For Your Tomorrow (16 page)

As he crosses the finish line, the red digits on the clock flash before him—5 hrs: 32 min. Thirty-two competitors clocked in before him—but more than three hundred are still panting their way to the end.

Autumn 2005: Two thousand Canadian soldiers arrive in southern Afghanistan for a one-year assignment
.

By January 2006, after the physical trial of the Army Mountain Man, Jeff is ready to transfer to an area of soldiering that’s less taxing on his thirty-five-year-old body. The field of military intelligence has always intrigued him, but it’s notoriously difficult to penetrate. The Intelligence Branch comprises only 1 percent of the total regular forces. Nonetheless, he applies and secures an interview. Within weeks, he is accepted into the Canadian Forces School of Military Intelligence in Kingston, Ontario. His C Battery commander, however, is less than thrilled by the news: “Captain Francis, I’ll be frank. We don’t want to lose you. You’re a mature, reliable officer, highly respected by the soldiers in the regiment. Before moving into intelligence, you are well advised to get some real ground-level combat experience—in Afghanistan.”

The regiment has an opening for another FOO (forward observation officer, pronounced
Fooh
in conversation), the most sought-after position in the artillery, the major explains; and Hillier’s reorganization of the forces has created
a special operations command. “Having a tour as a FOO in Afghanistan would make you a strong candidate for special operations,” he says. “Few soldiers are accepted into this course, but I will recommend you for FOO training.”

Jeff knows the course would be demanding, with a focus on mathematics and trigonometry, but he’s already tackled that bogey. Another, deeper fear surfaces. As forward observation officer, he would have one of the most dangerous jobs in the army. The FOO operates at the front end of the front lines, scrutinizing the enemy’s position, coordinating and calling in artillery support—guns, mortars and attack helicopters. He imagines Nich’s broad smiling face, his comrade at CFB Shilo—Captain Nichola Goddard—perched in the commander’s hatch of her LAV in Afghanistan, exposed to the enemy, the first FOO to call artillery fire on enemy targets since the Korean War.

“The longer we are in the theatre and the more we actually interact with the Afghan people,” she wrote, “the more I feel we are serving a purpose here. They are trying to achieve something that we in Canada have long since taken for granted.… We are here to assist that legitimate and democratically elected government.”

Deployment to Afghanistan flashes like a beacon on a distant shore: the opportunity to make a difference to a country in chaos, to help a people denied basic human rights of freedom and safety, and to combat a tyrannical force threatening the security of his own county. The bespectacled face of the Dalai Lama shines before him as the monk’s voice echoes through his mind—
Today’s world, whole world almost
one body. One thing happens in some distant place, the repercussions reach your own place
.

On February 14, he procures leave from his FOO course in CFB Gagetown to fly to Toronto and surprise Sylvie with a Valentine’s visit in her new condo. They relax on her white overstuffed sofa, smelling the yellow roses on the coffee table, watching bubbles rise in their flutes of Veuve Clicquot. Sylvie raises her glass. “Here’s to no more birth control,” she says, with a wide pearly smile. “Que
sera, sera.”

“Seems like the perfect day to test the waters,” he laughs and squeezes her hand.

His smile fades as he sets down his glass. “I don’t know if it’s the right time to tell you this, but … it’s just been confirmed. I’ll be going to Afghanistan a year from now, February 2007.”

His words hang heavy in the small space of air between them.

“I know you really believe in this,” she says, eyes welling up with tears. In their many discussions about Afghanistan, he’s reiterated that the mission is more than a simple play for power, that the West can’t turn its back on the country as it did with Rwanda. She knows it’s something he has to do, something bigger than himself. “I just want you to go and get it over with.”

“I need to do just this one tour,” he says, putting his arm around her. “Then I’ll try to transfer to an administrative position at the Downsview Base here in Toronto. Maybe we’ll buy a house if we need more room …”

“We won’t be together again until Easter,” she says, snuggling against him, “so we’d better make
carpe diem
our motto.”

On the twenty-ninth of March, he gets in from the training area to find a message tacked to his door:
Call Sylvie—ASAP
. When she answers the phone, he blurts out, “Is anything wrong?”

“Everything is so right,” she giggles. “Are you sitting down … 
Dad?
”

“Are you serious? Already?”

“Yeah,” she says, laughing, “Cupid’s aim was dead-on!”

