The Patrol (22 page)

Kevin and I start to play chess as I light another smoke. Again, I begin to lose as we split a pack of Prince, chain-smoking and carrying on conversations with whoever happens to sit down. I drink as much warm water as I can tolerate; I know that I need to rehydrate, but all I can think about is the taste of cold water. I play distractedly and lose spectacularly, which doesn’t affect my mood. There is a slightly different vibe in the camp; those around us are quieter.
An outsider might not notice a difference, but there is no joy in anyone’s conversations. There is no laughter that is not strained or slightly manic. Around me, soldiers go about their daily business, be it going on sentry, sorting out kit, or chewing tobacco and bitching, but there is something missing.

Kevin has to go on sentry, so I walk back to my cot and lie down. Beside me, Murphy tells stories about the good times he had with Arnal; he talks about going dirt biking with him around Shilo, and the conversation turns to dirt bikes and motorcycles. I have nothing to add, so I sit, drink water, and smoke cigarettes. I listen to Chris tell a story about how he stores his Harley in the kitchen during the winter.

“So my roommate’s girlfriend is freaking out. ‘That thing can’t stay in here!’ she’s yelling at me. And I say, ‘Listen, my relationship with this Harley started before your guys,’ and let’s be fair, it’s probably going to last longer. So either shut up or get out.’” The group smiles and thinks about home and their girl or their bike, whichever is waiting for them.

“I even started her up inside—it’s good for the engine and it pissed that chick right off. I mean, I’d open the door.” Chris has a wistful look as he talks about his Harley. I think that he misses the freedom to ride wherever he wants whenever he wants most of all. “As soon as I get home I’m gonna hop on my bike and ride into town. Then I’ll get some new tattoos,” he says.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to ride in my truck” someone else pipes in.

I just hope that I get home.

At this point, thoughts of home have become ideas more than memories. It is less that we miss what we had than that we make home into something infinitely better in our imaginations. Some will be shocked upon their return to find out that home isn’t as happy as they imagined it to be. Some will have to adjust their imaginations. I wonder which group I will fall into.

The events of the previous night hang like a shadow over our conversation. No one seems to know exactly what to say, and there is more silence than usual. But there is nothing that we can do to change the past, so the monotony of our daily lives returns and is greeted like an old friend. Smoking, bitching, drinking water, bullshitting are all easy and safe activities. The familiar routine is an escape from the horrors that we have witnessed. The future is uncertain, and we still have a long road back to Sperwan Ghar, and a longer road to Canada. So we escape into what we understand, and push the previous night out of our minds. This is why soldiers will always be conservative by nature. Who knows what the future holds? The only thing that we can control is the present. We will wait to process the past when we are at peace and alone.

At some point, the conversation turns to the fact that we are not going to be going on a clearing patrol around Zangabad. We all feel like we should do something to avenge the loss of a Canadian soldier; we should go out and face the enemy and fight and find the IED cache and win. Unfortunately, these sentiments belong to another war, or at least another company. We can only be sure that there are more IEDs waiting for us in the surrounding area, and that whatever Taliban planted them are long gone, or doing their best civilian impression. Any clearing patrol would be an immensely dangerous and most likely fruitless effort. But that doesn’t change the fact that we want to do something, not scurry back to Sper with our tails between our legs. Maybe a strong leader would allow us to do something, or maybe a stronger one wouldn’t. I’m not sure. I do know that each of us, to a man, sitting around smoking, or dipping or bullshitting, would like to do something to strike back at the enemy. But none of us are in command; it isn’t our call to make. In the end there’s only one place to direct our anger.

(Shortly after our return to Sperwan Ghar, behind the seat of a porta-potty on the west side of the camp, some anonymous scribe recorded our mood with an indelible black marker. He wrote “29’s Battle Plan” in large letters, with an arrow pointing downwards. In another porta-potty on the other side of camp, someone had taken a blue pen and described our feelings more generally: “Harder than it has to B Coy.” In Sperwan Ghar, if you wanted a clear picture of our morale you only had to go to the bathroom.)

