The Taliban Don't Wave (6 page)

“Grab your guys and your gear and let's get out of here,” he said while looking at his watch. “We want to get the hell out of Dodge before ‘coward hour.'” That was the designated time for everyone to strap on their body armour and don their helmet; the time of day Timothy was most likely to commence rocketing and mortaring Masum Ghar. “Kit up and I'll meet you and my guys at the RGs in fifteen mikes [minutes],” he said over his shoulder.

“Okay, thanks,” I said and made my way to the Batcave, careful this time not to stove my head in again on the low ceiling.

“Mind your head, new guy!” the warrant said behind me.

“Yeah, got it, thanks.” We walked into the Batcave, grabbed some water, and found the movie room. Up on a high shelf was a big flat-screen TV showing Mel Gibson's
Braveheart
, always a favourite amongst soldiers. My good friend Marc, a fellow Canadian whom I'd left in the Paras and who subsequently went on to join the Brit special forces, could quote every single line from the movie. It was actually sort of disturbing to hear him do it.

“Pack up your shiz-nit, boys,” I said. “We're off to Sper in ten mikes.” Fourneau and Hetsa groaned, grudgingly got up, and walked past me, clearly upset to be taken from their movie. “Calling all men of Union!” I said, slapping them on the backs. “Enlist now, and together we'll whip the Secesh!”

We gathered our kit and our two green army boxes, and clambered down to the car park. We found a bunch of soldiers quickly moving around the RGs and making sure their kit was strapped down tightly to the sides of the vehicles.

The RG-31 first entered service in the CF back in 2006. The vehicle was originally thought up and designed by the South Africans, after they'd armoured up a bunch of buses to get their kids to school without getting blown up by IEDs. Someone took the original idea and applied it to the current war and, voila, the RG-31 was born. It was twelve feet high, nineteen feet long, and seven-and-a-half feet wide; and to counter the IED threat, it had almost three feet of ground clearance. The bottom of the vehicle was shaped like a boat, with a V-design meant to funnel an IED blast up and around the vehicle instead of into the passenger seats. So far, by most accounts, it had been doing very well. I went up to a sergeant and asked if these RGs were part of the convoy heading to Sperwhan.

“They
are
the convoy,” he said incredulously, looking me over. “We don't have tanks or LAVs [light armoured vehicles] to spare for escort duty! Hurry up and get your boxes strapped to the outside of them; use the bungees and rope already there, and then split yourselves up and get inside. Save the front seats for the
outgoing
OMLT guys.” He quickly turned his attention to a young private, whom he started jacking up because his .50-cal (calibre) gun wasn't made ready yet.

I took his comments on the chin and didn't let his tone get to me. He couldn't see my rank, with my flak vest and tac (tactical) vest covering my chest insignia, and besides, I knew everyone there was getting short, meaning their tour was almost up.
Everyone just wants to finish their tour and get home.

I passed on his instructions to my team, then we each picked an RG we felt would be the lucky one—the one that didn't get blown up on the way to our new base. We paired up and passed each other the green army boxes that held all of our earthly belongings and got them strapped to the truck, no easy feat considering its sides were twelve feet high. I reminded Fourneau to be extra careful with my box since it held all of my fine officer's china and silverware.

At the same time, I silently cursed Don and Jean, my beloved parents, for not letting me go to ninja camp in Japan every summer during grade school. “If you can pay for it, you can go,” was their favourite comeback to my ceaseless requests. Because of their penny-pinching, I was forced to start my ninja training in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and that was only once I reached university. Far too late! I had needed to start my ninja mind tricks and phasing-between-walls training when I was a young child, before my medulla oblongata had fully formed.
Damn it, I can't even levitate yet!

We “cleared customs” and slowly made our way through the concrete barriers that formed a serpentine path at the main gate, then quickly passed into the town.

I got my first good look at the Masum Ghar bazaar, the centre point for all of the villagers. As with most villages in Afghanistan, the beef and lamb shanks hung out in the air on hooks, directly in the hot sun, flies buzzing all around them. Children ran through the streets; shop vendors sold their wares under tattered awnings, trying to avoid the worst of the sun and heat but to no avail. Men haggled over prices, shouting at each other as though whoever was the loudest would automatically win the argument. It was business as usual at the busy market.

The male civilians were mostly wearing “man-jammies” by the looks of it; a long, loose-fitting tunic that flowed down to their knees, with sandals covering their feet. The men had on a variety of hats; some wore tight turbans, others wore knitted skullcaps. We could easily identify the women in the market, wearing their long burkas or ghost gowns, most in some shade of blue. They were covered from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes.

We travelled west down Route Kelowna, passed an Afghan outpost called OP Mosque, then continued toward Sperwhan. I saw a small Afghan base—I guessed it was OP Brown—nestled on top of Route Brown. It looked like it had managed to survive only by the good graces of Timothy looking the other way.

