The Patrol (17 page)

By the time I finish establishing a secure link, the sun has begun to go down. I walk out of the CP feeling the beginnings of a blessedly cool Afghan evening. I feel like a conquering hero for defeating the obstinate technology. This feeling of supremacy over inanimate objects is the sole bright point of a sig op’s career. Our radios are plagued with seemingly pathological foibles, but over the course of my career I have begun to pride myself on being able to tackle any radio problem, no matter how abstruse.

By four months into the tour, I’ve gained a reputation for being able to solve most technological problems. I don’t mean to sound conceited; I just acquired the ability to talk to broken equipment, and figure out how to fix it. Unfortunately, the infantry have begun to believe that I can fix anything, even if I have never seen it before. My days are often taken up with requests to fix iPods, Xboxes, and other things that are well beyond my ability. Those things that I can’t fix I pass to the LCIS tech (land communications and information systems technician) in Sper. He is truly the king of the nerds, and divides his time between playing pirated Game Boy Advance games on his laptop, and fixing anything technological thrown at him. For me, hearing the beep of a radio that I made work properly or the
ping of an antenna finally pointing toward a satellite fills me with pride. It is that feeling that almost makes being a signaller worth it.

Shortly after I arrived in Sperwan Ghar, our printer broke down. A large Xerox colour printer is not something that one generally associates with a fighting infantry company, but like any other bureaucracy, the military has become reliant on fast, easy printing of computer files. I was told that it was my job to fix it, even though I had no idea how it worked. I took it apart as best as I could, used compressed air to clean out the ubiquitous Afghan dust, put it back together, and went through the settings. But I could not get the piece of plastic to give me paper. Finally, I copied the help number off the printed sticker on the side, and went to our satellite phone to call Xerox for help. I had to patch the call through a switchboard in Ottawa, and waited on hold as the 1–800 number dialled. I stood with a duty officer looking over my shoulder in the middle of a war zone listening to grainy elevator Muzak from a signal that had spanned two continents. Finally, I was able to speak to a human.

“Xerox Help Services, Chantal speaking, how can I help?”

“Umm … Hello, I have a model 200 Xerox printer that is no longer working. It gives me the following error message.” I recite the error message.

“Okay, just one second. It appears that that error can’t be fixed by you. What is your address? We will send a technician out to take a look at it.”

“Uh … I don’t think that that will be possible. I’m in Afghanistan.” (What I should have said is, “My address is 1 Old Russian Compound, Sperwan Ghar, Kandahar.”)

“I’m sorry, did you say Afghanistan?”

“Yes, ma’am. You are going to need to tell me how to fix this problem myself.”

After listening to more Muzak, I eventually had to call in the LCIS tech, and together we fixed the problem.

Outside Mushan, I hear a din rise from the ANA portion of the camp. I wander over, and see an ANA soldier tying up the legs of a goat. Apparently, they want to celebrate our safe return to the strongpoint with a feast. Canadian soldiers crowd around as they decapitate the goat, recording its death with their digital cameras. I don’t feel up to watching, so I go back to my sleeping bag and chat to a few of the infantry there.

“Man, that CP has got air conditioning.”

“Really, like it’s cold?”

“No, it’s broken, but the fan works, and it’s cooler than it is outside. The water is about room temperature.” I see jealousy cloud the faces of my friends.

“You sigs always get the best fucking gos.”

“Whatever, man, I fixed their TSK.” A look of appreciation for my technical feat is noticeably absent from their faces, so I decide to just be quiet and lie down, and try to get some sleep.

In about an hour, it’s announced that the ANA’s feast is prepared, and that we can go get food if we choose. The doc points out the certainty of gastrointestinal problems that will result from eating the goat. We all remember a friend who got so sick from eating Afghan food that he nearly died (it had been sitting out for two days unrefrigerated before he ate it). I’m starved for real food, however, and I decide to give it a try. I line up behind a group of Canadian engineers. The Afghans believe that it is only hospitable to serve us first, as we are guests in their country. I get to the front and smile at the soldier who is dishing out stew onto a tin plate such as one might see in Canadian prisons.

