The Patrol (4 page)

In the end, this skill set is the only reason that I’m going on this patrol: I’m a signaller (or “radio donkey”), and I’m coming along to act as a living cell phone and secretary for the commander. Mind you, my position is the most sought-after of all the signalling jobs; it’s far more exciting than sitting in an air-conditioned office listening to radio traffic.

I check and recheck my frequencies and settings, load fresh batteries, and find spares to carry with me. Finally, I conduct a radio check.

Beep.
“2, this is 2 pronto, radio check, over.”
Click.
Radio operators are known by three nicknames:
pronto
,
jimmy
, and
sigs fag
.
Pronto
is
our official nickname, taken from the signallers’ Bible (alternatively known as the ACP 125 CANSUP Foxtrot), which outlines the
only
acceptable way to speak on a radio;
jimmy
is our name for Mercury, the god of communications (I don’t know why); and
sigs fag
stings just a little bit. I don’t think there is any malice intended; working with the infantry reminds me of being in a high school locker room.

(On my first-ever exercise in Wainwright, Alberta, in 2001 someone poked their head into my tent and said, “Hey, I need a jimmy.” I looked around and said, “Sorry, there’s no Jimmy here, I’m Ryan and that’s Marc.”)

I push my radio as close to the back of my pack as I can. It is important to get as much weight as possible close to your centre of gravity. This helps to maintain balance, which has been a problem for me on previous patrols. On the other side of my radio I put two CamelBaks, each of which holds 2.5 litres of water. One is reserved only for use in a TIC (troops in contact), as previous tours have found that running out of water during a firefight can have dire consequences. I also put four frozen 500ml bottles of water into my pack; they will be my only source of cold water for the duration of the patrol. (Of course ice melts, so I have cold water for only one day.) I also bring eight granola bars (rocky road flavour) and two packages of flavoured almonds that my mom bought at the farmers’ market in Calgary. She mailed them in a care package that I received recently, together with letters and comics from the
Calgary Herald.
I bring one spare pair of underwear and four pairs of socks. I may get a chance to wash some clothing in the buckets they have available in Zangabad and Talukan. I bring one spare pair of pants, because I figure that if I rip my shirt it won’t be a big deal, but if something happens to my pants I’m screwed. On top of this I carry two packs of water purification tablets, my journal, a spare pen, electrical tape, and two infrared glow sticks (invisible to the naked eye, but visible to night vision goggles). Finally, I break down a carton of cigarettes
and place the smokes strategically throughout my pack. I know that my pack will take a beating over the next couple days, and it is important to have my cigarettes in multiple locations. If one pack gets crushed, I can deal with it. If the entire carton is squished, I will be a very unhappy signaller.

I take my ranger blanket, a newly issued, thin CADPAT (Canadian Disruptive Pattern, the computer-generated digital camouflage pattern used by the CF) sleeping bag. I wrap it around the camping mattress I bought in Winnipeg before I left. This mattress is thin and light, and it looks like a big egg carton. When I bought it, one side was bright orange, not a fit with army camouflage, so I have spray-painted that side black. Once the mattress and ranger blanket are rolled up I take two loops of Bungee cord to hold them together, and strap them to the side of my pack. In the top pouch, I put in a Ziploc bag of 12 fresh AA batteries, and two spare memory batteries for my radio. Into this pouch I also stuff a length of cord, two more glow sticks, a pack of cigarettes, and three “toilet bags”—sealable bags used to poop in the field (they come with toilet paper). I lift up my pack to test the weight and shake it around. Heavy but stable.

