The Taliban Don't Wave (39 page)

Later that afternoon, two ANA soldiers approached me with Max in tow behind them. Max listened to them while they spoke, and then turned to me.

“Captain Rob, they would like to know why would Christians celebrate the return of a red demon once a year that comes down stovepipes to steal cookies and milk from small children?”

What?
I started choking on my coffee. I sputtered for a few seconds and said, “I'm sorry, a red demon who comes down to . . .?”

“Steal cookies and milk from small children.”

“Oh,” I said, smiling mischievously. “It's because the children were bad.”

Max translated and the ANA said, “Oh, that makes sense, okay,” and went back to their duties. Something critical had definitely been lost in translation as the warrant explained Santa's modus operandi to the ANA.
It's okay though, I've set 'em straight.

We celebrated Christmas with a fresh turkey cooked on the BBQ and a shot each from the leftover bottle of brandy that was sent to us to celebrate the regimental birthday. We exchanged some gifts with the ANA, who, bless them one and all, knew it was better to
receive
than to give.

My parents had sent some gifts neatly wrapped up in Christmas finery for the ANA officers, and when I presented them, they didn't want to open their gifts. I got Max to ask them why not, and they were embarrassed because they thought the gift-wrapped box
was
the actual gift, because they'd never seen such pretty paper and bows before.

My wife had sent an Ottawa Senators toque for Shamsallah and a Montreal Canadiens toque for Captain Ghias, and when I presented them their gifts, they got choked up. And even though it had been dropping to zero degrees at night, and was only ten above during the day, neither of them
ever
wore their toques. Not once. They didn't want to wreck them or get them dirty. The gifts were too precious.

Then we were stunned on Boxing Day when we were told “comms lockdown.” Our hearts sank as we waited to find out who had been killed. Late that night we were finally told it had been a 3 RCR battle group soldier named Private Freeman, who had been killed by an IED. Three other soldiers had been wounded in the same attack.

I was beginning to feel very numb again. Our morale was doing a lot better and now, after this, everyone seemed to feel numb and hollow all over again. Then the very next day we were shocked when we got put on another comms lockdown.

Everyone felt devastated. No one talked and everyone sort of kept to themselves until we were sent the names: Warrant Officer Roberge from the Royal 22nd Regiment and Sergeant Kruse from 2 Combat Engineer Regiment were hit in an IED strike and killed in action.

We had a punching bag set up in our tent of a thousand mortar holes, so I went and beat the hell out of it to try and get some anger out. It had seemed like every other day (or back-to-back days, like had just happened) we were being told a fellow soldier had been killed. And always by the fucking IEDs! It was maddening.

We took the next few days off for Christmas and then started patrolling again. The guys, always very mentally tough, were on the up and up, but the constant death notifications had taken a toll. Some of the guys had taken me up on my offer to talk, so I'd spoken with a few of them privately and together we'd tried to make some sense of it all.

One of them asked me if I thought all of the soldiers' deaths had been worth it. I said I didn't know. I told him I would never try and tell a fallen soldier's parents, or spouse, or children that it was worth it, but I
hoped
it was. The people living in Afghanistan just wanted peace. Their country had been wracked by so many wars, back to back, that a whole generation of children didn't know what the word
peace
meant. We were trying to help the Afghan government establish the necessary security to finally bring peace to their war-torn country, and that was an honourable thing.

Over the next few days, more guys approached me, and we had some good talks. I was honoured that the guys trusted me enough to talk openly with me. One of them, Pastel the medic, got my attention when he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Sir, you're going to die here.”
Holy crap, thanks a lot!

He paused and then continued. “What I mean is, you can't always be the
first
guy over the wall. You can't always be the first guy to kick down the door or go running into the compound. Sooner or later, your number will come up; it's a game of odds, statistically speaking, and you're probably
well
past due.”

I thought about what he had said for a bit and then replied, “I'll tell you something, Pesticular—I'm not a good officer. I know that, and I'll tell you why. A good officer has to be able to send his men to their deaths—from a distance—if the mission calls for it. And if any of you guys ever got hurt, well, that would destroy me. I don't think I'd be able to deal with it. So that's why I go first, because I would rather it was me, not you, who got hurt. Besides, you're just a pup—how old are you, fifteen? Where have you been, what have you really done? You don't even have any salt in your wispy beard! I'm an old man compared to you, and I've had a good go. And when it's my time, I'm a-goin'! It don't matter if I'm in the rear with the gear, or first man through the door. Sooner or later, God cuts us all down. And one place is just as good as the next.”

Then Pastel said something that I've never forgotten. He said, “If you were ever hurt, sir, we would come to get you. All of us. Because we know
you
would do the same for us.”

“Thanks, Pastel,” I said, trying not to show how much his words had gotten to me. “Now go on, get outta' here, before you make an old man cry.” That was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said to me. And because it was said in a war zone, where our friends and brothers were being hurt and killed, it was all the more powerful.