“
Salam Alaikum
” (peace be upon you), I say, trying to show off
what I have learned from talking to our terps. The soldier greets me with a smile, and dishes me out what I guess might be considered a delicacy—a nondescript tube that a short time ago was inside a goat. It could be an intestine, or part of the throat, or any manner of other tube one might find in an animal (my zoology is not sufficient to identify it). On top of this, my tray is heaped with potatoes, and a large piece of the flat naan bread that Afghans eat every day. I go back to our sleeping area and sit down. The smell of real food attracts others, and I share my plate with Murphy, who sits beside me.

“What the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know, man, it’s some kind of a tube.”

I take a tentative bite and gag a little at the taste; this may have been a mistake. I decide to leave the tube on the side of the plate and work on devouring the tiny pieces of meat and soaking up the stew with my naan, which is absolutely delicious and completely fresh. I have my fill, lounge around and smoke with the infantry. I have another 12-to-2 radio shift tonight, and it’s about 2130. I lie on my sleeping pad and listen to the conversation swell around me. The temperature has begun to fall, and it’s about 25 degrees. I take off my boots and socks and quickly enter that comfortable state between sleeping and waking. The conversations take place farther and farther away from me, and reality finally fades out of existence. At long last, I can count on two and a half hours of uninterrupted, restful sleep.

THE NIGHT IS COOL as I am shaken awake for radio shift. I spend a few seconds in my ranger blanket wondering where I am, and why I am supposed to wake up. My mind is unscrupulous in its attempts to allow me more sleep, and I almost allow my eyes to close once again. It is only with a forcible jerk that I throw my body into a sitting position. The night is perfectly still and dark; I can barely make out the huddled masses of the rest of the section sleeping around me. Occasionally, an isolated snore emanates from one of those forms. For me, the bleary-eyed monotony of another depressing army awakening has begun. I stumble as I put my boots on, and walk uncertainly through the unaccustomed dark toward the CP.

I find the OMLT operator reading a magazine behind the desk, and we exchange a nod. “Anything going on?” I ask.

“Nope.”

He is snoring before I’m finished opening a four-month-old edition of
Nuts,
a British “lads’ magazine” that shows nipples. I turn the pages slowly, but my brain doesn’t seem willing to process even this soft-core pornography. I am more tired than I would have thought possible. I didn’t realize the adrenalin rush of the patrol would drop off so far into exhaustion. Outside the CP I smoke cigarette after cigarette and try to think about the big
questions, just to give my mind something to do, but I can’t seem to marshal my thoughts. I wonder what love is, but end up thinking only about why I can’t think about anything. With a sigh, I finish my fourth cigarette, stand up heavily, and go back into the CP. My throat aches and feels dry. The squalid taste of the cigarettes lingers in my mouth. I wish that I had a piece of gum.

“2, this is Mushan, radio check, over.”

A few seconds pass before I hear the dozy voice of Ryan LaFontaine on the other end of the radio 14 kilometres away, as the crow flies, in the base that I’ve learned to think of as home. I am in danger of growing wistful.

“2, you are loud and clear, over.” Ryan drawls out the word
loud,
thus questioning why I am breaking the silent serenity of a quiet night-time radio shift.

My answer comes in the professional quality that I try to inject into my words as I respond, “Mushan, loud and clear, out.” I feel that if I can respond with perfect voice procedure, I will imply that I am just doing my job and trying to make sure that the radios are functional.

I feel a little bit guilty as soon as I finish my staccato
out.
I must sound pretty pretentious to the droopy-eyed listeners who are monitoring this frequency throughout Panjway. Moreover, Ryan is my friend, and it is rude to publicly call him out over the radio. There is such a thing as radio manners.

Although I envy Ryan his cushy seat back in Sperwan Ghar, I know that he is pulling 12-hour shifts. Your mind begins to go mushy after eight hours in an air-conditioned room, surrounded by a never-ending electronic drone, constantly keyed up to hear every word that comes out of three radio nets. Although I certainly feel that I am suffering, Ryan is suffering the mentally numbing purgatory of an endless CP shift.

