The Taliban Don't Wave (32 page)

A real litmus test for his bravery would be whether or not, after the last few days, he would be willing to go out to clear the compound and find the Taliban firing point. I breathed in deeply and got Omer to ask him for me. Shamsallah just smiled and said, “Why not?” I laughed and slapped him on the back and told him I would go myself to the CP and show the Canadians where we were going. I promised we would be back in twenty minutes. I asked Sean if he wanted to come with us,
juste pour la fun?

“I have to start the handover. Some of us are here to work, and not just go out on adventures!” he mockingly replied.

“Heh, adventure, excitement; a Jedi craves not these things! It's best if you stay, though,” I sneered. “I'm sure you'd just get us all killed. You go back to your air-conditioned office, son—it's what you're best at!” I punched him on the arm as we walked back to the CP. I asked Sean to radio Ginge, who was hanging out at the RG in the leaguer, to have him come on over for a patrol. I walked over and got Warrant Joe's and the radio operator's full attention as I showed them our projected patrol route and the suspect compound. They assured me everyone in the battle group knew the ANA's current location, and Big Joe said he would personally ensure they knew our patrol trace.

I grabbed Ginge, Shamsallah, and some ANA and we went to “knock” on the compound door. We bomb-bursted into the compound but the Taliban had long since fled. We found two firing points with expended PKM brass by the walls facing to the south and east.

Later that afternoon, Major Obermann asked if the ANA were ready to crack on with the original plan to go search the large village to our west. I immediately replied, “The roughnecks are always ready, sir!”

An hour later, the Canadians from the battle group stood to the side while Ginge, Shamsallah, and I kicked down dozens of doors and front gates as we cleared the compounds just to the west of Mushan. It was one of the funniest moments of my entire life, and it turned absolutely farcical as we got into the groove of things.

One of us would take a turn to kick down the door, then all three of us with some ANA would run in, clear the compound of Taliban, and then run down the street to do it all over again as the Canadians entered the recently liberated compound to conduct a proper search. We were having fun kicking down the doors—the Canadians were having fun letting us go in first, so it was win-win.

We did this all afternoon, oftentimes arguing about whose turn it was to kick in the gate, until after about four hours the ANA had enough and called it quits. Thankfully a Canadian civil military co-operation officer was following behind the Canadian platoons, handing out money to the homeowners for smashed-in gates and booted front doors.
Well, you can't exactly knock. . . .

As far as Shamsallah was concerned, everyone west of Mushan was either a Taliban insurgent, a blood relative to one, or a suspected sympathizer or collaborator, so they were all suspect and the word needed to be put out on the street. I soon found out Shamsallah was a firm believer in street cred.
Maybe he had a point.

Later that evening I joined Sean for some handover points and we helped the warrants get some things squared away. I went to bed in an ISO container. It was filled with bunk beds and I didn't think there was any room left in the inn, but I managed to shift a guy's kit under his snoring bed space and made a little home for myself. I put on my welding ear-defenders and fell right asleep.

That night, I dreamed of small children playing on a haystack, having fun and laughing in the bright sun under a pale blue, cloudless sky. I was in uniform, but with no gear or weapons on me. I was watching them from a ditch when suddenly a massive explosion from inside the haystack ripped them apart and launched their shredded bodies high into the air. I stared as their little body parts started to fall all around me like rain
. . .
and then I fell to my knees and started screaming.

Chapter 17

The next morning I broke up a few fights between the incoming and outgoing ANA. I found Warrant Duceppe (who made for a very intimidating bouncer) and asked him to come with me. One look at him, and the ANA parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses and quickly went about their business. Sean and Warrant Smith walked over and said we were on schedule; the engineers would finish up around noon, and the battle group convoy would probably head out no later than 1500 hours. I saw some engineers working on the LCMR on the roof of our CP.

“What're they up to? Servicing it?” I asked, somewhat naively.

