The Patrol (5 page)

After four months in-country, I still don’t know exactly how I fit in. Later I come to realize that that’s just the way the infantry acts.
Everyone gets a little nervy before patrol, and some people decide to pick on others to defuse their anxiety. It’s important to infanteers that they know their comrades are going to stand up for themselves in a real fight, so they constantly test each other. On the outside their actions appears childish, but in reality they are as pragmatic as anything else they do.

In October, when we were finally rotated out of Afghanistan, the army sent us for three days of “decompression” at a five-star resort in Cyprus. I was sent with the bulk of the headquarters personnel, as the military tries to keep sections together on decompression to allow soldiers to work through some of the things that happened on tour together. I still didn’t feel that I was a fully integrated member of our motley crew when we arrived, but one night of debauchery was enough to change that.

After not having tasted alcohol since the end of our previous leave, most of us didn’t last long. That first night I sat at the swim-up bar at the luxurious Azia Resort (every now and again the army is very good to us) and bullshitted along with everyone else about everything that had happened over the last seven months. We drank, fought, laughed, and cried together, and I finally felt like one of the boys. It was then that I began to understand why the infantry act the way they do. The things that we’d seen had left all of us vulnerable, and we needed to build up some armour around our hearts. The only people who could understand how that armour worked were our fellow soldiers. Behind the high school bullshit that permeated our lives were simply people hardened by what they’d seen, people who hid their emotions so well that they had begun to stop feeling.

One of the highlights of our stay was the reviews we garnered for the Azia Resort on
tripadvisor.com.
One review stated, “300 plus Canadian soldiers arrived fresh from Afghanistan and they wanted to drink as much as possible and fornicate in the hotel. We were
unable to use the swimming pool as the soldiers were drinking and smoking in there.”

Back in Sperwan Ghar, I finish eating dinner. It’s about 1600, and we are set to depart at 2000. I go to the Internet trailer and check my e-mail: nothing. I’d already checked the day before, but it was still disappointing to see an empty inbox. I reread old e-mails and compose a few new ones. I feel the need to explain to Darcy the dangerous situation I’m going into, so I write the following lines:

There are very strict rules about what we can tell those at home on the Internet. We are not allowed to talk about troop movements,
and as we are troops, we aren’t allowed to talk about our own movements. I probably bent these rules a bit in my e-mail, but it is very difficult to prepare yourself mentally for “going out” without sharing anything with the people you love.

My half-hour on the Internet is intensely frustrating. In the haste to get us working terminals, someone had installed the trial version of the operating system we are using to connect. Every five minutes the screen goes black and a helpful reminder pops up saying, “Thank you for using Userful DiscoverStation Trial Version, your screen will restore in 10—9—8—7—6—5—4—3—2—1.” Three of the four computers have screens smashed by frustrated soldiers. Up till now I couldn’t believe that someone would intentionally punch the screen; today I have to physically hold myself back from doing it. I send an e-mail to my mom and my sister, and leave the trailer with five minutes left on my session. I wander back to my room.

A poker game is spooling up as I walk in, and Murphy is pulling out the large cookie tin that holds our chips. The chips are cheap plastic ones and their colour has no meaning in our games. Each person gets 50 chips—whoever has them all at the end wins. Four people sit around the table, and we play fast. We all want to get some sleep in before the patrol. In the end, it’s me and Murphy. He bets it all on a stupid hand; I call and win the game. He throws down his cards and says, “Fuck, Flavelle, sometimes I just want to fucking kill you.” No one likes to lose $20 to a signaller.

I leave and take a quick shower. Then I shave and drink a bottle of water. I walk back to my room in my favourite ripped shorts and sandals that have seen 14 countries and are well past their prime. I feel excited and nervous. I smoke and chat with Murphy about how he stores his CamelBak, and his ACOG sight (which he purchased with his own money). Finally, I climb the ladder to my top bunk, lay my head on my pillow, and will sleep to come. It refuses. Instead, I think about the patrol. I think about what fighting will actually
be like, and how I will do. I think about home and my girlfriend. I wonder what she’s doing. I think about
The Shield,
a TV show I’ve become addicted to. I think about society. Finally, my brain decides that it’s time to shut down and I drift off to sleep. In only three hours we step off on patrol.

THE PRINCESS PATRICIA’S CANADIAN LIGHT INFANTRY have a proud regimental tradition unequalled in Canada. They fought with distinction in both world wars, and won the Presidential Unit Citation during the Battle of Kapyong in Korea in 1951 (the only Canadian unit ever to achieve this honour). The Second and Third Battalion PPCLI have also won Commander-in-Chief Unit Commendations (awarded by the governor general), Canada’s highest unit honour. These were won by the Second Battalion (which I am attached to) at the Battle of Medak Pocket in Bosnia in 1993, and by the Third Battalion during Operation Apollo, the deployment to Afghanistan in 2003. Although these honours are bestowed on the battalion, who wear them in perpetuity on their DEUs (dress uniforms), only those present at the time have the privilege to wear the awards on the front of their uniforms, right below the name tag. I know two soldiers who wore two separate Commander-in-Chief Unit Commendations. These soldiers saw the worst that the world could throw at them and came out the other side. Now they sleep, eat, and bitch in my room. This is a culture that is proud of its fighting tradition, and that ensures that it is carried on today—a world away from the 746 Communication
Squadron, my beloved reserve unit that turns out about 30 soldiers on Wednesday nights.