Some dreary author I read in a half-remembered undergraduate philosophy class wrote that every relationship is a power relationship. With a rigid rank structure that doesn’t allow for much dissension, the army seems to be the embodiment of this principle. Personally, I’m inclined to believe this statement. I have found that almost every interchange in life is usually a thinly veiled attempt to jockey for position with another person. Voice Procedure (VP), the formal way that we talk over a radio, is no different. The more rigidly the army tries to control the way that we speak, the more power we are able to communicate through our intonation.

I open up the TSK laptop and try to find interesting reports and returns on it. One of the habits that I’ve had to force myself out of overseas is snooping. The army works on a “need to know” basis, but the amount of access that I have to information that I
don’t
need to know is staggering. A large part of me wants to contextualize what I am experiencing, and so looks for indications about what is going on around me. On the other hand, it could just be that I am constantly surrounded by information, and am by nature curious. It seems that every report I come into contact with overseas is classified, and I have to control my urge to learn things that don’t apply to me.

I don’t find anything interesting on the computer, as it hasn’t worked for months. I open Spider Solitaire and begin the pointless procedure of trying to sort the cards into their respective piles. This is likely the only task this computer will be asked to perform now that I’ve fixed the power cable. I am quickly engrossed in this mindless activity, and play for the next two and a half hours. When I look at my watch it is 0200. I’m a half-hour late waking the next guy up for shift. Oh well, that will be a nice surprise when he finishes
wiping the sleep out of his eyes. I find the 9 Platoon signaller, shake him, and go back to the CP. By 0230 I am back in my ranger blanket.

I wake up once again in the stifling heat of mid-morning Afghanistan. For the first time in three days, however, I feel rested. I stir and yawn inside my ranger blanket, and when I get up and pull a ration out of the box I feel good, ready to conquer the day. This will be fairly easy, as the day consists of little more than sitting around and hydrating. We will be on the go again tonight, but until then all I have to do is double-check my kit and nap. I feel like I’ve just woken up on a camping trip where I have nothing to do but make my own food and hang around with others all day.

As I smoke, I watch people going about their business. Most of my section lounges in the shade trying to escape the heat. A few people are engaged in attempts to cool water using the sock method, and a few are talking in a subdued way about women.

“I got to talking to that arty chick the other day. Apparently she and her boyfriend are having some problems.”

“You would just love to swoop in there, eh?”

“Wouldn’t you? All those chicks go to the gym together, and I was working out with them the other day. She’s got a nice wiggle on her.”

There are six women in Sperwan Ghar (depending on the number of medics who rotate through), but only three who are unmarried and dateable, all of whom are in the artillery. Discussing them has begun to consume hours of our time. At one point, we discuss the feasibility of getting the artillery to fire a mission right after they go into the shower. When a gun fires, all artillery personnel must report to their stations, and they would have to run out in their towels. As the signaller, I would have to radio in the call. It seems like a workable plan.

The artillery (arty) in Sper is superb. We have two M777 155mm howitzers in our patrol base, and their crews conduct themselves with poise and professionalism. By the end of our tour, it takes only five minutes from the moment that we hear a contact report over the radio to the time that their first round lands. The noise is incredible; in fact, it is less a noise than the feeling of a concussion against your body. The first time I heard it, I thought that we were being attacked, and that the world was coming to an end. Over the months, I’ve gotten used to the unannounced thunder, and it usually signals that something important is happening. Most of the time, I can avoid wincing when I hear the thud and boom of a 155mm round leaving the barrel at 827 metres per second. In the Internet trailers, the concussion doubles, due to the enclosed space. It shakes the doors open, usually while I am composing an important e-mail. I find it hard at these moments not to scream at the arty to shut up.

Near the end of the tour, we got a new LCIS tech. The day that he arrived, my glasses snapped when I fell asleep with them on. I asked him to solder them back together. He agreed, put them in a vise, and began the process of soldering. While he leaned forward to get a better look at what he was doing, the guns went off. He banged his head off a shelf and on the rebound very nearly hit his forehead with the soldering iron.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked with a look of alarm.

“It’s just the arty, man, don’t worry about it.” I tried to say this with the air of a seasoned vet, and my tired, dirt-covered, bedraggled face reinforced this image. I felt smug and superior, but tried not to show it.