“Removing it,” Sean said.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. “Removing it?” I stammered. “I thought this place was getting whacked by mortars every day for the last six days?”
Why in God's name would they be removing it?

“I was told the battle group colonel in KAF has decided it should go to Gundy Ghar, in the north.”

“I know where Gundy Ghar is. Why are they removing it, when we need it? Has Gundy Ghar even been hit by mortars?”

“No, I don't think so. But that was his decision, so TS [tough shit]!”

“Yeah, TS for
us
, not for you! You get to go back to your nice, safe little Batcave, but we get to be mortared on a daily basis! That's the only early-warning system we have. Warrant Smith said the operator pokes his head out of his hut, shouts, “Incoming!” and everyone runs for cover! What're we supposed to do now?” I couldn't believe it.

“Adapt and overcome. I'll put a word in when I get back, see if I can't get you a new one or get the old one back.”

“Can't you ask now, while we still have it, before the bastards take it away?!”

“Rob, grow up. You know it doesn't work like that. He's made up his mind. But I promise, I'll see what I can do once I'm back. I'll talk to our OMLT colonel, and maybe they can duke it out.”

“Okay, but I just can't believe it. Why would he do that? Take it away, especially since we're getting hit all the time?”

“Ours is not to reason why . . .” Sean said and went back to his paperwork.

We grabbed a quick lunch and then Big Joe and I walked over to the outgoing ANA captain's command post, right underneath the southeast sangar. The warrant introduced us, and over the next half-hour we hammered out some of the stickier issues, like: “The incoming ANA are going to need all of the electrical cables and extensions and jacks you've been taking.”

The outgoing ANA were taking everything not bolted down or arc-welded in place. They were stripping FOB Mushan clean as Warrant Smith desperately tried to stop them. He'd had some success, but already some big-ticket ANA items were going missing. I wondered if I told him the incoming guys—

KRAANG!

I flinched at the sound of a very loud, very close explosion; it had sounded strange, though, like two metal rebars banging into each other. I looked at the warrant. “Incoming mortars,” he calmly said.

“Yeah, but that was super close,” I said as I jumped up and made my way to the sangar ladder. I heard shouting in Dari and English as soldiers tried to make sense of what had just happened. I climbed up to the top and looked to the south, where the other mortar rounds had been falling the last few days.
Nothing.
I looked to the east and saw the Brit Royal Marines running into their mortar pits to ready their mortars for counter-battery fire.

I shouted down to them, “You guys okay?”

“We're good, mate!” their sergeant shouted up to me.
Well, where the hell . . .

I looked to my left and into the compound, where I saw a large cloud of dust swirling into the sky. The incoming mortar round had landed about fifteen feet away from my meeting with the ANA, and had blasted the windows out of a Ford Ranger and popped its tires. Dust was floating between the truck and a nearby tent, and I couldn't see if anyone had been hit. Soldiers on the ground were yelling back and forth.

I raced down the ladder and ran up to the truck. I began coughing as the dust flooded into my lungs. I tried to swish it away and slowly it lifted enough for me to make out a wounded soldier, propped up against the truck's back wheel. Warrant Duceppe was running over to me, shouting something as he ran, but I couldn't understand him. Too many people were yelling in the dust and confusion.

I ran over to the soldier and bent down next to him, trying to see his face and figure out what had happened to him. As I squatted down I could see blood shooting ten feet out the right side of his neck in powerful streams with every heartbeat.
Artery! Crap, I've got to stop it before—

Over all of the noise and confusion, everyone in the compound could hear the LCMR operator scream at the top of his powerful lungs, “INCOMING! INCOMING!”
Crap, where can I run to, where can I go?
If it wasn't so serious, it would've been funny as my feet and legs started running in two different directions while my torso went firm, fighting my legs' desire to panic until my head could find the best spot to hide.

I reached down for the Afghan.
We have to get him into cover before—

Warrant Duceppe thundered into me, picked me up off my feet, and half-pulled, half-dragged me into cover behind a bunker as—

KRAANG!