I move on to my fighting kit. For the first half of the tour, I’d carried the issued Canadian tac vest. After patrolling for three months, I found it wasn’t able to carry the amount of kit that I needed it to, so I ordered a new harness known as a
chest rig
from a company online. I’d borrowed a chest rig from a guy who was on leave for an earlier patrol, and I’d really liked it. The pouches are much larger and easier to gain access to than those of the tac vest, and there is a large zippered compartment in which I can hold notes, cheat sheets, orders, smokes, and water. Into this rig I pack nine magazines, which hold about 250 rounds of ammunition, my night vision goggles, two fragmentation and two smoke grenades, my backup weapons sight (if my sight falls off at least I won’t be completely screwed), one litre of Gatorade, one litre of water,
communications equipment cheat sheets, a notepad and pen, a compass, and a letter from my girlfriend. One side pouch contains all of my first aid gear, including a tourniquet (useful if I am bleeding excessively from a limb), QuikClot (a powder designed to instantly cauterize a wound), and an Israeli bandage, which is basically a piece of sterile cloth with a clip on the side that allows it to be easily tightened. This pouch is marked with a large first aid cross that I drew with a black Bic marker. Although I’ve mostly overcome my innate fear of grenades, carrying them is somewhat of a concern, as I don’t trust the pouches that come with the chest rig. Instead, I decide to duct-tape the spoons (safety handle) onto the bodies of the grenades and put them into the other side pouch. I also stuff in two more IR glow sticks, and another package of nuts for some quick calories when I need them. Finally, I use Zap Straps to attach my bayonet to the bottom of my rig. I’m not lost in some fantasy where I’m going to be fighting hand-to-hand with the Taliban, but if I find myself in a minefield, I’m going to need a bayonet to probe my way out of it. Plus, you just never know. On the very slim chance that we get ordered to fix bayonets (which has happened on previous tours), I don’t want to be the idiot without a pointy gun.

Putting on the chest rig is a two-person procedure, as it has shoulder straps that cross over my back and is held into place by a plastic clip that runs along the bottom. First I throw it on, and then I ask someone nearby to sort out the straps in the back. Once it’s on, however, it’s immensely comfortable.

After I’ve finished putting my chest rig in order, I move on to maintaining my personal weapon. I take it apart, clean it, and put it back together again. I make sure that the bolt is well lubricated. My weapon is the standard-issue C7A2 assault rifle. It holds a magazine of 30 rounds, and I’ve carefully put on an infrared laser sight (for use at night) and a Maglite that seems brighter than the surface
of the sun. Each has a rubber toggle switch attached to the fronthand grip by Velcro, the cables being held in place by elastic bands and electrical tape. I’ve put a lot of effort into my weapon, and I’m proud of it, but not as proud as the infantry around me are of theirs.

I take a look at my flak vest, a Kevlar vest with two ballistic plates in the front and back that are designed to stop an AK round. Attached to my flak vest are two Kevlar shoulder pads, which we have been forced to wear by those above. We also have the option of getting Kevlar arm protectors (which we call
water wings
), and even a neck protector. But I feel I already have enough weight to deal with.

I recheck my helmet, which I’ve lined with a padding system formally called BLSS Kit (“bliskit” to soldiers). The padding cost about $200 and I had to stay on hold on the phone with an American company for an hour, but it was worth it. I ripped out the issued leather and Styrofoam strap that dug into my head every time I wore my helmet, and replaced it with pure bliss. I don’t think it’s possible to pay enough for a comfortable head while patrolling. The only problem with the bliskit is that the pads absorb water, so I have to wring them out every time I stop on patrol, leaving a tiny puddle of my own sweat on the ground. On my helmet is my NVG mount, an infrared light designed to be seen by those behind and above me, and my issued goggles, for protection against the dust and wind storms.

One major problem that I have while patrolling is that I’m basically as blind as a bat without my glasses. During a routine physical in Sper prior to redeployment, the medics asked me the standard questions: height, weight, are you a smoker, and so on. When they asked my vision category I responded “V4” (on a scale of 0 to 4, 0 being good). The medic took a closer look at me and said, “Oh, so you’re that guy. I’ve heard about you.”

I have only one pair of civilian glasses with me in theatre, and no hard case (one of those last-second packing oversights). I also
have army-issued ballistic eyewear, and a pair of Oakleys that I bought prior to deployment. A tiny pair of plastic nerd glasses that the army has issued me fit into either of those two pieces of eyewear. The problem with the issued ballistics is that they push the glasses inwards and give me severe and nausea-inducing tunnel vision. The problem with the Oakleys is that they are verboten. Due to a series of direct orders, I decide to conduct this patrol using my ballistic eyewear, bringing my civilian glasses as a backup. This basically means that I will be partially blind for long parts of the patrol.

After repacking my chest rig, I take a look at my uniform, the standard Canadian desert-pattern camouflage shirt and pants. When I was first issued them, forever ago in Shilo, I thought that they were the coolest-looking uniform in the world. Four months into my tour, they still look pretty badass.