My weapon has not been cleaned since we left Sperwan Ghar, and it is covered by a thin layer of dirt. I blow on the hand guards, and see a cloud of dust appear. I sit down and pull out my cleaning kit
(a rag, a paintbrush, a pull-through and some gun oil known as CLP). I unload my weapon (there is still a live round in the chamber at this point), and proceed to break it down. I find it satisfying to understand how things work, and I enjoy the process of taking apart a weapon.

Like most mechanical devices, rifles are fairly simple to understand when you analyze their component parts; the bolt is pushed into the stock of the weapon, either by manual force or by the explosion of a bullet. As it moves back into position, a round is fed up out of the magazine, and inserted into the breach. The spring on the hammer is released when the trigger is pulled, forcing the hammer to hit the firing pin (inside the bolt), which strikes the primer on the back of the bullet casing. The impact of the firing pin on the round causes combustion and a well-channelled explosion propels the bullet through the rifled grooves of the barrel and into or through whatever is on the other end—a simple, satisfying system. Unlike most other mechanical systems, however, our weapons are designed primarily to kill other human beings.

In the military context, a weapon has only two purposes: force and the threat of force. All of our training and efforts are little more than a complex system to get armed individuals to apply force at the right place at the right time. Military theorist Carl von Clausewitz said that “war is an extension of policy by another means.” Soldiers are merely tools deployed to further a country’s foreign or domestic policy—highly trained, highly motivated, and very well-armed tools.

I lay out the pieces of my weapon on an old T-shirt and sit cross-legged behind it. Out of long habit, I lay the pieces of the bolt out neatly and arrange them by size: firing pin–retaining pin, bolt cam pin, firing pin, bolt, bolt carrier. I wipe the dust off these pieces, and lube them up with some CLP. I put the bolt back together, and move on to wiping out the upper and lower receiver groups (the top and bottom of the rifle). I then clean the outside and pull-through the
barrel. When I am done, I double-check the seating and function of my Maglite and my laser sight, and put the weapon back together. Lower receiver group slots into upper receiver group, front pin is pushed in, cocking handle is pushed halfway into the upper receiver group, then the bolt is inserted with a satisfying metallic
click
as it slots into place, followed by a satisfying
thunk
as the weapon is closed and the lower retaining pin is pushed back into place. Twenty minutes after I start working on my weapon, it is put back together, with considerably less dust. I cock it a few times and feel the newly lubricated bolt sliding smoothly back and forth. I pull the trigger, and replace the magazine in its housing. I feel a strange catharsis when I look at my newly cleaned weapon. I still haven’t fired it in combat, but I have used it to apply moral force on a number of occasions. My weapon gives me a feeling of safety that is probably exaggerated. I feel better when it is clean.

Basic training is the formative experience in every soldier’s life. No matter how many other courses you might do, from airborne to combat diver (the underwater knife-fighting course), basic is where you learn to think like a soldier. Polishing boots, marching up and down, and learning to make a bed perfectly do not on their own turn a person into a soldier. It is the constant, unending stress and discipline, endured for months, that fundamentally change the way a person thinks and acts. Recruits often rebel against this new, almost entirely alien mindset, and many quit. It is fascinating to see how people respond to prolonged stress, and every single soldier has a series of “back on basic” stories. As a soldier’s career progresses, however, these stories are weeded out by a process of natural selection. The more experience you have, the less you need to fall back on your basic. But if other courses and experiences hone a soldier’s skill set, on basic you become a soldier.

I did my basic in the summer of 2001, before the September 11 attacks. I was 17 when I arrived in dusty Dundurn, Saskatchewan, and I had never even put on a uniform. By the end of those two months of physical training, inspections, jackings, and what is affectionately termed
cock
(perhaps more appropriately defined as “remedial training”), I was a completely different person. Now, even though I’m a reservist, I don’t really understand how civilians think. Just as soldiers are a closed book to the general population, the general population is a closed book to us. Like a tattoo, basic training is forever imprinted on a soldier’s psyche; it can never be fully removed. After basic, you can never really know what it would be like to go through life without it.