Shit, that was close!
But the incoming round hadn't made a whistling sound, like in the movies.
THIS ISN'T A MOVIE, ASSHOLE! Get your head out of your ass!

Dust swirled again all over us as we began choking and wheezing. I got up and tried to find the terribly wounded Afghan through all the dust. I thought I saw a silhouette when two huge hands clamped down on my shoulders. It was Warrant Duceppe, who spun me around to look him in his eye. He was wearing his helmet and body armour. I had completely forgotten about coward hour, the time when we could expect the mortars to start incoming, and as I had been running around to make sure everything had gotten taken care of with the outgoing ANA, I'd also completely forgotten my PPE, my personal protective equipment, back at the sleeping container.

The warrant shouted full-bore in my face, “Go get your PPE on, sir, before you become a fucking casualty!” Then he spun me back around to face the ISO container and shoved me so hard I had to run ten steps just to get my feet back under me. Once I'd regained my balance I sprinted for all I was worth back to the ISO container where I'd slept the night before. I opened up the door and saw it was packed full of Canadians. It was good cover, but there was no way I'd be able to snake my way past everyone to get my TCCC bag from my day sack.

“You!” I shouted, pointing at a guy I'd never met. “Reach into that day sack in front of you and get out my TCCC kit. Do it now!” I slammed the door shut and ran over to get my helmet and body armour from where it was hanging and began putting it on. . . .

“INCOMING! INCOMING!” the LCMR operator screamed again.

Crap, crap, crap
. . . I spun around and cranked open the door to the little medic container and slammed the door shut behind me.

KRAANG!

The door muted the noise of the incoming round, but it was unmistakable.
That round sounded a bit farther away.
I looked around and met the nervous gaze of about ten guys, all crammed into the one container.
Med centre!
I saw what I was looking for and started stuffing as many Israeli and Oales bandages and plastic tourniquets as I could cram into my pant side-pockets. As I put on some latex gloves I went to the door and listened. No one was shouting “Incoming!” so I made a break for it. I ran across the wooden walkway and ripped open the other container's door and leaped inside.

“TCCC kit!” I shouted, as hands began to pass it forward to me. I didn't want to make eye contact with anyone as I said in a loud voice, “I won't order you guys to come with me, but I want you to know there are wounded soldiers out there who need our help!” With that, I turned and ran out the door, slamming it behind me. I covered the ground back to the truck and started searching for the wounded Afghan. Ginge rounded the corner of the tent and accidentally ran into the back of me—he had left the safety of the ISO container to come and help.

I told Ginge to look for a wounded Afghan as we peered under the truck to see if he had crawled underneath.
No, not there. Is there a blood trail, has he crawled into a bunker?
I started scanning the ground for a drag mark in the dust, but . . .

“INCOMING!” The LCMR operator yelled from behind us.

“Move move move!” I shouted at Ginge as we scrambled back around the other side of the truck and into some cover behind the bunker.

KRAANG!

Dust and bits of shrapnel flew in all directions as the round landed just where we had been standing. My ears began ringing and my head started pounding again. We coughed violently but got up and fought our way through the dust into the ANA CP. I almost ran into Sergeant Park, another one of our OMLT medics, who had all of his weight behind his hands as he pressed down on the Afghan's spraying neck wound. The ANA captain was in the corner, physically restraining an Afghan soldier who looked ready to kill Park.
He probably thinks the doc's hurting his friend.

“Ginge, help the captain restrain that man!” I said, pointing at the soldier. I looked at Sergeant Park. “Doc, what can I do? I've got my TCCC kit, do you . . .”

“As I ran out here, sir,” the medic said between clenched lips, as he strained to fight the artery's pressure, “I saw some more wounded . . .” he was fighting to keep his hands in place as the Afghan spasmed violently “. . . on the other side of that tent. I don't think anyone's gone to help
them
yet. Can you . . .?”

