The Patrol (16 page)

“Hey, man, how was that?”

“That was sweet! I get to run around with the officer so I’m not tied to any one place, we lit those fuckers up, man. You do anything?”

“Are you kidding me? I fuckin’ hung around the OC all day. The only thing I’ve been doing is wandering, man. I haven’t seen a beeb since this morning.”

I pull out my pack of cigarettes, a metal tin I bought in KAF that I keep wrapped tightly with an elastic band. We each smoke one and sit down in the hot Afghan sun while we wait for our officers to finish conversing.

I think that a signaller has a unique attachment to his officer. He is basically brought on a patrol for the sole purpose of ensuring that communications are maintained. This can involve simple “help desk” tasks, like fixing radios when they go down or keeping the programming up to date. More often, however, it involves being a pack animal for the officer’s radio. A huge amount of responsibility falls on an officer commanding troops in the field, and an extra 14 kilos will only hinder the ability to move and think effectively. The role of the signaller, as it has been since before the Second World War, is to haul that extra 14 kilos and to make the radio available on the officer’s request. Usually this burden feels like an unwarranted cross that we carry, sweating and grunting while trying to keep up to our unfettered superior. But it is a necessary task, if a deferential one. Our secondary responsibility as signallers is to take care of our officer, and protect him from the enemy. Major Lane chose to surround himself with people to fill this role, and Chris refers to himself privately as “the bodyguard” (or as “Kevin Costner”). Although this doesn’t leave me much scope to fulfill my task as protector, I still feel the odd dichotomy of being a parent and a child at once. I’m sure that the same is felt by the platoon signallers, and I know that when Captain Leary died on an earlier patrol, no one took it harder then his sig. He was in KAF at the time, and skipped his leave departure date to fly back into
the firefight and help avenge Captain Leary. I can’t promise that I would have done the same for the OC.

At long last we are on our feet again, and heading back to the strongpoint. We walk faster now. The ANA are leading us, and they love to run in the hot Afghan sun. We pass through the village in a blur, and I see that life is returning to normal. Farmers are out in the fields, eyeing us suspiciously. Kids come up to us and beg for candy. I see a sheep running with a teenage shepherd in hot pursuit. I hunch my shoulders and try to keep up with Major Lane as mud walls, buildings, and fields pass me by. As we exit the village of Mushan, we stretch out into a long line, and I can see the lead elements almost a kilometre ahead of us. I start to breathe heavily as I try to keep up, and I can tell that the pace is taking a toll on those around me. Finally, we get within sight of SP Mushan, a square of HESCO Bastions dotted with observation posts. I can see in the distance the razor wire that signals an end to my suffering. It is only 1.5 kilometres away, but feels much farther. As soon as we cross that line, we can take our kit off, remove our body armour, and lounge in the hot sand, drinking hot water to our hearts’ content.

SP Mushan is surrounded by open, dry fields, and the farther we walk, the farther it seems we have to go. The heat of the sun radiates off the ground. It is about 1430, the hottest part of the day, and the sun begins to suck out my strength along with my sweat. Every step becomes a trial, and my pack weighs more than it ever has. Even the short mud walls (no more than a metre high) that we have to jump become seemingly impassable. My throat dries out, but I lack the strength even to shift the weight of my weapon to grab the hose of my CamelBak. I force every ounce of my soul into keeping pace. The distance remaining seems to spread out as I lose my strength. Only about 700 metres remain and the end is in sight, but getting
there feels like an impossible task. My headache returns, and with it nausea. Then I feel something I haven’t felt all day, dryness. Instead of sweat dripping down from under my helmet, I feel absolutely nothing. I reach up to my head and feel my hair through the hole in the index finger of my glove. Nothing. I’ve stopped sweating. The rational part of my brain begins to panic. When the body stops sweating, it is the worst sign of dehydration there is. It means that the body is conserving what little water remains in the system and beginning to shut down—a sure sign that heat exhaustion will follow. Unfortunately, I don’t have the power to properly hydrate at the moment, and the pace of those in front of me continues unabated. I have to either keep up or look weak.

