The Taliban Don't Wave (22 page)

Ali asked me if he could shoot and I said, “Why not?” and watched him closely as he shot off the rest of my magazine. I took it back and Ali wandered off somewhere as I put my rifle on full auto, and began putting mag after mag downrange, when I felt Ali's hands stuffing something into my drop bag (which was usually reserved for empty rifle magazines). When I asked him what he was doing, he told me he'd found some corn, so he was shoving it into my drop bag (which he felt was perfect for the task) so we could have a good ol' corn roast that night. I told him that was called stealing, and from the
very
farmer we were trying to protect, but he assured me it wasn't stealing if we
actually
ate what we took. PKM rounds, RPGs, C8s and C9s on full auto, M203 grenades firing: it was pure unadulterated madness! Thousands of rounds and dozens of rockets turned the poor farmer's field into the mother of all firefights!

Then, to make matters worse, the Brits to our south decided to get in on the fun and started firing their vehicle mounted .50-cals, GPMG machine guns, and a 40mm automatic grenade launcher. All this for one guy who had long since fled to Karachi!

I started shouting for everyone to stop when we heard a massive KA-WHOOSH!

We looked south to see an $80,000 Javelin anti-tank missile soar high into the sky, and then come screaming back down to earth. BOOM!

A deafening explosion reverberated across the grape field as the missile found its target—the poor, defenceless farmer's hut. Dust kicked up into the air and formed a small mushroom cloud over the hut as a shattered wheelbarrow performed lazy cartwheels in the sky.

Now I am become Death, the destroyer of . . . wheelbarrows.

The billowing mushroom cloud finally signalled everyone to draw our little firefight to a close, and soon some of us were shaking our heads as others were doubled up laughing.
How freaking ridiculous had that been?

After the dust had settled and I had made sure the Brits weren't going to kill us, I led the OMLT team and some ANA over to the hut to see if we'd gotten the lone gunman. No blood, no tattered weapon shot out of his arms, just a single sandal abandoned on his flight to safer pastures. When we returned to the compound, we found out that Aziz had let all of the Taliban suspects go. When I asked him why, he merely shrugged and said, “They did not look like Taliban,” and then walked away.

Of course, we were extremely frustrated, but what could we do? That was just how the ANA operated. To take the FAMs into custody would've involved work on Lieutenant Aziz's part.

I got Ali to apologize to the old village elder for putting a massive hole in his hut wall, and asked him to please address his damaged property issue at the next
shura.
I assured him the coalition would pay for the damages. He thanked us and was very glad to see us leave.

That night we dined on roasted
stolen
corn, lovingly prepared by Ali, and he was right: it
was
delicious. We raised our mugs and toasted the bravery of the lone gunman and hoped he'd find a matching sandal in his local bazaar, probably back in Peshawar.

We did a few more patrols as part of Operation Array, but after that firefight, everything seemed pretty tame in comparison. The ANA had eaten their British halal 72-hour ration boxes in the first six hours of the operation, so they had officially run out of food. We patrolled back into Fathollah to try and get a shop vendor to open up for us when Aziz “recognized” a Taliban safe house.

Aziz had two soldiers adept in the ways of the ninja, so they quickly hopped the compound wall and let the ANA in to find some rice. I told Aziz I knew perfectly well what was really going on, but he became indignant and denied any wrongdoing. Then he cooked up a doozy and told me he'd just received an int hit from the NDS (Afghanistan's National Directorate of Security), notifying him about the Taliban safe house. Coincidentally enough, we didn't find any weapons or IEDs, just two huge sacks of rice.
Hmm, fancy that.
I put it down in my report, but nothing ever came of it.

That afternoon the Royal Marines had another Neil Diamond on a .50-cal, and this time they almost took off the top of some guy's head. I saw the poor bastard later; he was still pallid, terribly shaken up,
and
deaf in one ear. Again, I shared my Aspirin with him.