It is important to understand the regimental organization of the infantry in Canada and in Afghanistan. There are three regular force infantry regiments; the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry (PPCLI), the Royal Canadian Regiment (RCR), and the Royal 22nd Régiment, called the “Van Doos” (after
vingt-deuxième,
or “twenty-second”). Each of these regiments is subdivided into three battalions commanded by a lieutenant-colonel, who wears three bars on his epaulette. For example, the First and Third Battalion PPCLI (or I and III PPCLI) are stationed in Edmonton, Alberta, and the Second Battalion (II PPCLI) is stationed in Shilo, Manitoba. Each battalion is subdivided into five companies, commanded by a major (two and a half bars). These companies are lettered (and named) as opposed to numbered; within II PPCLI the rifle companies are named Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, and they are the fighting elements of the battalion. Each rifle company is divided up into three platoons, commanded by a captain (two bars) or a lieutenant (one and a half bars)—also, it is pronounced
lef
tenant not
loo
tenant. If you argue that there is no
f
in
lieutenant,
I would respond that there is no
r
in
colonel.
These platoons are numbered starting with 1 in Alpha Company. Bravo Company contains 4, 5, and 6 Platoon; Charlie Company contains 7, 8, and 9 Platoon. Platoons are subdivided into sections, the smallest organizational body of troops in the Canadian infantry. Sections are commanded by a sergeant or a master corporal.

The fighting soldiers of a tour in Afghanistan (a rotation, or ROTO) are subdivided into three major elements: the battle group, which is centred on an infantry battalion but also contains a tank squadron; an engineer squadron; and an artillery battery. They are commanded by an organization known as Task Force South or TF(S), and are supported by the National Support Element (NSE). The battle
group is headquartered in KAF. The battle group also controls a number of forward operating bases (FOBs) and patrol bases (PBs).

Near the bottom of this organizational structure, you find me. I provide signals support to Bravo Company II PPCLI as a reservist “augmentee.” Our company operates out of Patrol Base Sperwan Ghar (PBSG), and is also in charge of three combat outposts (COPs). Bravo Company comprises three infantry platoons from II PPCLI—4, 5, and 6 platoon—as well as one platoon from III PPCLI (based out of Edmonton). The platoon from III PPCLI doesn’t have a number, as it can’t be called 7 Platoon (which already exists in Charlie Company). We designate it
24
, its call sign; Bravo Company, call sign 2, commands 21, 22, 23, and 24. The OC (officer commanding; i.e., the person who commands the company) is referred to as
29er
, which is spoken as “two niner,” never “two nine.” Although these details may be hard to wrap one’s head around at first, they comprise the administrative and organizational structure that we live within and give rise to the communal language that we all learn to speak. In fact, as the tour progresses, Bravo Company becomes more important to me than anything in the world.

On my first day working with my home unit in Calgary, right after I finished basic training, we got a 40-minute briefing on the new radio system that was being fielded. I literally had no idea what was said during the briefing; I didn’t even know what it was about. I spent at least the first 15 minutes thinking that references to TCCCS (the new radio system, pronounced “Tics”) were about insects, and that the briefing was about how to deal with them in the field.

I wake up itchy. Tiny black flies that we call
no-see-ums
at home proliferate in Afghanistan. You can’t feel their bite, but they leave a mark similar to that of a mosquito. I find my legs covered in bites when I wake up at 1930, and I scratch until they bleed. I can
hear everyone else in the room putting on their uniforms. I’m still bleary-eyed, having slept for only about three hours.

I hate waking up in the military. I’m a night owl, and I prefer to sleep well past the beginning of the day. On basic training, we were reduced to about four to five hours of sleep a night for two months, and the morning kicked off every day at 0500. I was 17 and had never spent more then a month away from my own bed. By week six, if someone had offered me release papers and told me that if I signed them I could go back to sleep, I would gladly have said yes. After eight years in the military, I still haven’t quite gotten the hang of instant wakefulness so common to the career soldier. I’d been jacked up for sleeping in on more than one occasion. The worst part was always the speech that followed: “If I’d done that back when I started my career, I’d have been charged and put on extras,” they would inevitably tell me.

We’re supposed to be a kinder, gentler army today, and the number of times I’ve heard a story start with “Things were harder back then” enrages me. Here are the simple facts: the war my army and my generation are involved in fighting is a real, live hot war. Yours was not. I’m tired of hearing about how drunk you were back when you were peacekeeping in Cyprus as a corporal. Cyprus is where we go to take a vacation from our real war. I don’t mean to imply that there aren’t remnants of the old generation who have taken what they learned and adapted it to the modern operational environment, but I’ve noticed that they are the exception and not the rule. At a certain point, despite the army’s best efforts, people stop trying to learn. Usually this is because they think they’ve mastered the job.