I pause midstep, suck the remaining water out of my CamelBak, put my head down, and push to catch up. I force my feet to keep marching despite the darkness that begins to close in around me. I feel drunk and wobble when I stop. I force all the strength I have left into keeping up. After an eternity, we pass the razor wire of Mushan. I stop and lean over, breathing hard and trying to keep my balance. We have made it back inside the wire, the immediate danger has passed. I force myself to walk the remaining 100 metres through the camp to where we’ve laid out our sleeping bags. Finally, I drop my pack, pull off my helmet and flak vest, and collapse on a plastic lawn chair. I look down at my combat shirt; it’s bone dry. I’m so tired I can’t even feel elated. I don’t even have the strength remaining to get my water.

After about 10 minutes, I feel strong enough to stand up. I stagger forward and watch the infantry take off their kit, drink water, make lewd gestures at each other, and similarly unwind. I see a few soldiers who are soaking wet, and hear them talking about the well in SP Mushan where the ANA are pouring cold water on people. I slowly make my way to the well, and am confronted with a line of sweaty Canadians waiting their turn. At the end of the line stands a grinning Asiatic ANA soldier pulling water up from the well.

Northern Afghanistan was settled by an Asiatic people visibly distinct from those of the Pashtun majority. This minority, known as the Hazara, were purportedly descendants of Genghis Khan. They suffered more than most under the rule of the Taliban, who persecuted them for their ethnic nationalism and Shia faith. The Hazara have supported the ISAF mission wholeheartedly since the beginning.

Standing in front of me is a living history lesson, stretching back to the times of the great Mongol empires, and he’s willing to refresh me with cool water. When I reach the front of the line, he turns the metal handle on the well. Attached to a length of what looks like yellow surgical tubing is a gallon jug with the top cut off. I kneel down, and he pours the water over my head, soaking me completely. I feel like a completely different person after the water has washed over me.

After a few minutes my headache begins to return, and I decide it would be prudent to seek out our medic, Master Corporal Jonathan Mertens. I find him lounging on his sleeping bag wearing only pants and ballistic eyewear. He’s engaged in a conversation with Jeff Brazeau about what constitutes a profession.

“Doc, fuck, man, a job is a profession.”

“No way, man, working at McDonald’s is not a profession.”

“Yeah, well, what if you do it every day, or get promoted to be the manager, then is it a profession?”

I watch as this argument grows heated and a copy of Webster’s Dictionary is tracked down. There is still no clear winner. After a few derogatory remarks about the weight and intelligence of those involved in the argument, I pull the doc aside.

“Doc, I stopped sweating on that patrol, that’s bad news isn’t it?”

“Yeah, man, did you pass out or throw up?”

“No, but I felt drunk and wobbly.”

“Yeah, that’s dehydration, you need to go and drink water until you piss clear, at least five litres.”

“Thanks, Doc. Hey, do me a favour—don’t tell anyone about this eh?”

“Of course, man.”

My voice begins to fail. I don’t know why it’s so important, but I don’t want anyone to find out how much I’m suffering. Some part of me needs to cover up the pain that I feel. Unlike most, I don’t sit around and bullshit about how much the patrol sucks, or how my feet are doing. Instead, I go to my sleeping bag, sit down, and try to drink as much of the piss-warm water as I can handle. I smoke more cigarettes, and think about how they’ve lost their pleasant taste. Finally, I lie down in the sweltering heat and try to succumb to sleep. I roll my combat shirt into a ball and undo my pants. I don’t feel up to taking off my boots, so I lie with them splayed out on the sand. I feel the bite of sandflies on any parts of exposed skin that touches the sand, so I finally curl myself into a ball to sweat, and allow darkness to overtake me.

I’m pulled out of the deep darkness by the welcome face of the sergeant-major.

“Flavelle, we’re helping out those OMLT guys again tonight. Get another crew ready for radio shift there.”
There
is his trademark word, and he manages to find a way to insert it into almost every sentence, along with the phrase
shit out;
orders groups with the sergeant-major can be a hilarious exercise. For example, a fairly common order sounds something like, “Flavelle, I don’t care what you have to do to shit out a functional radio there, but make it happen.” A friend of mine once kept a tally of these two phrases during an orders group.
There:
64 times;
shit out:
18 times.