On Easter weekend in Eastern Passage, the Russian willow trees bud lime green, and crocuses nudge their noses through the gardens along Shore Road. The salty air is sweet with spring. Jeff and Sylvie arrive from the airport with Russ, welcomed home by the aroma of baking ham and roasting potatoes, and Marion’s warm hugs. “You must be starving,” she says. “Was the flight delayed?”

“We had to make a stop at Chapters,” Russ says. “Jeff had to run in to pick up a book.”

They gather around the wooden dining table, an Easter lily blooming its heady perfume. Marion lifts a bottle of Jost Pinot Grigio from the wine cooler, and is about to pour a glass for Sylvie. “None for me, thanks,” she says, placing her hand over the rim and kicking Jeff under the table.

“You’re not feeling well?” Marion asks, looking puzzled.

“Ah … we’ve got some news,” Jeff blushes. He pulls a
book out of a shopping bag and lays it on the red brocade tablecloth.

Marion and Russ squint, scan the title
—Fatherhood for Dummies
—glance at each other, do a double take, then break into laughter as they look up into the radiant faces of the parents-to-be.

After dinner Jeff and Russ, Scotch glasses in hand, settle into folding lawn chairs tucked inside the open garage door, sheltered from the east wind blustering off the ocean. Jeff has just told his father about his deployment to Afghanistan. “Don’t tell Mom,” he says. “No point in worrying her yet.”

Russ locks his eyes onto his son’s. “Jeff, this is serious,” he says, after a long pause, “deadly serious. You and Sylvie are just beginning to make a life together.”

“Dad, I’m going there because we have a job to do.”

“Then, when you’re there,” Russ says gravely, “do your job and nothing more. Don’t take any risks.”

Jeff nods. “I know the first law of combat—don’t volunteer for anything.”

“And remember the second law: never share a foxhole with anyone braver than you.” They chuckle; then sit quietly for a few minutes, watching an osprey circle above the water. It pauses, hovers with beating wings, and plunges feet first, a thunderbolt, into the sea; then rises in a silver spray, a shining fish dangling from its hook claws.

“Jeff, have you ever thought about your own death?”

“Dad, I don’t
want
to die,” he says, shaking his head. “I won’t do anything foolish.”

“If anything happened to you, it would kill your mother.”

“I’m going to be like the thousand soldiers I go over with. I’m coming back with them.”

Russ considers the odds. Between 2002 and 2006, eight thousand Canadian soldiers have served in Afghanistan. Fifty have been killed. He feels somewhat reassured.

They talk on, as daylight slowly turns to dusk; twilight time,
the hour between dog and wolf—l’heure entre chien et loup
, the crepuscular hour of metamorphoses. A lone star glints above the grey-blue Atlantic, and the lights of the buoys flicker, green and red.

On May 17, Jeff picks up Sylvie at the airport in Moncton, New Brunswick, an hour’s drive from Fanjoy’s Point. They’re joining the family for the Victoria Day long weekend and the ritual opening up of the cottage—dusting off the lawn chairs, scraping the crud off the barbecue and wading into the chilly lake for the first time. He stows her suitcase in the trunk, then sits behind the steering wheel, immobile, staring ahead at the rows of parked cars. “One of my friends was killed today in Afghanistan,” he says. “Nichola Goddard. Hit by an RPG—a grenade—during a firefight.”

“Oh, Jeff.” She reaches for his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“Twenty-six years old. She has a great husband, Jay.”

She remembers him talking about going to their place for a barbecue. “Jeff, wasn’t she a FOO?”

“One of the best.” He pauses, opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The first Canadian female soldier to die in combat, he thinks, giving her life for a cause she truly
believed in. He blinks back the tears, then turns to meet Sylvie’s fearful eyes. “I might have to replace her. I’ll be finished my FOO course in two weeks.”

They drive in silence. He keeps one hand on the wheel, and one against the small bump of her belly.

Forward Observation Officer Course Report. June 2006. Captain Francis is an intelligent officer, a calm and collected leader, the consummate team player. His ability to assimilate information and apply all lessons allowed him to progress at a much quicker pace than his peers. His performance exceeded the standard. He is a solid leader who inspires confidence in both his peers and his subordinates. He will make an excellent FOO
.

When Jeff returns to Shilo after his FOO course, Craig Etherlston surprises him with a welcome-back party. And Jeff surprises everyone there when he beams his announcement: “I’m going to be a father!” Throughout all the handshaking, back-slapping, hugging and congratulating for the rest of the evening, he wears a permanent grin.