The weather turned foul and began to rain and rain, swamping our FOB in huge puddles. Mud was everywhere, and our legs constantly got stuck on patrols as our equipment made us sink in the muck up to our knees. The Canadians would struggle to pull each other out as the ANA laughed at us, but we didn't find it funny. It certainly wasn't helping our morale.

We did a few more patrols, and then out of nowhere, I was told by the warrant that Rich, my best friend, was inbound on a chopper.
What the hell? He's two weeks early?
Rich wasn't supposed to replace me until my leave came up in the middle of January. We had no idea he was even coming, so when we found out, the chopper was on final approach. Smith sprinted out to the helicopter landing site just in the nick of time to pop a smoke grenade in order to signal the chopper it was clear to land.

I got Shamsallah to pull up in a Ranger to help the “new guy” with his kit. The CF Chinook chopper landed and Rich and two soldiers I'd never seen before popped out of the back. I walked up to him and gave him a big smile, but he never smiled back. O
kay . . . what's wrong?

I looked at the two soldiers. They were a bit older than average
(warrant officers?)
and had a lot of gear in big army boxes with them. They were off to the side, waiting for something.
Are they the LCMR operators and that's their gear?

Rich took me by the arm and marched me off a ways as the Chinook took off, spitting up dust into the air. I looked at Rich's face; he was dead serious. No smiles, no banter, nothing. He didn't want to say anything until he was sure I could hear him—the chopper noise was too loud so he was waiting.
Oh no, has someone else died? Is someone in my family dead?

My mind was screaming with the possibilities. I couldn't take it anymore. “Rich, why are you here?” I shouted over the noise of the departing chopper, “What is it, what's the matter?” Dust kicked up all around us, and clung to our faces.

“Rob,” he shouted, and then paused as he looked at the two soldiers. “These guys are with the NIS, they're special military police. They're here to arrest you—for murder.”

Epilogue

I was placed under arrest by the two National Investigation Service military police officers and was told to read the charge: “Under Section 130 of the NDA, An offence punishable under section 130 of the National Defence Act, that is to say, second degree murder, contrary to subsection 235(1) of the Criminal Code of Canada. Particulars: In that he, on or about the 19
th
of October, 2008, at or near Helmand Province, Afghanistan, shot, with intent to kill, an unnamed male person.”

I couldn't possibly have imagined that after the four months I'd just spent in the Stan my life could have become any more bizarre, scary, or surreal—but I was wrong. The Afghanistan chapter came to an abrupt end, and then my life as an accused murderer began for me and my family.

I was rushed back home to Canada, under arrest, and I saw my wife and new baby girl again for the first time in four months in the CFB Petawawa military jail. It was a heartbreaking reunion. Of course we were grateful I was still alive, when so many of our soldiers had only come home from that place in coffins, but the reunion was tempered by the fear of me being ripped away from them and sent to a federal prison for the next twenty years of my life.

But Amélie remained unbelievably strong and brave throughout the entire ordeal. She was the rock that kept me grounded, and when I thought I would lose my mind over the surreality of it all, or was close to collapsing in fear, she would pick me up again and tell me everything was going to be okay. Her strength was unheard of.

My brother and his wife, my parents and mother-in-law, and Amélie's brother and his family helped us in more ways than anyone could ever imagine, and we were grateful for their love and undying support.

Then I began to receive cards and letters and notes and telephone calls from men and women from all over Canada. They wanted to wish me well and to let me know they were behind me and supporting me all the way. I was incredibly moved and wrote back to everyone who had a return address on their envelope to tell them thank you. I started to get e-mails from serving members in the Canadian Forces from all over the world, telling me to keep my chin up and to let me know they were behind me; and under the leadership of our new CO, my unit became incredibly supportive of me. An old friend of mine teamed up with an officer I had served with, and together they created a Facebook page dedicated to “Captain Semrau.” I was deeply moved by the continual outpouring of support.

I was given the job of acting operations officer of 3 RCR, my old unit, after I was conditionally released from jail, and immediately men who were having issues from the war came to talk to me in my office. I was startled to realize that many of our soldiers were deeply affected by their time in Afghanistan, and before, during, and after my trial, I made it my mission to try and get them the help they so desperately needed. But the CF's system for diagnosing and treating them was taxed to the limit, and many times they were forced to go to civilian hospitals to see someone who could help them.

The General Court Martial for Captain Robert Semrau began on January 24, 2010, with pretrial motions, and after they were heard and the judge excused himself from the proceedings for personal reasons, the trial began on March twenty-fourth. The prosecutors had added to the charge sheet attempted murder, conduct unbecoming an officer, and failure to perform a military duty. The panel that would decide my fate was made up of five officers, none of whom (as far as any of us knew anyway) had ever seen or faced anything even remotely close to the tour I'd just experienced. My lawyers submitted an application to have non-commissioned members (NCOs) as part of the panel, but that was a decision that would have to be made by another court system, and at a later time.

I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that I was being gainfully employed, investigated, prosecuted,
and
defended by the same organization—the Department of National Defence. I was assigned a Canadian Forces defence lawyer, and his boss soon joined our team. They were incredibly smart, switched-on, and, like master chess players, always ten moves ahead.

