The Patrol (19 page)

Captain Michelson is a middle-aged officer who was originally a reservist NCM. I’ve found that officers who were once in the ranks generally filter to one extreme of competence or the other. Some are so obsessed with their glory days that they fall into the “Cyprus trap,” and spend the majority of their time talking and thinking about the way things were. Others embrace the challenges inherent in being an officer, and excel at their new profession. Captain Michelson falls into the latter category. A dedicated family man, he talks often about his wife, children, and home life. He is maybe 40, with an open, sun-beaten face. He is a tall, large man who tries to hide his size with his posture. His face exudes good humour and kindness, and he feels his way through conversations with stock responses or funny sayings. Once when his LAV broke down, we spent an entire operation together in the back of our command vehicle. We chatted at length while we ate rations in the air sentry hatch, and I found out all about his kids and his plans. I told him about how I wanted to build my own house when I got back from tour, and he responded that my best bet was probably a geodome. He explained a geodome design that he’d seen at the University of Brandon. The design is basically a sandbag igloo covered in concrete and insulation. Apparently it is simple and economical to make. Deep in my heart, I still harbour the goal of constructing my own geodome.

Captain Michelson is convinced that he has a cursed call sign. Two FOOs on previous rotations have been killed, both being call sign G13. He is call sign G23, but he replaced G13. He found the name of Captain Jefferson Francis etched above his bed in a bunker on the top of Sperwan Ghar. Captain Francis was killed by an IED in 2007 before we arrived.

I think that we all carry some manner of lucky charm with us, and a crucifix blessed by the padre hangs in the turret of our LAV.
After our charmed ride into Talukan the night Terry Street died, and the next day when an IED went off 20 metres in front of us, we feel that we have a lucky LAV. Intellectually, I’m aware that there is probably no such thing as luck, but I still knock on wood, and try my hardest not to tempt fate with my words or actions. On my dog tags hang two medals, one of Saint Christopher, given to me by my godparents, and one of the Archangel Gabriel, given to me by a friend from my unit. I’m not exactly a devout Catholic, but when I lost my Saint Christopher medal after the chain snapped, I had a tiny panic attack. Someone eventually found it and gave it back to me saying, “Don’t you know that this doesn’t do anything if you don’t wear it?” I don’t even know if it does anything if you
do
wear it, but I’m not taking any chances. Both medals are secured to my dog tags by a double-looped elastic band. I also have a length of braided string that Darcy made in 2005 tied to the dog tags. I feel an intense distaste for the idea of taking any one of these three things off, and by this point in the tour they are encrusted with filth and the metal has begun to oxidize.

The medics continue to work on Captain Michelson, and soon enough he is bandaged up and being prepared for his helicopter ride. He is talking and looks lucid when I poke my head into the UMS. I ask the doc how he’s doing, and he says that the captain is going to be fine. I am immensely relieved. We hear the distant sound of an American Black Hawk growing louder. Captain Michelson is rushed out onto the HLZ (helicopter landing zone) by a party of stretcher bearers. I ask if I can help, but they have things under control.

The helicopter swoops in to land, and kicks up a massive cloud of dust that temporarily eclipses the sun. It is blazing hot, and we are all covered in another layer of dust as the helicopter takes off once again. I watch the dust cloud roil over the HESCOs, and
wonder how the pilots can take off completely blind. The chopper makes a massive volume of sound, but it quickly diminishes. We see the helicopter hover for a brief second, and it disappears into the horizon accompanied by another Black Hawk. The ensuing peace makes us more aware of the sounds around us. I hear someone throwing out a ration into a garbage bag, and the rustle of kit being moved around. The army seems to enjoy alternating intense noise with intense quiet. The dust clears, and the sun reigns once again. I look up at the sky and wonder what clouds look like. I haven’t seen one since the last dust storm almost two months ago.