Canadians had nicknamed the Taliban “ Timmy” long before we ever arrived, and the name had stuck. “Timmy shot at us yesterday,” or “Timmy tried to blow up our tank,” and so on. I found the name a little too cutesy for an enemy who could be incredibly cunning and devious. To me, Timmy sounded too much like a freckle-faced, red-headed kid from down the block who drove your dad nuts because he liked to ride his bike over your lawn. No, for me, Timmy wouldn't do. So I went with “Timothy.” Like the Vietnam vets had their “Charlie,” I would have Timothy to contend with. And after I had spread the name around, I found out later it had really caught on and made its way up to some pretty high-up circles.

We swung south onto the start of Route Brown. This was the road that Major Speers had told me about, the single lane road connecting Sperwhan Ghar with Route Kelowna, coincidentally travelling over three culverts that regularly had some nice IED Kinder Surprises buried in them.

I looked out the window to the front and caught my first glimpse of Strong Point Sperwhan Ghar. It was a base situated around a very high man-made hill, and it clearly had excellent over-watch for kilometres in every direction. I was told later it had originally been built by the British some years back (many villagers and farmers, years later, were still trying to get money over land disputes because the base had been built on their farmland) and it was now occupied solely by Canadians.

We had a full company of mechanized infantry stationed there: a section of engineers and snipers, some intelligence (int) types, loggies (logistics), sigs (signals), at least four 155mm howitzer cannons with some mortars thrown in for fun, and a full-time doctor and medical team. Also, there was an American civilian from Florida and his bomb-sniffing dog. They went out on patrols and were on call twenty-four/seven. All in all, not a bad little outpost stuck in the middle of bandit country. It was currently owned and operated by the PPCLI battle group, but the battle group I would be working with, Task Force 3-08, would be taking over in the next couple of weeks. So far, the base had never been overrun, but the barbarians had definitely turned up at the gates from time to time.

“Sperwhan Ghar,” the vehicle commander said. “Welcome to the Suck!”

Chapter 3

We passed through the concrete serpentine barriers and went by a wooden two-storey watchtower next to the barbed-wire emplacements by the gate. I could see two very disinterested Afghan National Army soldiers pulling back the wire to let us through and an equally bored Canadian watching us from the tower.

We slowly climbed up a twenty-metre slope until we were on a long plateau, now facing to the east. I could see several long, low concrete buildings, which I assumed were barracks for the Afghans, and a few sandbag emplacements dug into the hill along the sides of the road, facing back toward the west. That was the general direction most of the attacks had come from. Immediately off to the left, I could see two large Russian howitzer cannons, D-30s, nestled up close to a couple of the concrete buildings.

Our RG convoy again came to a dust-shrouded halt and our vehicles began quickly disgorging passengers. I clicked my voice pressel, or button, on the radio and thanked the RG crew for the lift.

“You can thank us by getting the fuck out! We gotta get goin'!” the commander snapped.
Fair enough.

I got out and climbed up the side of the vehicle and grabbed my boxes, then carefully handed them down to Fourneau. I found his and passed them down to him; there was no point in both of us risking our necks. Everyone quickly stripped their boxes off the sides of the RGs. Clearly the RG convoy was manned by reverse vampires who had to get back to Masum before dusk. As it said in the American Ranger handbook, that's when the French and Indians liked to attack during colonial times; apparently Timothy had read the manual, took it to heart, and put the fear of God back into these soldiers.

I found the Wizard and Hetsa “the dirty Hungo” lugging their boxes in our general direction as several Afghan soldiers came out of their barracks to check out the newbies. Stephens walked up to us and said, “Welcome to your new home. We've left it in good shape for you, besides a few rocket holes, mortar holes, RPG [rocket-propelled grenade] holes—well, you know.”

“Thanks for having us,” I said with a smug grin. “It's a real pleasure to be here.” I looked around and soaked up my new environs. Immediately to my front there were four more of those barracks-looking buildings, and another five or six farther down the road. The a/c in the RGs had done a good job; I'd forgotten for a few minutes how hot it was outside. My shirt started to get slick with sweat. Lugging two forty-pound boxes didn't help. Thankfully, I'd been on Op Massive, my PT (physical training) regimen for the last twenty years, to get ready for this moment.

“
Ah salaam ah'laikum
.” I said the traditional Muslim greeting to some Afghans who were watching us.

“
Wa ah'laikum salaam
,” several replied, in perfect unison.

Stephens led us past some ANA barracks and over to our building, right across from the OMLT HQ, where he and his boys hung their cowboy hats. We would be in a makeshift storage room until his crew moved out of their much nicer accommodation in a couple of days. Until then, we had a single large silver fan to keep us cool. No windows, no a/c. I had stayed in worse places, and so had the warrant, but judging by the looks on Fourneau's and Hetsa's faces, they were disappointed by our new digs.
It'll be good for 'em. Put some hair on their chests!