I was at a friend’s wedding recently, and I met a few other guys in the military from my generation. Our conversations followed a familiar pattern:

“Oh, you’re a medic/signaller/infanteer/engineer eh? What unit are you with?”

“Weren’t you guys over on TF 3–06?”

“Yeah.”

“You guys did a lot of fighting …”

“I remember being in this one firefight …”

At the same wedding, I had conversations with various individuals who have been in since “Christ was a corporal.” They had a different pattern:

“Do you know
(insert other old codger’s name here)
?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember one time on exercise we got so drunk together that we could barely even stand, and then we didn’t even get charged.”

Kinder, gentler army indeed.

The major problem with the “back in Cyprus” crowd is that many are in leadership positions. In stressful situations, soldiers instantly and intuitively fall back on their training. This rule doesn’t only apply to battle, or even patrolling. Living in a war zone is a pretty stressful thing to do. Those whose lives have been devoted to prompt, unthinking obedience to the chain of command, and to maintaining proper dress and deportment tend to make those things priorities even in war zones.

For example, after having lived, worked, and patrolled with the same group of people for the first half of my tour, we addressed each other by our first names. When Sergeant-Major Cavanagh caught wind of this infraction, he instantly brought the hammer down. Under no circumstances were we allowed to refer to those in leadership positions by their first names. If we were caught, we faced a charge. I can’t think of a more ridiculous military rule to enforce. This isn’t basic training; we all understand how the chain of command works. The bottom line is that when one of our junior leaders told us to do something, we did it. If we didn’t, we would hear about it instantly and loudly. It doesn’t matter whether I say “Yes, master corporal” or “Sure thing, Liz.” Bonds of friendship had
begun to develop, and rank no longer seemed like an impediment to knowing a fellow human being. But the army has different ideas. The most horrific and morale-shattering e-mail I’ve ever read was sent by a high-up Canadian non-commissioned member (NCM). It started with the same bullshit that we constantly tried to ignore if no one was looking: red flags must be worn on KAF, boots must be bloused at all times, beards are not acceptable under any circumstances (the way to get around the ban on beards is to talk to a medic and get a chit saying you can’t shave due to a medical concern). This e-mail informed us that if we weren’t healthy enough to shave, we weren’t healthy enough to be in Afghanistan. I’d read a number of e-mails similar to this one, promulgated by folks who appeared to have more rank than brains, sitting in an office far away from where things actually happened. No big deal. As I continued to read, however, I noticed one sentence that infuriated me. It stated, “I’ve noticed that over the course of this deployment, those who maintain a high standard of dress and deportment are more often singled out for honours and awards than those who do not.” Basically, this person was implying that those who follow the minutiae of army dress are better soldiers and somehow braver than their unshaven counterparts. Everyone in our company routinely tried their hardest to breach the dress standard as far as possible, yet our company had committed some of the most noteworthy and bravest actions I can think of, often refusing to have their names submitted for awards. They felt that they were doing their jobs, just like everyone else in the company, and deserved no special recognition. The KAF WOG out for a day trip on a resupply run who fires his weapon at the enemy is far more likely to be better dressed. He’s also far more likely to have his name put up for a medal than any of us. I felt that our honour was being impugned because we bent the rules regarding dress. Sometimes I hate the army.

My earlier nervousness is a distant memory as I pull on my pants. I’ve already laid out a fresh pair of underwear and socks, helping to streamline dressing into a two-minute procedure. I finish putting on my shirt and walk outside to our picnic table, possibly my favourite place in Afghanistan. I grab a bottle of water, light a cigarette, and watch people filter out of the room. We don’t have to be ready to go for another 10 minutes, so I watch my section start to move around me. I butt out my smoke into a spent artillery shell and put on my fighting kit.

I have determined a specific order to this process that works best. First I put on my flak vest, strap it up and shake around to make sure that the Velcro still works (sand wreaks havoc on Velcro, and I’ve had to sew new strips on three times over the course of the tour). Next I throw on my chest rig and ask a friend to help me with the straps on the back. Then I put on my weapon, as my sling has a clip that can be unattached, and I’ve found the best way to carry my weapon is with the sling underneath my pack; I can still fight with it clipped up, but can unclip it if I need to pass my weapon off to somebody, or adjust something. Over top of my sling I put my pack, which feels heavier every time I try to put it on. Finally, I grab my helmet and walk over to the assembly area. It is 1950, twilight.

I think about what we are going to do, and about whether or not I actually want to do it. The glamour associated with patrolling has lost a lot of its lustre, and walking the fields of Afghanistan has become a relatively commonplace, yet all too dangerous, pastime. I know that we’re in for a rough go, and I figure that I might as well come along for the ride. In the long run, it’s a better story than sitting in a command post. I think about what I would do if I were given the choice; I’d probably still go. If anything were to happen to
any of my friends on this patrol, and I’m not there to help, I don’t know what I would do.