Like Mushan, Zangabad has a few things that the engineers need to blow up. A few IED components and unexploded shells have been turned in by the locals to the COP, which has no means to dispose of them. Now that the engineers basically have the day off, they undertake the task of blowing (or BIPing) these munitions. For those counting, that’s two things that they’ve gotten to blow up in four days.

Engineers practise a truly underappreciated trade in the Canadian military. No matter where they are in a war zone there is interesting work to be done. Occasionally that work involves finding mines, but it just as often involves building furniture or structures, using chainsaws to clear trees, or blowing things up with high explosives. I am not sure why the majority of those around me joined the military, but wanting to blow things up probably wasn’t at the bottom of their list. Everyone loves explosions. I mean, really, who doesn’t like the idea of blowing something up—ask any stranger walking down the street if he or she would like to pull the trigger of a controlled detonation. I bet I know the answer. For the engineers we are working with in Afghanistan, blowing things up has become so commonplace that it’s almost boring—
almost.

We all remember the incident with Captain Michelson, and so this time, as the engineers prepare the charge, we sit closer to our
kit and get ready to put on our helmets. While the engineers put the finishing touches on their charges, I hear the sound of automatic gunfire coming from behind the HESCO Bastions. Again, it takes a few seconds to sink in. I see people sprinting and wonder what they are doing, as I lean halfway up on my cot. Then I hear the startlingly loud sound of unexpected rounds being fired from a machine gun directly over my head. The enemy is not finished with us, and we are already returning fire. I sit stunned for a few moments, wondering what has gone wrong with the engineers’ BIP before I realize that the COP is being shot at. I stand up and grab my weapon and helmet. In front of me, what at first appears to be a chaotic rush resolves itself into order, as people dash for their kit and run to their fighting positions along the walls of the COP. The scene reminds me of watching a rugby game before I understood the rules; there was obviously some sort of organization, but looking at any one individual on the field, you would see only chaotic running. I look around to see what I’m supposed to be doing, and notice those who are not running to the finite number of fighting positions are moving toward the security of the sea can near the centre of the camp. They are doing so in a grudging fashion, slowly putting on their kit and doing their best to look as if they would rather be moving to the fighting positions. No one wants to be seen to panic or cower under the threat of small-arms fire. I hear an RPG or two whistle through the sky and explode, most likely against the side of the HESCO Bastion, but I can’t be sure. I do my best to imitate the slow walk to the sea can, but I certainly don’t feel as nonchalant as I try to look. I have hastily put my helmet on my head, and move with about 20-plus kilos of my remaining fighting kit in my right hand and my weapon in my left. As I walk, the weight in my right hand becomes heavier and heavier, forcing me to focus on squeezing my fingers as hard as I can so that my kit doesn’t slip out. As the machine gun behind me continues to let out burst after burst, and
the orderly chaos continues to unfold around me, I can focus only on trying not to drop my kit in the sand.

My hand is throbbing by the end of the 20 metres that I have to cover to the sea can, and I walk the remaining five in a strange, swinging wobble, like someone carrying a very heavy suitcase in one hand and nothing in the other. I also have to keep my head straight up so that my helmet doesn’t fall off, all the while trying to look as calm as possible. I drop my kit in the sand behind a miniature HESCO Bastion and take a deep breath. I continue to stand as I put my flak vest on, and swear silently at the Velcro that, due to the ever-present dust, has stopped fastening. I do up my helmet strap, and try to put my chest rig on, struggling to do up the clips. This movement requires dexterity and flexibility, and I don’t possess either at this moment. After a minute of struggle, I finally hear the reassuring snap of the clip falling into place, and am able to look around again. The machine guns are silent by this point, probably only moments after they started firing. Now that I am ready to fight, it would appear that the brief encounter is over—another shoot and scoot. We can’t leave the relative security of the sea can, so I pull out my cigarettes and pass them around. Most of the faces are unfamiliar, and we all try to look as unconcerned as possible. It is very quiet.