We dumped our kit and then walked over to meet the outgoing OMLT team. I knocked loudly on their door and heard a “C'mon in,” so we walked inside and immediately felt the nice cool air from their air conditioners on the walls going full blast.

“Hey guys,” Stephens said, “let me introduce you to my band of killers.” One guy was shirtless, cleaning his C9 (Minimi light machine gun) over at a table, and another guy who seemed quite a bit older was working on a computer. Stephens's youngest team member was playing an Xbox game in a comfy chair over by the TV. “This is Mike, Chris, and Joe,” he said. They came over and we all shook hands.

“RCR in the Stan!” Chris said, “You guys'll have a hard time killing the Taliban, what with your daily show parades and fancy drill sessions on the main square three times a day!”
Ah yes . . . our reputation for immaculate parades precedes us.

“Five times a day,” I quickly replied. “But the Regimental Sergeant Major said we can cut them back to two, if we work extra hard to clean up your guys' mess and finally win the damn war!” I finished shaking hands and said, “We've heard that the PPCLI has cocked this little sweep-and-clear operation right up, so we're here to put things straight with our boot bands, spit, polish, and sharp drill! By the way, I like the OMLT fish hook on your door—I take it you guys have been used as bait a few times for Timmy?”

“Hmm,” Stephens mused, “you could say that. I'll show you later, but I've got a set of orders from a battle group operation that states, ‘OMLT will patrol forward with the ANA until they come under contact, then manoeuvre until the battle group can take over.' Nice, eh? ” His team wasn't laughing. Clearly this had been the battle group's SOP a couple of times too many for the OMLT's liking.

Seven Two Alpha broke off to mingle with their opposite numbers as my counterpart showed me around the building. They had a pretty good set-up. Encrypted work computers in the corner; an entertainment centre; a bunch of bunk beds in the back, with Hessian sack hanging over them for privacy.

Stephens then took me outside for the full tour of Sperwhan. We walked past several rows of ANA buildings, including their kitchens and ablutions building. Whenever we passed any Afghan soldiers and said
ah salaam ah'laikum
, they would stop whatever they were doing to say hi back.

I looked at Stephens's travelling hobo look and asked, “Hey, what's with you guys with your shirts untucked and not wearing your trouser pants tucked into boot bands? We'd catch major flack if we tried that!”

“Screw that,” he said, “We're OMLT. We dress to kill! Do you really think we have to follow the stupid battle group's dress code? To hell with that! Keeping your pants tucked into boot bands isn't going to win this war!”

“Brother,” I said solemnly, “right now, you're facing the choir and preaching your sermon to the converted and the perverted. You need to do a one-eighty, and face the heathen in the pews! I'm already a believer, baby!” Finally, someone understood that boot bands weren't Canada's secret weapon that would win the war in eight weeks. I was always so hot anyway, the last thing I needed was to trap heat in my pants. I needed to vent, damn it!

I saw the Canadian artillery howitzers, or “boom-sticks” as I liked to call them, in the southeast corner and hoped I wouldn't need to use them. Then we walked by the showers and ablutions tent, where I was told we could shower once a day, for exactly one minute. The water for the showers was in huge bladders outside the tent, being heated by the sun. Stephens told me the gym was on the far north side, and as far as gyms in war zones went, it supposedly wasn't half bad. Some engineers had a shack attached to the main building, which contained the battle group soldiers' and officers' living quarters, as well as the HQ.

I tried to forget about my sticky armpits and the sweat dripping off my forehead and pointed out another building with a hand-washing station next to it. “I take it that must be the kitchen.”

“Yep. Breakfast is zero-six hundred to zero-eight hundred hours, hot food and cereal. Lunch is cold food, sandwiches and subs, stuff like that. Supper is hot again, from sixteen-thirty to eighteen-thirty hours. Hand washing is obligatory.”

“Do we have a hand-washing Nazi stationed here?” I asked.

“Yeah, sometimes, when the officers catch the men not using the stations, some numpty gets posted on Nazi duty. Over there you see an old-school hand pump for water. The ANA are allowed to take purified water from here, but they steal it at all times of the day and night, and they use up everyone's share, so every now and then we have to cut them off and force them to use the hand pump. They play the game until we give them our water, and then they do it all over again. It's never-ending.”

He then led us into the HQ building and went over to a fridge by the door to grab us some Freezies. I looked inside a room to see how the battle group lived. They had large rooms with double bunk beds, and it seemed comfortable enough. Their weapons were left outside their rooms, along with their body armour and tac vests, which were placed on rows of wooden “t”s that looked like small crucifixes to dry out their gear after patrols.