There are subtle differences between the uniforms of someone coming from KAF and someone residing outside of it. No one in the company wears a red flag; instead, we all have green ones with a low infrared signature. In KAF, everyone wears a reflective patch similar to what cyclists wear to be seen at night—but our goal is
not
to be seen at night. We never wear field caps, and try our hardest to avoid wearing outer (combat) shirts whenever possible. I’ve found that you can tell basically everything about soldiers by the way they wear their uniform. Red flag and field cap instantly raise the WOG alarm. Boots that are not bloused (pants rolled down to below the top of the boot) and shirt sleeves rolled halfway up mean a fighting soldier, usually one far from the searching eye of a sergeant-major.

In Canada you can tell almost everything about a soldier by his or her beret. The cap badge indicates the wearer’s trade; the way that the beret is formed indicates whether or not they give a shit about their job and how far down their forehead it rests indicates how cool they think they are. I’ve found that it takes about ten seconds
to judge a fellow soldier by looking at his or her uniform; I’ve also found that these judgments are seldom wrong.

My uniform shirt has two pockets sewn on the arms at an angle. Some of us paid to have this done in Shilo. The idea is that this will allow us to access things from our shirt while we are wearing a Kevlar vest (which covers the pockets we normally use). However, the vest limits my motion so much that these pockets are basically obsolete; I have to ask people beside me to open them. In them I carry a tin can filled with cigarettes, my digital camera, and my headlamp. The last time I was in KAF, I had a patch made for me and the other members of my home unit; it reads “746 det Afghanistan”;
det
stands for “detachment,” which is usually a three-person team of signallers who are “detached” from their unit to augment another one. I had these patches made up and sent to the other members of 746 Communication Squadron. I keep mine covered up, as all morale-lifting patches have been banned by the powers that be. It remains there as a reminder of home and better times. Finally, I add my gloves, a tan pair that I bought at the American PX in KAF. They are thin, durable, and tight fitting, allowing the maximum amount of feel. There are holes in the fabric on my trigger finger, right middle finger, and thumb. I hold the bulk of the weight of my weapon with these fingers, so the fabric wears out there first. My fingers poke out of the holes.

I try everything on while wearing shorts and sandals, and make sure that the weight feels stable. I can’t imagine how I’m going to make it through this patrol; the weight is crushing into my chest, and for a few seconds I have a hard time breathing. I take everything off, work on the straps, and take out a few things that I don’t absolutely need (one package of nuts and a few Gatorades). I never actually weighed all my kit, but others did. A conservative estimate is between 45 and 70 kilos. This is going to suck.

The day has whiled itself away as I packed my kit. By the time I
stow my pack beside my bunk, lay out my uniform the way I want it, and put my weapon back in the rack, it’s almost dinner time. Our room is a long, concrete-walled space with a communal table, a fridge near the door, and a TV and Xbox at the far end. It is lined with wide bunks, each of which holds a twin mattress. We are fortunate to have a tiny bit of personal space. Most people have created a masturbatorium out of their bunk by hanging extra sheets as curtains. Many have escaped into their own private sanctuary to sleep or watch movies on their laptops. A few are playing video games on the communal TV, and the sound of automatic weapons emanates from it.
Rainbow Six: Vegas
and
Tiger Woods PGA Tour 09
are the current favourites.

A subdued tension permeates the room, and I notice that people are being dicks to each other more than they otherwise would. I’m still not fully integrated into the infantry culture, but I’m accepted as a nerd who knows how to run radios. People try to get a rise out of me by saying that Kirk was a better captain than Picard (which he obviously was not). Sometimes I’m called “Doc Brown” after the doctor in
Back to the Future,
due to my unkempt dirty hair, zany statements about radios, and preoccupation with flux capacitors. I like these guys, but I don’t feel that I’m one of them. I’m quieter than I naturally am, and I watch more than I speak. Smith, a short Filipino-Canadian soldier covered in tattoos, picks on me like a high school bully. It’s never in earnest, but he’s just one of those guys who needs to constantly prove his dominance. He spends part of the day trying to scare me with a rubber snake. I think it’s all pretty childish, and I try to ignore him and carry on, but his antics alienate me a little from the group.