Dust storms in Afghanistan are a unique and awe-inspiring experience. They usually bring rain, and black out the sky, like some kind of apocalyptic prophesy. Once, I was sitting in my room when the door sucked in and then banged out in quick succession. I had gotten off shift an hour before, and nothing had been out of the ordinary. I went outside to see what was going on and was greeted by a wall of dust that touched the sky. My ears popped, and it was incredibly calm. The light took on a different quality, as if someone were dimming the switch on the sun, and instantly our outpost was in the middle of it. I was alone for almost the first time on the tour, as everyone else was out at a routine meeting at Ma’sum Ghar. I frantically tried to batten down the hatches and tie down the tarps that we used as shade, but when the entire frame spiralled into the violent sky and I found myself having a hard time breathing, I decided that there was little I could do. I grabbed my goggles off my helmet, and wrapped a T-shirt around my face and kept trying to tie down everything that could fly away. Just then, the LAVs pulled in, and the rest of the headquarters section began to help me out. I pushed into the teeth of the wind, the sand stinging my face in a million places, and took a look at our antennas on the roof. One was no longer standing, and one was being held on by only the coaxial cable attached to the radiating element (or sputnik). I ran
through the compound while the wind tried to destroy everything around me, climbed onto the roof, and pulled in the radiating element that was suspended in mid-air. I then tightened off the masts themselves, and only just prevented the other two from flying away. Ryan LaFontaine joined me on the roof, and we couldn’t communicate even by shouting into each other’s ears. I motioned with my hands at the guy wires that were about to snap, and we just barely managed to hold onto them until the dust storm passed. We were soaking wet from the driving rain, and every piece of exposed skin had been pulverized by sand. The storm lasted for about 30 minutes.

It rained only twice the entire time that we were overseas, and both times it was like that. Everything in Afghanistan is deadly, from the bugs (which we call the Afghan Air Force) to the snakes to the rainstorms. Everything is imbued with a quality of latent and deadly strength. It is an interesting place to live.

In Mushan, the heat is beginning to wane. The helicopters have disappeared into the distance, and it is about 1500, the time of day when the worst part of the heat is over and I can begin to relax a little more comfortably. We are told that we will be departing at 2000, after the sun sets. I don’t really feel tired, so I try to stomach some more water. We set up a garbage can full of well water, and stick water bottles inside to cool them. We play cards while we drink the water. The game is Asshole, and six of us sit down—Smitty, Jeff Brazeau, a couple of snipers, me, and the doc. Everyone around me blatantly tries to cheat, and nobody takes the game seriously. It is mostly just an opportunity to smoke and unwind. I watch Smitty sit on the 2s that he gets when he is asshole, and hear the argument rage about whether or not he’s cheating. I played this game often at university, and work on upgrading my position from vice-ass. Soon I am the pres. We continue to play for about an hour, until finally
someone stands up, and we all realize that there are probably better uses of our time.

I sit once more on a chair outside our tent, smoke another cigarette, and drink another bottle of water. It is 1600, and we will be departing in four hours. I go to my sleeping pad, take off my boots and lie down. I’m not tired. I lay out my uniform and adjust my kit. I’m still not tired. I close my eyes and will sleep to come. Finally, I sleep restlessly on the sand for a few hours.

PABLO PICASSO, regarded as the greatest artist of his generation, or perhaps of all time (although I’m still not entirely sure why), became obsessed with the Minotaur later in life. I had read a biography about him by Patrick O’Brian shortly before departing on this patrol. When I came to the section that explained his obsession with the image of the Minotaur I was confused, as I was by so much else in that book (I don’t think I “get” Picasso in any meaningful sense). Why would Picasso care so much about a mythological creature, half man and half bull? I did a little bit of research (Wikipedia) but still didn’t feel I understood. That changed during the patrol.

For me, and I believe for Picasso, the symbol of the Minotaur and the symbol of the labyrinth are inextricably linked. The Minotaur was born of Pasiphaë, the wife of Minos, the Cretan king, who refused to kill a sacrificial white bull given to him by Poseidon. In punishment, Poseidon made Pasiphaë fall in love with the bull and engage in carnal relations with it. Pasiphaë’s progeny was a monster, half man and half bull, that served as a living reminder not to “screw” with the gods. The Minotaur was kept in the middle of a labyrinth. Virgins would be set loose in the labyrinth, where they would get lost and be eaten by the beast when they reached the
centre. The Minotaur was eventually killed by the warrior Theseus, who is remembered in song and story. I believe that Picasso was drawn to the themes of this myth because he experienced them in his life. I hadn’t had similar experiences until I set out from Mushan on this night.

Looking back on this patrol, it seems that we were lost as we tried to find our way out, and back to home and peace. The mud walls, always difficult to climb over, funnelled us onto routes that we might not have otherwise chosen. Wadis, riverbeds, and fear of IEDs forced us to follow a circuitous path that didn’t seem to go anywhere. Although I could usually tell what direction we were travelling, based on the looming emptiness of the riverbed, which was always on our left, looking back it feels as if we were in an Afghan labyrinth, without any yarn to guide us. Even though time has passed, and hindsight has closed in on my experiences, I don’t know if I will ever truly leave Panjway. It continues to present itself to my restless mind, and I’m not sure if a day goes by that I don’t spend a little bit of time back in Afghanistan, back on patrol.