I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and stand up. My feet feel like they are on pins and needles, as the circulation was cut off by my boots while I was asleep. I’m more thirsty and groggy than I have ever been. I look at my watch, 1630; about an hour’s worth of sleep.

After I organize tonight’s radio shift, I walk over to the command
post and ask if they have any new problems with their radios. The CP is the only place in the camp with a fridge. It’s a tiny bar fridge, and it doesn’t do a particularly good job cooling the water below room temperature, but it’s still the closest thing to cold water you can find. There is nowhere near enough to go around, however, and the OMLT guard it closely. I figure that if I can help them sort out a few radio problems, I can then beg a bottle of water or two from them. The OMLT officer gives me a few more radios that haven’t been working properly and I begin to fix them. They have the same problems that I’ve encountered every day since I’ve been in-country, and I start the monotonous process of zeroizing and reloading them. One’s antenna is snapped at the base, so I take the electrical tape I brought with me and rig up a quick emergency fix. All told the basic maintenance takes me no more then an hour, and when I’m done I ask the duty corporal if I can steal a bottle of water.

“Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. That shit’s just for us.”

I gratefully go over to the celebrated fridge, steal a pack of Crystal Light, and go outside to smoke and enjoy water that, for the first time in days, is cooler than I am. I notice an old laptop that appears to no longer be used and ask the OMLT officer what it’s for.

“That’s for the TSK [tactical satellite kit].”

At some point on a previous rotation, someone had the bright idea of giving each base the ability to chat over a secure server, using a laptop plugged into a satellite dish that could enable a secure data transfer back to Sperwan Ghar or KAF. The officer tells me that it’s been here since our rotation started, and that it’s never even approached functioning properly, except to play Minesweeper and Solitaire. Finally a problem I can sink my teeth into.

At this point of the tour I wasn’t familiar with this system, but the basics were easy enough to understand: power cable to computer, to antenna cable, to antenna, to satellite, to receiving TSK—a
simple point-to-point system. I spend the next 30 minutes reading everything I can find relating to the system and trying to fix the laptop power cable with the help of my trusty electrical tape. I isolate the interface that the laptop uses to aim the antenna and set it to transmit. Nothing, zero signal strength. I follow the cable leading from the laptop to the antenna in its winding path through the headquarters; it takes me around various doors, people trying to sleep, and outside onto the roof (the roof is a pile of sandbags five thick on top of HESCO Bastions or plywood). There is no ladder available, so I scale the two metres to the top. When I get there I notice the excellent view I have of the village of Mushan, from where the SP receives small arms fire on a regular basis. I suddenly realize that I’m not wearing a helmet, body armour, or carrying a weapon. I feel like a sitting duck and get as close to the ground as I can while tracing the path of the cable.

At a few points, the roof threatens to collapse, and I have to spread my weight out as you would on thin ice. Finally, I find the antenna. It is a squat, square, panelled dish pointing toward the sky from underneath a camouflage net. I can hear it searching for a signal, and there is a digital readout indicating that it still has zero signal strength. I twist it and point it, all to no avail. I decide that the problem has to be a break somewhere in the shielded wire, and that I have to replace it. I spend the next hour running a new coaxial cable under, over, through, and around an HQ and a HESCO Bastion. By the time I finally get back to the antenna I’m sweaty and covered in dust. My combats have acquired a few more rips, and my hand is bleeding from my slipping and falling to the ground. I plug in the cable, confidently expecting the antenna to power up and the signal strength to immediately jump. Nothing. I let loose a torrent of profanity that can probably be heard in the village proper. It’s so loud and, dare I say eloquent, that someone pokes his head onto the roof and says, “Hey, you okay up there?”

“Fuck this,” I reply, and begin climbing off the roof. I sit and smoke. I had really thought that I would be able to make this system work. Then it dawns on me. I quickly butt out my smoke, climb back onto the roof, and look at the antenna. It’s facing the ground, irradiating those sleeping below, as it has been since it was first installed improperly. One and a half rotations of Canadian soldiers have passed through, thinking that the stand was the radiating element of the antenna, and it has been shooting its signal into the HQ below since its inception. I push it upright and hear the reassuring ping of the antenna acquiring a signal. Now it’s a simple matter of programming it to link up with the command post in Sper, and I will have successfully fixed this system.