Finally it was time to bring the flying circus to a close, so we began to re-org our gear and get everything strapped onto our RG, when a high-explosive shell screamed into the ground about thirty metres outside of our leaguer. It was close enough to scare the living hell out of us, as shrapnel whistled over our heads. I ordered everyone inside our tin can and started doing some quick mental math. I then transposed it over my map, and realized it was probably a Canadian who had fired the round. It wasn't artillery, and it wasn't a mortar or rocket round, so that left a
tank
as the culprit. Everyone was madly running for hard cover as I dismounted and sprinted over to the Canadian LO. I told him to get on the net and ask the Canadians just to our south if they'd fired on anyone recently, as they were departing
their
leaguer.

They came back with, “Yeah, we just fired on a spotter. He was dicking us by talking on his phone, so we turned him into a red mist with a tank shell.” I then politely informed the LO to make sure, in the future, that everyone in the battle group did what every kid who's given a BB gun has to do before he shoots: namely, think about
target and beyond.
The tank had turned the Taliban
target
into a red, gooey paste, but we were
beyond!
The LO gave them our ten-figure grid and thankfully there were no more close calls.

And as though that week hadn't been fun enough, on the ride back we were told to keep our eyes peeled for an Afghan National Police (ANP) truck that had just been stolen and was now being driven by a Taliban suicide bomber who had a thousand pounds of homemade explosives in the back of his cab.
Nice. Couldn't just be a simple drive home, could it?

After half an hour we saw an ANP truck matching the description, perpendicular to our convoy, just watching all of us as we passed. If it was Timothy, he changed his mind when every single coalition weapon on a mount, swivel, or turret spun around and pointed straight at him, tracking him as they passed. He knew if he so much as revved his engine, that would've been it for him.

Back in Masum Ghar after the operation, Rich told me that when our TIC got started with the lone gunman in the north, everyone on the Nakahonay op in the south got “stood to,” which meant they were told to get kitted up and ready to come and save us. Because they were so far away, they couldn't tell if all of the shooting was incoming or outgoing fire—it had all rolled into one massive noise and sounded like the world's biggest TIC. When the guys to our south heard the Brits start firing anti-tank missiles, they knew things had gone terribly Pete Tong wrong for us, so they didn't even wait for our distress call, they were going to mount up and come to rescue us!
Damn good of 'em,
I thought to myself.

“How many Taliban were you up against?” Rich asked. “It sounded like Armageddon had kicked off up there!”

“One guy,” I said, with my best poker face.

“One guy? All of that, for
one
guy?”

“Well, he looked really mean, and he had this stick—with a nail in it—so, uh . . .” I started laughing.
Yes, all of that—for one guy.

It was time for us to go so we said goodbye to our friends at Masum and mounted up. The trip back to Sperwhan was delightfully uneventful. We had a quick hot wash (after-action review) where I asked for any points or comments and, after that surreal week, the guys had plenty of things to add to my report.

After we were done debriefing, I took Fourneau with me for a walk and apologized for accidentally reading a letter he had been writing in his field message pad. I had opened up what I thought was my FMP, but turned out to be his.

But I told him I
had
read part of it, and I wanted to talk to him about it. He said everything he had written was true—he hated the place, and he desperately wanted to go back home. He asked if I'd made any progress on getting him placed somewhere else, and I told him the truth. When I'd mentioned to Warrant Longview about moving Fourneau to the artillery OMLT and bringing Ginge or Swede (Captain Brannon's two fit and switched-on infantrymen from 1 RCR who got roped into helping with the OMLT artillery) over to replace him, the angry father had lost his mind, and he and I had a good back and forth over Fourneau.

In decisions like these, Longview had just as much say as I did, and his position was that we could never just swap Fourneau out for someone else—it was terrible for everyone's morale. “Even if they don't want to be in the infantry OMLT anymore?” I asked him, and Longview said, “He signed up; he made his choice.” I then explained to Longview how Fourneau had “pulled the chute” and no longer wanted to be on our team. Longview basically said it was too late, and that was that. I told him I disagreed, and had already talked to the OMLT company sergeant major and Captain Sean about it, and they were looking into the matter and trying to find the best option for everyone. Longview wasn't happy with me, but we agreed to disagree. I'm sure he thought I was meddling in his senior NCO business, but I had seen this type of thing before and thought Fourneau was on a slippery slope; one that could ultimately see him shooting himself to get off the tour. It wouldn't be the first time it had ever happened.