Amélie told us we had to carry on with our lives and try and keep them as normal as possible, for the sake of our daughter, but also for ourselves. And she was right. We decided to carry on with our original plan of trying to have another child, determined not to let circumstances, no matter how extreme, dictate what we could or couldn't do.

So as the court martial was nearing its end in Canada and we were about to go to Afghanistan to hold a portion of the trial there, I was allowed two days off to be with Amélie as she gave birth to our second daughter, Chloé. After I held our beautiful baby girl for a few minutes, I had to go and hide in the bathroom to cry tears of pure joy. And as always, I had to struggle with the unrelenting fear of being taken away from my family.

I had to push the fear into a dark corner in the back of my mind. So I became very good at compartmentalization, a trick I had learned in school, because without it, I would have surely lost my mind. I would think of going to jail for the next twenty years, acknowledge my fear, and then put it on the back burner. But I firmly believed if God could take care of me in the Stan, then God could take care of me during a murder trial. As I drove to my court martial, I would think about how I was once again in a surreal and seemingly chaotic situation, just like I'd been in the war. I was, however, grateful to be home with my family and I thanked God that I lived in a country where I didn't have to fear IEDs as I travelled the roads, or see extreme hardship, poverty, and suffering everywhere I went.

A week after my second daughter's birth, I had to go back to Afghanistan for the court martial. I had the dubious distinction of being the first CF officer charged with a battlefield murder and the subject of the first murder trial to be held in an active theatre of operations.

Once again, I was back in the Stan, but this time I was solely in KAF, and it was terrible. Again, the heat, the stink, the dust—it all came back to me the second the ramp lowered on the Herc. I'd been here twice before, but not like this, and my “third tour” was definitely the scariest. At least in combat, I could act and react, but in court, I couldn't jump to my feet and shout, “That's a damn lie!” I had to just sit there and not allow myself to become angry, or sad, or scared, or seem overly interested or disinterested by what someone on the stand was saying. For seven months of court, I had to just sit there and take it.

One day, we all took cover under the tables as KAF was rocketed, and although I doubted if anyone needed it, the rockets served as a very poignant reminder for everyone there. Thankfully, no one was hurt.

One night, the entire court martial attended the repatriation ramp ceremony for one of our fallen soldiers, and this was incredibly difficult and terribly sad for me. I broke ranks to help a poor sergeant who had collapsed in grief back to her feet.

Everyone waited to see if I was going to take the stand when the prosecution finished their case in Afghanistan, but my defence team and I decided against it. We returned to Canada, now with only four panel members because one had become ill, and the panel rendered its decision to the court martial on July twenty-sixth. The four-member panel found me not guilty of second-degree murder, not guilty of attempted murder,
guilty
of conduct unbecoming an officer, and not guilty of failure to perform a military duty. Three current serving members of the CF put their careers on the line and testified to my character, for which I remain very grateful. The judge then told me I would find out my fate on September ninth. That date was then moved to September eleventh, then September twenty-first, then October fifth. Two new lawyers joined the team and I was grateful for their hard work and professionalism. I know that they made a difference, as did everyone in the defence council services office who worked on my case at one point or another.

I lived under the shadow of getting taken away from my family for almost three months (the charge I was found guilty of could carry a five-year sentence in jail), from the time I was convicted to the day I was sentenced. But my wife and daughters, family, good friends (in and out of the military), and the lawyers appointed to me by the CF saw me through it, right until the end, when on October fifth the judge sentenced me to dismissal from the CF and demotion in rank to second lieutenant. Obviously I was hoping I could still continue to serve my country, but I was grateful to not be going to jail for the next twenty years, when that had been one of the options the panel members could've chosen.

Then the CF (being the big green machine that it is) took four months to put my discharge papers through, but I was happy to still be getting paid, all things considered. I used the remaining months to try my best to help the soldiers I knew were suffering from the effects of the war, and I'd like to think I was there for them, making phone calls and turning up in person to try and get them help faster. I did what I could, but it never felt like it was enough. Every other day it seemed that someone would walk up to me and tell me about their terrible experiences in the war. The system that was in place couldn't see them fast enough and there was only one psychologist for the whole base, so the soldiers, many of whom were really suffering, would have to wait for very long periods before they could even be seen by the psychologist.

Looking back on it all now, with hindsight and more clarity than I had at the time, I am amazed that I survived with any shred of sanity. Big Joe, the warrant from FOB Mushan who saved my life the day of the mortar attack, worked for me later on when we were both back at 3 RCR. He walked into my office one day and said, “Sir, I don't know how you do it. If I were you, I would've killed myself a long time ago or become an alcoholic.” I think a lot of people shared his sentiment.

But self-pity and despair were never options for me, because my wife and daughters were counting on me, and I wasn't about to fail them.

January 7, 2011, was my last day in the Canadian Forces, and it broke my heart to be kicked out. I knew then, as I do now, that the CF is made up of the best men and women that Canada has to offer, and I am incredibly proud to say there was a time when I was in charge of its soldiers.