A Line in the Sand Read online

  This scene is followed by a sad one in which the father figure must leave his “daughter” behind. Every time we viewed this scene, I explained to Michelle that her daddy would soon have to go away as well, for “a lot of sleeps.” I explained that it was okay to be sad and that Daddy was going to come back. She took this in very thoughtfully.

  We had almost finished breakfast when Claude got up. Our conversation was cordial, with only a trace of the strain that had been all too evident before my previous tour of duty in 2007.

  I was much more present for Claude in the period leading up to my deployment this time. I spent more time at home, and I tried to keep things as normal as possible. I never wore my uniform around the house, and I even let my hair grow longer. Most importantly, I remained emotionally focused on Claude as much as possible.

  This is not to say that this deployment has been easier on her. What I am asking of Claude goes way beyond anything she imagined she would have to do when she entered into this relationship. Many of my friends have told me that their marriages would not have survived one combat deployment, much less a second.

  I had finished packing the night before, so we were able to have a leisurely morning together as a family. But all too soon, it was time to put my bags in the car and head off. I spent one last minute looking around my neighbourhood before we left. Quiet, peaceful, prosperous. It seemed unbelievable that I was leaving this behind.

  We first drove to my parents’ home. Claude chose not to come in, partly to give my parents and me some time to ourselves, partly because she felt it would be stressful to watch me say goodbye to them. She was right—it was an awkward moment.

  My father is one of only two true pacifists I have met in my life, individuals who would be incapable of harming another human being even if they were being attacked. We have discussed the various crimes of the Taliban, and he recognizes that they are horrible abusers of human rights. It does not follow for him that Canadians in general—and his son in particular—have to go to war to stop them.

  As for my mother . . . well, she’s a mom. Her spontaneous reaction, the first time I told her I was thinking of volunteering to go to Afghanistan, was: “If you do that, I’ll shoot you myself!” Although I knew six months ago I would be going back, I did not tell my parents until four weeks ago. This time, my mother said: “C’est une bêtise!” (“That’s really stupid!”). You could say that things are improving.

  My mother’s initial reaction—motivated by her concern about my safety—was replaced within minutes by unconditional support. During my last tour, she e-mailed me every day and her messages were invariably upbeat and encouraging. I drew strength and comfort from those e-mails, more than my mom will ever know. I have no doubt she will do the same thing this time.*

  We had a brief discussion about the mission and my role in it. It ended with my mother telling me that she would always support me, no matter what I did, as long as I always came back. I promised that I would, both of us knowing full well that might be a promise I would be unable to keep.

  By the time we got to the airport, there were only a few minutes left before boarding. There is nothing good about being at the airport in this situation, so it is best if it is short and over with quickly. Claude and I shared a few more hugs and I love yous and it was time to go. Michelle was happy as I said goodbye to her and hugged her. She did not even seem perturbed when she called out to me, after I had gone through security, that “Mommy’s crying.” From where I was standing, I could see that Claude’s cheeks were dry. Michelle, sensitive as all children are to a parent’s distress, had noticed her mother’s shiny eyes. I replied to her that Mommy was crying because Daddy was going away for a lot of sleeps but that Daddy would come back. I repeated “Daddy will come back” at least four times.

  After an uneventful flight to Toronto and a quick stop to get a regulation haircut, I called up a taxi company the army uses to ferry soldiers from Toronto to Canadian Forces Base (CFB) Trenton. You have almost certainly heard of this base, as it is also the place our fallen return: the “Highway of Heroes” leads from Trenton back to Toronto.

  The ride to Trenton is a sombre one. You can’t help but think of the Canadian soldiers whose return to Canada was followed by a trip down this road. You can’t help but desperately wish you will not join them.

  I got to Trenton in time for dinner. I reported in to the base accommodations (which were—by army standards—superb, like a good roadside motel), called Claude to let her know I had arrived, then went out for one last restaurant meal. I then went for a long walk by myself before turning in for the night. I tried to reflect on what I was doing, but I couldn’t focus.

  I have given so many presentations since returning from Afghanistan that I am usually clear about why I am going back. But it is difficult to remember those motivations when I think about my wife crying, my daughter saying goodbye and the risks ahead.