“Done,” I said, and then looked at Ginge. “You stay here and help the doc.”

“Sir, I want—” he started.

“Do as you're told!” I shouted and turned to go back outside. I felt bad for shouting at him, but I didn't want Ginge to follow me. I knew he was brave to a fault, but today that virtue could get him killed. I sprinted out the door and ran to the far side of the tent where I ran face-first into Omer.

“Sir, sir,” he cried as tears streamed down his dirty face, “Hassan is hurt. He is dying, he has blood all over his face and . . .” Hassan was another OMLT terp and Omer's best friend.

I grabbed Omer by both shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “I'll help him, Omer, but where is he?” Omer looked away, a vacant expression passing over his face.

I gave him a hard shake. “
Omer!
Listen to me! Where is Hassan? You said he was hurt. Where is he?”

“Come with me, sir, I will show you.” Omer began to run around the tent over to the gap between the Hesco, leading us to the ANA bunkers. As we were running two Canadians ran up to me, a reservist sergeant from the OMLT and a young guy I'd never met.

“Sir, can we help?” the sergeant asked.

“Yeah, come with me!” I turned to follow Omer and half-tripped over an Afghan soldier who was moaning and twitching in the dirt. I looked down and realized he was in a terrible way. His legs had been ripped apart, both his shin bones jutted out from his trousers, and he had pink bubbles frothing from his mouth.
Lung wound!
His face was a terrible mess of blood and ripped flesh.

I started to help him when Omer shouted, “Sir! Hassan!” and pointed at the other side of the Hesco. My mind raced as soldiers yelled in the background.
This guy's in a bad way, but if I lose Hassan, I'm screwed—we can't speak Dari.
Then it hit me—I had to decide whom to save: Hassan, or the bleeding and twitching soldier at my feet.

“We'll come back for this guy. C'mon!” I yelled at the two Canadians who turned and followed me as I ran through the gap in the Hesco wall.

“INCOMING!” the LCMR operator screamed again.

Crap, where can we
. . . I saw a large flatbed truck with gear strapped down on it, blocking the road to the bunkers.

I grabbed the sergeant and threw him underneath, then shoved the young guy right next to him. I dove onto my stomach and started crawling as fast as I could under the wheel well of the truck. I shoved my fingers into my ears and for the second time on my tour, I was truly terrified. I started praying in my head,
God, please don't let me die here! Not like this.

KRAANG!

The incoming mortar had fallen on the other side of the Hesco, toward the west. I started to crawl out from underneath the flatbed. “Let's go guys, c'mon!” I yelled. I stood up, reached down to pull the guys out, and then told Omer to take us to Hassan, quickly.

We ran around the corner of the Hesco and saw ANA running back and forth, shouting in Dari at each other. One guy was waving at the others, pleading for help.
One with the doc, one over there, one back the way we came, and Hassan.
We chased after Omer as he ran to the first bunker and bounded down the stairs into the small room.

Just as we entered the bunker I heard a disembodied voice shouting “Incoming!”

I spun around to make sure we were all accounted for and then began searching the bunker for Hassan, but it was too dark to make anything out. There was only a small kerosene lamp, barely lighting up the back corner of the bunker. I found Hassan next to the stairs, moaning softly and holding his head as blood ran down his face between his fingers.

KRAANG!

Other side of the Hesco, more shouting.

I reached into my trouser pocket and ripped out an Oales bandage. “Hassan, it's Rob, can you hear me?” I asked as I squatted down next to him.

Omer started pleading, “Please help him, sir—”

“Be quiet Omer, please. Hassan, it's Rob, are you okay? We're going to move over by the lamp and I'm going to move your hand . . .” I gently peeled back his hand and parted his hairline to see his scalp. He had only a small cut on his head, but because the skull was so vascular, any wound on it bled like crazy.
Aw, man! Why are we wasting our time here, when I just tripped over a guy ten times worse than Hassan!