Fourneau looked very downtrodden when he learned that our plan had been kiboshed, and I started to wonder if maybe the warrant was right. In certain things, I wasn't even supposed to be getting involved—that was for the warrant to take care of. But this was sort of a grey area, where we shared equal amounts of responsibility. But I felt bad for Fourneau; he was a good guy, and I knew he was having a very hard time on the tour. I told him I would keep trying, and reminded him that he could talk to me anytime.

The next morning, Ali told me he had received permission to go to a wedding near Kabul, but I knew right then and there I would never see him again. He assured me he would come back, but sadly I was correct—he never returned. He was one of the best terps I'd ever worked with, and even though I was angry, I couldn't say I blamed him. I would've liked to have gone to a wedding and never come back, too.

His replacement from the battle group pool of terps, a young guy named Max, could barely speak English.

Chapter 12

After a few days off, we got told to prep for a major operation in Helmand Province, over to the west of Kandahar Province. Helmand was in the British AO and they had their own OMLT, just like us, so we weren't exactly sure why we were going.

I spoke to Captain Shafiq Ullah, who told me that about forty ANA soldiers were on a bus going home on leave when they were forced to pull over at an illegal vehicle checkpoint and then were kidnapped en masse by the Taliban. We were joining the ANA on a hostage rescue mission.
God help the hostages—and us!

We packed up and joined a battle group convoy under Major Obermann heading to Masum. Once we got there, thankfully without incident, I was gobsmacked when I realized we'd forgotten our new terp, Max. I told Major Hobbles, who just stared at me when I related the news. I accepted full responsibility, and he told me to quickly go and grab another terp from the pool of OMLT interpreters at Masum. Froggy, the interpreters' boss, recommended another terp, also named Max.

Sean and the major collected int throughout the day and it was decided we would travel with our ANA early the next morning to Helmand. Rich and I hung out and wondered what we were getting ourselves into. Usually with an operation like this, weeks of planning were put into it, but we guessed if it really did turn out to be a rescue operation, time wasn't on the side of the ANA hostages.

Later that night, we were told the plan had now changed: it was no longer a rescue op (apparently our operations guys had fallen victim to “the whispers game”: there were no hostages, and nobody had been kidnapped off of a bus!). Instead we'd be taking the full complement of First and Third ANA companies—along with OMLT call signs 72A and 72C, and an HQ element made up of the major, the CSM, a medic, a FOO/FAC (forward observation officer/forward air controller), plus a few signallers—to Helmand to conduct an operation to relieve the besieged provincial capital of Lashka Ghar from Taliban forces who had been firing on it almost daily. We were told there were hundreds of Taliban just across the river from the capital, and for once they were going to make a stand and fight it out with us.

We hatted up and headed out early the next morning with three RGs from the security force (sec-for) group out of KAF. They were fearless men under an excellent captain named Ross, whose sole purpose in the Stan was to do convoy protection and VIP close protection throughout Kandahar. That meant they were in RGs and on the roads all of the time, constantly risking IEDs. We all admired their sand. It wasn't a job any sane man would want!

We muckled onto our ANA, and our six-RG convoy and thirty ANA vehicles rolled out the gate of Masum, surprisingly on time. En route, Ross's rucksack fell off his RG next to a small ANP outpost and, before he could dismount to grab it, it had been scooped up and taken inside their base. Major Hobbles said we'd try and get it back on our return trip.

We got a flat tire, quickly repaired it, and after a full day's driving, we rolled into a British base in Helmand province called FOB Tombstone, surprisingly on time and thankfully in one piece. We spent the night, and the next morning Stamps (Rich's driver) and I were ordered by Hobbles to do an interview with an American marine who worked for the US military's
Stars and Stripes
newspaper. The marine, who actually had a video cameraman with him, forced us to do retake after retake until he finally got the positive feel piece he was after. Afterwards, we all mounted up and drove to an RV point outside of Lashka Ghar (Lash).

At the RV point, we debated whether or not to remove our tall radio antennas off of the top of our RGs, but the Brits were on time for the RV, so we got told to leave our tall antennas up, and we quickly took off, following the Brits into the city. Then we stared like mesmerized children at the spectacular fireworks display of popping sparks and streaking lights as Ross's lead vehicle, with its high antenna
still
up, ripped down low-hanging power line after power line.

