tried to respond. As I looked away to see what Ginge was up to, I heard Shamsallah deftly open-hand slap him across the face. “If the Canadians were not here, I would kill you myself and leave you in the ditch! You will never patrol with us again, and when we get back to Masum, you are finished. I will be watching you!” The CSM stormed off to the front of the patrol and got his men moving again to the south.

The Canadian FOO/FAC, the artillery observer, spoke over the net and said his guns were good to go—I only had to give him a target. I looked over the grape field and saw signs of life returning: some men, women, and children had begun picking grapes again and moving through the trenches. I looked farther south, on what I guessed was Timothy's E&E (escape and evasion) route, and saw a dozen large birds fly up and out of the trees, startled by something moving quickly underneath them.

“Negative,” I said over the radio to the FOO/FAC. “The enemy has fled to the south, I have no viable target, I have no eyes on.”
He's certainly keen.
But the FOO/FAC wasn't satisfied; he acted as though he hadn't heard me, and repeated his offer/demand to shoot his guns at something.

Okay, I don't have time for this.
“Seven Two Charlie, the enemy has fled to the south. They are gone. I have
no
grid for their position to give you! There are now women and children working in the fields. This TIC is over. I am closing the book on this one. Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. Seven Two Charlie, out.”

I had seen this before: it was probably the FOO/FAC's first time outside the wire, and possibly his last, so he desperately wanted to be able to say he'd done the job he'd trained for years for and shot his guns. He probably thought I was some thick idiot who couldn't take the hint, but I wasn't going to risk the lives of civilians just so he could say he called in artillery. Besides, we were way too close, danger close, to where the guns would've been dropping their high-explosive rounds; and if they were so much as a tiny bit off in their calculations, we'd all be turned into a red, gooey paste!

Shamsallah took point on the patrol and continued south for another twenty minutes, before he took us down a different path that headed west. We took a break in the shade, and I sipped down lots of water. I looked at my watch: it was getting close to 1100 hours and the sun was beginning to burn our faces. I forgot to put on my usual SPF-forty sunscreen, and I knew my combat shades would leave me looking like a fried raccoon by the time the day was over. I asked Ginge how he was doing and he said fine. He was in his element, having the time of his life, just like on the patrols I'd managed to get him on back in Sper. It was fun for me to have somebody who was keen along for the ride.

We continued marching west for about ten minutes. We would glance over walls and speak to the farmers and villagers if they could be bothered to stick around. I didn't blame them for hiding—I think I would have as well. Every now and then we would see kids and I would act like I was a monster and give chase. I had found that children all over the world loved to be chased, and these little village kids were no different. If I thought it wouldn't get them killed in a riot, I would hand over some gum, but only if they were out of view of the rest of the kids.

We had passed out of a village and continued to follow an elevated, narrow road when we heard a thump to our south.
Mortars firing!
The sound was unmistakable.
That means they're close, probably within a couple hundred metres.
I walked over to Shamsallah, but he didn't
need
to be mentored. So far, he was easily the most aggressive ANA soldier I had ever seen.
Finally, somebody who wants to do the job!

He spoke on his radio to his sergeants and our column began to wind south toward the Taliban mortar team. I listened as the Canadians back at Zangabad began to talk in the usual clipped tones and laconic language of radio chatter. The mortars were getting closer to the engineers.
Not if we can help it. . . .

We patrolled for a hundred metres until we lost track of the mortars. The loud thumping had gone silent.
They must have spotted us and gone dark.
I told Ginge to scan around for dickers, somebody watching us.

I saw a two-storey building with a narrow staircase leading from the ground floor to the top, so I told Ginge to follow me as I quickly scaled the steps. They were incredibly narrow, and my armour and tac vest had a tendency to make me look fat, so I tried not to fall over the edge as we rapidly climbed the stairs. I watched the top of the stairs and not my feet, in case Timothy was waiting for us.

We reached the flat-top roof of the compound and scanned all around. It was empty, so I led us to the southern edge to try and get eyes on the mortar team. Just then we heard the thumping coming from behind a high wall, maybe one hundred metres away. I looked through my scope, but the wall was covering the shooters from view. I shot a bearing on my compass, and then oriented my map to north and placed my compass down on the map. I did some mental math (a challenge for me even at the best of times) and came up with an approximate grid for the enemy.

The battle group radio chatter was cutting in and out; we were too far away with too many high walls and compounds between us and COP Zangabad. I wasn't getting their signal, but thankfully Sean was up a roof near the COP acting as the RRB, so I sent him our locstat and told him we had an approximate best-guess position for the enemy. He acknowledged and said he'd pass it up to “higher.”

I looked down and saw that some ANA had followed us up the stairs but had gotten off at the first floor rooftop. They were talking and pointing to the south, right at the position I had put Timothy at.
Always nice to have an independent second-party verification of Timothy's position.