I sleep poorly in the sand, and am up well before we need to step off. I double-check my kit and smoke a few cigarettes. I feel restless and think about how much of this patrol is left. We start our move back toward Sperwan Ghar tonight, but we may be conducting a few more patrols in Zangabad over the next couple of days.
We’ve been out for …?
My erratic sleep schedule makes it hard to remember.
Well, we left on … Monday? Tuesday?
I don’t know.
What day is it today? Friday? Really?
I think about home, and going to the bar at the end of a long week of work. It doesn’t seem real that a schedule like that could exist. I give up trying to remember how long we’ve been out, and think about how long we have until we get back.
Well, we’ll be in Zangabad by tomorrow, and then we will sleep all
day, so that’s one day. If we conduct a patrol, we’ll step off the next day after I get up again, so that’s two days. If we head back to Sper at that point, then it will be three days. No, wait, we won’t head back until the day after that, because we will need to sleep.
We can’t very well conduct a fighting patrol and a move back in the same day.
How many days was that again? Four? Five? I don’t know. I guess that we’ll get back when we get back.
Fatalism is the only viable philosophy for a low-ranking soldier. Things will either happen or they will not. You will find out when you find out.

As the sun dips behind the HESCO Bastions, and the shadows grow longer, I smoke another cigarette and brood. I don’t have a specific focal point for my anger, but I’m pretty tired of this patrol, and there really is no way out of it. So I think about how much my shoulders are going to hurt. I’m not really used to sustained patrolling, and it is beginning to take its toll on my body. I guess it’s like anything you ever do; it only gets easy when you do it a lot. I smile at the thought of some of the more difficult situations I’ve been in, climbing mountains in Alberta or running up and down hills in Shilo. Whenever I suffer, I always seem to forget about the pain and remember the good times, when all is said and done.

The sliver of sun remaining over the horizon has turned a deep, dark orange, and blue dusk begins to appear around us. I put my shirt on and get my kit ready to go. I smoke another cigarette, as I won’t be able to have another until we get to Talukan. Tobacco has lost its appeal, but I still smoke slowly, holding it between the thumb and index finger of my gloved hand, flicking the ash into the sand with my middle finger. The habit calms me down and helps me get into the right mindset before we step off. The call to prayer echoes around us. Before I’m finished, I see people putting on their kit. We are on the go once again.

I wait until everyone else has started walking before putting on my helmet. I wait a few seconds more for the order of march to sort
itself out, find the OC, and line up behind him. I go through the familiar motions and hear the muffled sounds of a patrol stepping off. This is going to be a long night.

As the lead elements of the patrol are swallowed up by the night, I follow them outside the wire, completely oblivious to the fact that this is a night that will forever be etched in my memory. I walk in the blissful ignorance of those that suffer righteously. I have no reason to think that tonight will be different from any other night. I am wrong.

Soon Mushan is once again a monolithic shape looming in the moonlight. I wish it well as it recedes over the horizon. We are making excellent time. The moon is almost full, and we have more light to see with than we’ve had to this point on the patrol. I think about what is actually happening with the moon; how it is reflecting the sun’s light back onto the earth, how it is a sphere just as Earth is, that it is daytime on the moon right now. I think about the sun and the size of the universe. I think about how important this patrol feels to me right now, and how unimportant it is in the grand scheme of things. I feel small as I walk through the shadows cast by objects immensely larger then I am.

By 2100 we are once again on the riverbed. The sweat drips down my face, but I feel strong despite the pain my pack is causing. Every time we stop, I bend over and throw the weight of my pack onto my back. It relieves the pain for a few blissful seconds, but it makes me look bad to the people behind me. Who cares? It’s just a terp and the FOO party minus Captain Michelson. Ahead of me, the OC does the same thing, and I’m filled with an irrational hatred. I can’t really describe why I would be so hypocritical as to condemn the OC for doing the same thing that I am. It’s probably just latent, pent-up aggression. The OC becomes the focal point for my anger. My eyes bore holes into his helmet as we march, but there is nothing I can say or do. I go back to concentrating on my spacing, scanning the area around me, and keeping my head up.

I quickly find myself lost in the rhythm of the patrol. The moonlight is bright, and wearing my civilian glasses I can see clearly in all directions. The landscape has once again taken on a surreal quality, and for a few moments I appreciate the beauty of patrolling at night along a riverbed that stretches forever in my imagination. I try to imagine a Cubist recreation of the flowing blue-grey lines and squat mud compounds of the landscape. I allow myself to escape into my imagination. I think about art, beauty, and aesthetics. Mostly I think about Darcy, and try to picture her face. I think about the sunny drive to the University of Calgary, and walking through the green fields that cover the campus. I think about how long it’s been since I’ve seen a green field. Not since the opium harvest. I think about our desert uniforms, and try to imagine what green CADPAT looks like. Every few minutes, I’m jolted out of my reverie by the man in front of me stopping, or by some obstacle that I must cross, but for the most part I spend the move from Mushan to Talukan inside my head, thinking about better times.