I waved to the gathering angry mob on the side of the street as we drove past them and their blacked-out apartments and said, “Hearts and minds, boys. That's what it's all about—hearts and minds! We're here to help you . . .” and the warrant finished my sentence with, “and take away your electricity!”

As the OMLT was single-handedly causing the Great Lashka Ghar Power Outage of Oh-eight, the Brits took off once they saw an ugly riot brewing. We quickly lost sight of them as they burned off and we accidentally turned down a very narrow alley which, of course, came to a dramatic dead end. And to make matters worse, three of our RGs were hauling long, heavy trailers behind them.

After half an hour of successfully completing 140-point turns, we managed to extricate ourselves and rolled into the ANP station, our new home away from home, only a few minutes late. The ANP stared slack-jawed as Ross's vehicle pulled up to their gate, dragging a hundred feet of electrical wire behind it.
Don't look at us,
I thought to myself,
it was like that when we got here!

We spent the next day liaising with our ANA captains, Shafiq Ullah and Ghias, and began re-orging our kit, getting ready for the upcoming operation. Major Hobbles took Rich and me to the British HQ in Lash to get an up-to-date briefing, and the major was politely offered a seat at the adults' table while Rich and I gratefully sat off to the side. We were stunned when we realized that the Brits had the entire operation already fully planned out, and at no point did they consult our major to see if the ANA were willing and/or capable of pulling off their audacious plan.

It called for an almost twenty-kilometre-long patrol through heavily contested ground the first day, and another twenty-plus-klick patrol the next day, until we finally arrived at an isolated, beleaguered British forward operating base called Bermuda. We would be the first troops to make it to them on the ground in over a month. They were in contact with Timothy daily, and all of the resupplies to their FOB were through chopper only.

That evening Major Hobbles met with Colonel Morris, the ANA officer he was mentoring, and they discussed the plan, making some small changes. Hobbles told us Colonel Morris said he wanted to manoeuvre a force of ANA with their OMLT mentors to create a blocking position south of the expected enemy positions. That way, when Rich or I patrolled south with our ANA at the start of the mission, one of us would engage the Taliban at the front and then chase them toward the other OMLT commander, and then we'd old-school “hammer and anvil” the enemy to death.
Not a bad plan, but the enemy wasn't just going to sit still and watch as a group of Canadian OMLT mentors and a full company of ANA troops drove by them, waving away, and then let us set up a blocking position to the south of them on their six o'clock.

The major rightly pointed out that if we
did
set up a blocking force, we would take casualties. It would be unavoidable. If we blocked Timothy, he'd fight to the death to get through the blocking force, and our men, both Afghan and Canadian, would be heavily engaged and would surely take wounded and KIA. The colonel listened, pondered, and then decided against a blocking force.

Hobbles then called everyone in for his O-group. No matter what a person could say about the major, he always delivered an excellent set of orders.

The plan was changed so many times that it had already passed through its A through F iterations. The latest plan (“G”) called for Rich and call sign 72C to be on the eastern flank with the Third Company ANA, just on the other side of the river that separated the Taliban from Lash. Seven Two Alpha and the First Company ANA would be on the western flank, paralleling 72C as we both moved our companies to the south.

Opposition was expected to be very heavy, with the Taliban having vehicle-mounted heavy machine guns in support of their ground troops. They were expected to fight to the death. Int also said these particular Taliban fighters were experts at setting up three-sided ambushes, and that they preferred initiating their contacts with IEDs.

The major, the CSM, the artillery FOO/FAC, and Laddah the medic would be travelling with some sec-for guys as the major stayed next to Colonel Morris, one tactical bound behind us (anywhere from fifty to two hundred metres). That was the plan, anyway.

The next day's operation would be officially called Op Atal-28, because there were twenty-seven previous Op Atals.
Fair enough.
Major Hobbles asked if anyone had questions; a few were asked and quickly answered, and we walked back to our rooms on the fourth floor of the empty police barracks.

We woke up very early the next morning and had a quick breakfast, washed our faces and pits with wet wipes, and began to take our kit down to the RGs. We were told to leave our rucksacks at the ANP station and to pack only a sleeping bag and a few things we wanted into our sleeping-bag carrying sack. No big rucksacks would be taken.
Travel light, freeze at night!