Stephens continued to the end of the hall and knocked on the briefing-room door. We walked inside, and he looked over at one of the guys and said, “Sir, this is Captain Semrau, the RCR OMLT captain who'll be replacing me. He and his three guys just got in this afternoon.” Stephens stepped aside so I could shake hands with the OC, the “officer commanding” Sperwhan Ghar.

“Hello,” he said, not bothering to extend his hand, and barely looking up from the papers on the large map table in front of him. He was about my height, around five ten, but of slight frame, with a sort of distracted look about him. Clearly he was too busy to worry about being polite, but I supposed not everybody made it to the lofty height of major in the Canadian Forces because he won the Good Joe of the month award back in basic training.

“Hello sir,” I said, extending my hand. He looked at me and then slowly walked over so we could shake hands.
Holy crap,
I'm not going to rob you!

“Hello,” was all he could muster, again. An awkward silence filled the briefing room.
Was I supposed to say something? Wasn't it his job to say, “Welcome aboard, blah, blah, blah?”

I walked over and introduced myself to his company sergeant major (CSM), who kindly asked if we needed anything from a PX back in KAF. He was going on a convoy run and offered to bring us back some gear. I knew that Hetsa, Fourneau, and I all wanted an American-style day sack with a CamelBak water carrier inside of it, so I gave him some money that I'd already collected from the boys and told the CSM thanks a lot.

“No problem, sir. My room's just across the hall; come and get me—day or night—if you need anything or got any questions.”

“Great, thanks.” I looked at the OC and said, “Goodbye, sir,” as I walked past him toward the exit. He didn't respond. As the door closed behind us, Stephens clapped me on the back. “Well, that went well!” he said, smiling away.

“Oh, didn't you know? I'm the guy who wrote that Pulitzer Prize–winning novel entitled
I'm OK, You're an Idiot.
Everywhere I go, Stephens, I make friends and influence people to my way of thinking through the often-neglected consensus approach.”

“Apparently,” he laughed. “But I wouldn't worry about your
all-important
first meeting with the new OC too much.”

“Well, I was a private once upon a time with the Brits, and I was like every other enlisted guy in the army: I developed a pretty good BS detector, and sussed out pretty quick who's going to come and help me when I'm wounded in open ground, and who's going to sit there and watch me bleed out!”

He then explained in detail how the snipers on top of the hill had repeatedly requested the authorization to fire on insurgents who were planting IEDs on Route Brown, but they were apparently denied permission by the major. It was a serious, ongoing issue, with no clear end in sight.

We walked back to our shacks where the warrants were already working on their handover. As the newbs, we had a lot of kit to sign for: the vehicle, all the heavy weapons, the shoulder-fired LAW (light anti-armour weapon) rockets, the ammunition, maps, computers, television . . . the list was nearly endless.

Stephens invited us to go outside the wire with them the next morning for our first handover patrol, and after establishing the times and particulars, I went back to my shack. Although it wasn't much, it was still a lot more comfortable than I was expecting. My first time in Afghanistan, we lived in a bombed-out school with no running water or kitchen, so my new accommodation was a major step up. Even if it didn't have a/c, we still had two hot meals a day and a shower, and a soldier couldn't put a price tag on that kind of luxury.

I opened the door and walked over to Fourneau and Hetsa, who were leaning over something in the open area of our new barracks.

“Look what I scrounged from the snipers, sir,” Hetsa said, his face beaming in a toothy grin. He held up a large can of spray paint.

“What've you got there, sailor?” I asked as I came up to the kit they'd put on top of some milk crates. They had their personal weapons spread out next to all of their magazines. It looked like all of their mags had been debombed (the rounds taken out of them). Clearly I had interrupted them before they could spray-paint their kit. All of it. I could see a certain someone in our four-man team, the oldest and by far the saltiest member of our little band of brothers, losing his mother-lovin' mind over this!

“Boys . . . um . . . it looks like you've got some good old-fashioned Christian fun planned here, but . . .”

“What do you mean, sir, by
Christian
fun?” Hetsa interrupted.

“You know, Christian fun . . . the kind of fun where nobody gets hurt or pregnant. But I gotta ask ya—does the good warrant know we're about to spray-paint our kit? I mean, all of it? Because I can see him losing his nut over this! And I take it you've at least found some shade of khaki brown?” I didn't want to ruin their fun, but this was exactly the sort of thing a warrant would lose his mind over. It really did look like fun though.
I wonder. . . .

“Yeah, it's khaki brown, sir. The snipers gave it to me; they said it won't last too long, it's not permanent or anything. And the warrant was there when we got it. He said it's fine, just don't overdo it.”

“You said, ‘
we're
about to spray-paint' and ‘
our
kit,' sir. Does that mean you're going to join us?” Fourneau asked with a hopeful gleam in his eye.