The Taliban have left for now. We stay through two cigarettes and one strained conversation until we disperse. If war can be described as brief periods of intense activity followed by long periods of tedium, we are walking back to the tedious. The camp is quiet, the adrenalin has mostly worn off, and we go back to sitting, smoking, and bitching.

“I bet those choppers won’t be coming,” someone says. I lie with my head flat on my cot and look up at the waving green piece of modular tent above us. Everything in the army is green, brown, or tan. It gets depressing after a while. I realize that I probably haven’t
seen a colour other than tan, green, or dust in almost a week, except for one brief glimpse of red.

“Who’s flying ‘em?” someone asks.

“I heard it was the fucking Dutch,” the first voice responds.

“Ah. They’ll never show up,” a third voice agrees. I think about my time in Amsterdam with Darcy, and it doesn’t seem entirely real that I was there.

“Yeah, it’s hard to get shot at while you’re sitting at the Green Bean.” The Green Beans Coffee Company is an American coffee shop in KAF. It is basically an army version of Starbucks. Instead of jazz music CDs and stylish decoration, its walls are crowded with the insignia of the units that have patronized it. There is also a long list of other Green Beans locations around the world, such as South Korea, Iraq, and Kuwait. Their motto is “Honor First, Coffee Second.” They make a fine mocha frappuccino.

The possibility of Dutch helicopter pilots is thus derisively dismissed. I didn’t even know that they had helicopters.

“You ever been to the Dutch PX?” The question is aimed at no one in particular.

“I buy all my smokes from there; they’re the official cigarette of Prince A/S.” I respond while taking one out.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“I have no fucking idea. He must be someone important.”

“Yeah, and he’s got all the hookers in Amsterdam.” I try to imagine all the hookers in Amsterdam in one room, organized by nationality and hair colour. I enjoy the image and smile up at the sky. I continue to smile with my eyes as I take a drag off one of Prince A/S’s cigarettes.

“That would be a sweet go,” I say, exhaling smoke between words.

“Yeah.” The conversation trails off.

“I bet the choppers aren’t going to show up.”

“We’ll see.”

In the army,
go
—as in a “good go” or a “rough go”—is applied to any conceivable occupation, attempt, service, or time period. For example, if I were to give an impromptu history lecture, it would be perfectly acceptable for me to conclude by saying, “As you can see, the Second World War was a pretty fucking rough go.” This remark would most likely be met with nods of approval in a crowd of soldiers. A go, not to be confused with the British term for “have sex,” is something that soldiers can understand. It is an event that is finite in its duration and understandable in its description. As such, life can be broken up into a series of good gos and rough gos. The fact that we are sitting in the middle of a rough go doesn’t really matter; Cyprus is going to be a good go, and HLTA was a good go, so we always have something to look back on and something to look forward to.

We sit and smoke and drink water in our sleeping area for a while; there is absolutely nothing to do. By the time we are talking about “buddy’s wife” and her extramarital affairs, movement around the camp becomes perceptibly more hurried. In the CP they have received word from the voice of God, call sign 2, who has confirmed that helicopters are inbound and will arrive in approximately 40 minutes. It is 1400 and above 40 degrees. I barely have the energy to sit up. I smoke another cigarette and enjoy the feeling of it between my thumb and forefinger. Word spreads around camp that there will be two Dutch Chinooks with a British Apache covering them. Outside the Zangabad CP, the groups that will be getting into the helicopters are lined up, counted off, sorted out, and double-checked. These men sit in a long line in the sand and wait. 4 Platoon will be loaded onto the first chopper and before the dust cloud has settled, the second chopper will come in and make a combat landing literally on the heels of the first. Allan is at the front of the line
for the second group. They are stretched out in a mostly orderly fashion, prepared to make the short dash to the HLS. The soldiers are experienced enough to know that they don’t need to move for a few minutes, until the blades cutting through the air can be heard in the distance; they sit with their kit on, smoking or talking, maintaining their place in the line. The sense of urgency that reigned when the orders were being passed and the men were being lined up has washed away and been replaced with idle speculation on whether the choppers actually will arrive, or if it was all just a clever ruse to get them out of their cots.