During the months of Sylvie’s pregnancy, he is immersed in pre-deployment training. He coalesces the airborne team that he—as FOO—will lead for Task Force 1-07, a battle group of over a thousand soldiers based on the Second Royal Canadian Regiment. Thirty-four-year-old Sergeant Clay Cochrane is his second-in-command; Master Bombardier Steve Ker, the LAV gunner; Bombardier Adam Wierenga, the radio signaller; Bombardier Carlo Lajoie, the main driver; and Bombardier David Fradette, backup driver
and signaller. All with parachute wings, their party will support the Airborne Company of Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry in Edmonton.

For six months they develop their combat skills through field exercises—staging booby traps, ambushes, minefields and encounters with enemy insurgents. In the classroom, they learn about Afghan customs, culture, politics, insurgency groups; they prepare for the psychological stresses of combat and separation from their families. In their first major training exercise together—Exercise Mountain Warrior—Jeff’s team marches for twenty-six kilometres through the swamps and mountains around Hinton, Alberta, pumping water from swamps and creeks through their filters for drinking. They are the only team to make it back on time to the Company RV.

From July to October, they train in CFB Gagetown, CFB Shilo and CFB Pettawawa—in exercises with mythical names: Virtual Archer, Thor’s Hammer, Redleg Archer, Spartan Ram, Royal Archer. Their FOO party morphs into a cohesive unit, a tight-knit brotherhood of soldiers and friends. The LAV they’ll be manning in Afghanistan has the call sign of G 1-3—it’s the vehicle that Nichola Goddard was killed in. The FOO team assigned to the LAV after hers faced heavy combat, but they all survived. So they nickname their team “Lucky 13,” hoping that with Nich watching over them maybe they’ll be lucky too.

In late October, they travel to CFB Wainwright for the last major exercise, Maple Guardian, a three-week full dress rehearsal with all the units of Task Force 1-07. In the
raw wind and snow of the early Alberta winter, the battle group trains for a mission in the stifling heat and dust of the Afghan desert. Soldiers role-play scenarios of Taliban attacks and mass casualty situations in a setting that replicates the terrain and villages of Afghanistan. Wearing authentic costumes and speaking Pashtu, Afghan-Canadians act the parts of the Taliban, Afghan villagers, and interpreters.

At the same time, Jeff is gearing up for the arrival of their baby, whose due date is November 4. His request for leave to attend the birth is refused: “You are the FOO. You can’t be replaced if we’re in the middle of a critical exercise.” On the night of October 26 he gets a distress call from Sylvie. “I had an ultrasound today. The baby is breech, upside down,” she sobs. “I have to have a Caesarean. It’s scheduled for November 1. I really need you to be here.”

“I’ll be there,” he says. “Whatever it takes, I’ll be there.”

He knows AWOL has serious repercussions—demoted a rank, assigned extra duties—but so be it. Even before this phone call, he decided he’d be with Sylvie for the birth, no matter what the cost. But the army is more comfortable with schedules. His commanding officer pleads Jeff’s case and secures him five days off. On October 31, he removes his uniform and leaves his FOO team to carry on without him in the crucial Afghanistan simulation exercise. Sylvie is waiting for him at the Toronto airport, glowing; her belly as round and ripe as the pumpkins they carved on their first date—thirteen years earlier to the day. Lucky 13.

On November 1, the operating room at St. Joseph’s Hospital is overcrowded with emergency C-sections. So it’s
not until the evening of November 2 that Jeff dons the green hospital scrubs and stands at the end of the delivery table. Numbed with local anaesthetic from her waist down, Sylvie lies draped in pale green sheets, only the smooth mound of her belly lit up in the spotlight. Dr. Simms cuts into her abdomen, down into her uterus. His gloved hand reaches in and scoops out a head, a blood-smeared little face; its nose and mouth are suctioned clear. Then he lifts out the slippery body of a baby boy. He squalls his first cry, and Jeff feels tears wetting his own cheeks. He opens his arms to receive his infant son, gazes into his opaque blue eyes.
Can this little guy really be mine?

Marion answers the phone that night to hear, “Mom … it’s happened … you have a grandson … he’s so beautiful,” a voice transformed with tenderness. “Ry Logan Secours Francis—born at 8:38 p.m.” When she hangs up, she wipes her eyes and checks the numbers she jotted down.
Could it be?
She fishes out Jeff’s baby book from the clutter in the armoire, and reads:
Time of Birth: 8:38 p.m
. What are the odds? And another little Scorpio, also born on a day of remembrance—All Souls’ Day, the day for remembering the souls of departed loved ones.