We continue to walk quickly as we hear the good news over the radio: Talukan has eyes on our lead elements. I’m sweating and tired, but feel good. The majority of this leg of the patrol is spent in a fairly pleasant reflection, punctuated by painful moments and the taste of my own sweat. I smile for the first time tonight as we enter Talukan. I see Allan there, limping slightly, and we share a smoke. I ask him how his ankle is doing and he replies that it feels good, that it’s taped up tightly by the docs, and that he’s ready to finish off the patrol. I’m happy that he’s feeling better, and watch him rejoin the engineer section. I see WO Abrahams, and he passes me a bottle of water. We bullshit and I tell stories about the fight we got into two days ago. I smoke another cigarette with him in the blissful cool of an Afghan summer night, without a helmet on.

“So there was a wedding last night, eh?” WO Abrahams looks at me, intent on telling his story. He recounts how an elderly
Afghan man had approached the COP a few days ago to inform the Canadians of his son’s wedding. The man then politely asked if we would mind not “bombing him” while the wedding feast was going on. It is an Afghan tradition to fire off AK-47s when there is a wedding. We call these shots
Afghan fireworks
. (The fact that gravity will eventually return those bullets to earth doesn’t seem to enter into their calculations; so be it, we are a culturally sensitive army.) He then asked WO Abrahams if he could pay the Canadians to fire off a few para-flares (man-portable parachute flares that we use to illuminate the night). WO Abrahams responded that it would be his pleasure to help this man’s son on his wedding day, and the COP had fired four para-flares in honour of this new marriage the night before our patrol arrived.

“It’s all about winning hearts and minds, eh?” WO Abrahams says, laughing and exhaling smoke. I smile. It’s kind of a ridiculous situation, but we do have the best fireworks in town.

Soon enough and inevitably, we are on the move again, and I bid WO Abrahams farewell as I put my helmet back on. As I do up the clip and walk out into the moonlit night, he yells, “Hey, good luck tonight, eh, boys?” A quintessentially Canadian comment.

I smile as I continue to walk, but no one has ever really wished me luck before. I’ve done it to guys in my section if they leave on a patrol without me, but I’m always met with silence, and often a frown. I figure this is because no one wants to be reminded that they are in a situation that badly requires luck. We live in a scientific society, and the fact that science can’t completely eliminate the threat posed by IEDs and enemy action bothers us at some level. WO Abrahams’s comment makes me think about the risks of this patrol, the ever-present IED threat, and the possibility that I won’t make it back to Sperwan Ghar. I resign myself to the thought that I’m about thirty-seventh in the order of march, behind 4 Platoon and the ANA. It’s a pretty safe place to be, relatively
speaking. I get back to where Chris is sitting, put my smokes back in my chest rig, sigh, and prepare to carry on. It’s not like I have a choice anyway.

Soon we have left Talukan behind and are walking along a tiny goat path beside a wadi. This is like many of the goat paths we have encountered that slowly narrow, threatening to dump us into the irrigation canal below. My steps are taken carefully; I’m ever mindful to keep my weight on the side of the mud wall, and not on the side of the drop. I’ve learned from my earlier mistakes. I take my time, and walk (or rather climb), trying not to guess how far down the drop is (probably only about four metres, but a sufficient fall nonetheless). It feels like I’m trying to walk along a balance beam with a bar fridge on my back. As I strain every nerve in concentration to keep myself on this path, which has narrowed to a boot width, I notice a strange sound. I hear drumbeats—actual beating drums, probably made from animal skin (I never saw them, so I can’t say for sure).

The sound grows stronger as we approach, and in one of the compounds on the other side of the wadi, I see a fire and shadowy figures dancing to the incessant beat. It is the most alien sight I have encountered in my life. The drum continues to beat a slow, methodically rhythmic tone, and shadows swirl around the fire. The scene is lit by a strange, orange, fiery light, a colour that I haven’t seen in days, and it casts deep shadows all around it. Outside the periphery of this light, figures sitting on their heels in the Afghan fashion can be made out smoking and conversing quietly. They seem completely oblivious to our presence, or they simply don’t care that we are there. Afghans know the rules; they know that if they don’t fuck with us, we won’t fuck with them.