I was carrying kit down to the RG when I noticed the ANA mounting up in their Rangers, getting set to quickly head out the gate.

“Switching to Plan H now now now!” I shouted as I ran back into the building to find the major. When I told him what I'd seen, he shouted, “Aw, what the
fuck
?” and ran out of the building to find Colonel Morris. I ran upstairs and told everyone to pack the RGs quickly because we had about five minutes to get kitted up; the ANA had decided we'd
now
be travelling by vehicle to the LD. Plan G had seen us marching to the LD with the ANA, but that was
yesterday's
plan—basically ancient history.

We stuffed the vehicles, put the machine guns back on top (but had no time to align or sight them), ran back upstairs, and got kitted up.
Nothing like hurry up and wait.
The major had zero luck getting Morris to change his mind, and since we couldn't take our RGs because we'd need our gunners and drivers to join us on the march, we were forced to leave them behind. We couldn't just abandon them at the LD.

Major Hobbles jogged over to me and said, “Disperse your call sign in the ANA trucks and we'll all meet up at the LD.” I thought to myself,
There'll be hell to pay if someone gets IEDed and the CF finds out we were riding in old Ford Ranger trucks instead of in our armoured vehicles.
But I knew the major's hands were tied and he was doing the best he could. No one had told him about the change in plan; it wasn't his fault.

I quickly briefed the boys on Plan H and we mounted up between the ANA in the back of their trucks. They were singing and laughing away, having a good old time. I made sure everyone in 72A had a vehicle to ride in, and we quickly zipped through the town, crossed the only bridge to the west, and drove for another klick before we came to a screeching halt. We dismounted and then mingled around on the highway, in between rows of bazaar shops.

Another bunch of Afghan trucks arrived, and they disgorged some ANA troops the likes of which we'd never seen before. They were wearing old American urban-camouflage uniforms, all of them were sporting thick beards and long hair that flowed past their shoulders (looking like Afghan versions of Jesus), and most of them were barefoot. They had their boots tied up and slung over their shoulders. Some carried their weapons like baseball bats; some didn't even
have
a weapon. I'd patrolled through enough marijuana fields in Afghanistan to realize I was allergic to pot, and as I got closer to the long-haired friends of Jesus, my nose started to twitch.

Oh no, don't tell me . . .
Yep, they were totally, inexcusably, high.

They began passing around what could only be described as King Kong joints and started puffing away, their glassy eyes not really taking anything on board (but they did like to smile a lot and giggle to themselves). Hobbles arrived and I brought them to his attention. He said they were Afghan Border Police and followed up with, “Yeah, but what are you gonna do?”

I knew if I was back in Sperwhan I'd immediately call off the patrol, but this wasn't
just
a patrol. It was a two- to three-day operation, with a lot more working parts involved than just a bunch of high border police. I pointed them out to Rich, who just shook his head and said, “Savages. Goddamn savages.”

Our ANA companies got in line and faced toward the south: 72C was on the left, 72A on the right. Rich and I looked at each other. Sweat had already begun to trickle down our faces; it was much hotter in Helmand than in Kandahar Province.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Strong is Vader, mind what you have learned, save you it can!” I shouted back. Rich gave me the finger as his men moved off first, just the way my ANA captain would've wanted. Captain Shafiq Ullah then gave Rich's group a five-minute head start before beginning our trace (projected route) to the south.

We had gotten maybe twenty feet before the first rounds were fired into the air. I couldn't tell if it was our ANA or Rich's who had fired. It seemed to be outgoing.
Maybe they were warning shots.
Nobody said anything over the net, so we continued on as if nothing had happened. After marching about fifty metres, Shafiq Ullah flew into a rage and started shouting something at Lieutenant Aziz over their radio. Aziz was up front with Longview and Hetsa for the duration of the patrol, but after about a minute, they marched past us and walked all the way back to the highway, moved a few poxy metres to the east, and then took a different trail heading south. I asked the warrant over the PRR what was going on, and he said Shafiq Ullah was probably buying more time, so that Captain Ghias in charge of the Third Company and 72C would be the first to spring an ambush.
Figures.