  I am going to war, again.

  JUNE 1–2 | Getting to Kandahar: The Easy Way

  My first flight from Canada to Kandahar had been a painful, prolonged and exhausting ordeal. Things were much better this time.

  The trip began with a civilized wake-up at the unmilitarily congenial hour of eight o’clock. I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, revelling in my last chance to wear normal clothing. A short walk to the mess hall (cafeteria) next door was all that was needed to acquire breakfast. I then had to call a taxi to get from the sleeping quarters to the air terminal. And that’s where the civilian part ended. Waiting for me in the terminal were several dozen other individuals with short hair and military packs.

  The plane we boarded was a gigantic Airbus model, owned and operated by the Canadian Forces (CF). When we boarded—via the forward hatch—we were met with some extraordinary institutional insensitivity. What was in the first-class section for all to see? Generals in comfortable seats? Politicians with their entourage?

  Stretchers.

  These same planes ferry seriously wounded Canadian soldiers home from the tertiary care hospital in Germany to which they are evacuated if they cannot be treated at Kandahar Air Field (KAF). We were on the outbound flight, so the stretchers were empty. Yet seeing these stretchers was sobering. I’m sure the administrators who organize these flights only consider the aircraft layout in terms of seating availability. They have probably never been on the aircraft itself, so they have never thought that it would be easier for all concerned if passengers entered only from the rear of the aircraft. This is not because of any discomfort I or other Canadian soldiers feel at the sight of our wounded. Rather, it is out of a desire not to intrude on them when they are so vulnerable.

  After a couple of hours, I got up to stretch my legs and ran into an air force nurse named Rhonda Crew. We had worked together for a few weeks at KAF in 2008, and she had impressed me with her competence and collegiality. She was also pretty gutsy: she had volunteered to fly on the medevac helicopters, landing on battlefields to pick up our wounded. She had even been under small-arms fire during several missions. This means that Taliban soldiers were shooting at her with rifles and machine guns from a distance of a few hundred metres. As I said, gutsy.

  Rhonda was in charge of the medical evacuation component of these flights. She was on her way to Germany to pick up a couple of our guys. I commented on the layout of the aircraft, and she agreed that it was far from optimal.

  We compared notes about our activities since we had last seen each other, and I got updates on friends we have in common. We were soon joined by the nurse and medic who made up the rest of the medevac team. As frequently happens in our small army (including reservists, the CF has fewer than 100,000 people in uniform), we all knew people in common. The medic had served on Roto 2 and had been on the scene when Glen Arnold and David Byers, two soldiers from my part of northern Ontario, were killed in 2006. The nurse had served in the 1990 Persian Gulf War with a doctor who had been my roommate at KAF during my first tour.

  The stopov
er in Germany lasted an hour and a bit. We all piled into a special military waiting area graced with the presence of a Subway restaurant, where I got one last dose of North American junk food. Six hours later we landed at a small, isolated civilian airport in the “host nation,” the Middle Eastern country that allows us to maintain a logistics base close to Afghanistan. After a short bus ride, we arrived at “Camp Mirage,” our pseudo-secret base in the aforementioned host nation.

  Before I racked out, I called home. I had promised to call every day. To make sure that I would be able to do so no matter what happened, I had bought my own global satellite phone. Voice communication with Canada, even from here, can be a little iffy. It was wonderful to be able to simply reach into my backpack and talk to my wife and daughter. Expensive, but worth it.

  With things settled back at home (as much as they could be) I was able to focus on what was coming next. “Battlemind” preparation, getting oneself emotionally prepared for exposure to combat, is an essential process for any soldier to go through. I had done very little of this before departure, for a number of reasons. As a veteran, there was no need for me to repeat many parts of the training process I had gone through the first time. Although this allowed me to spend more time with my family, it cut me off from my military brethren.

  The military flight had not contributed much to my preparation. The host nation is extremely sensitive about having Canadian soldiers on its soil, so the trip is done in civilian clothing. You don’t feel very soldierly when you’re unarmed and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. And upon landing in the Middle East, the pilot wishes good luck to those who are “going up north.” No one seems to want to say “Afghanistan.”

  After I got settled into my room, I went for a walk around the base to try to “get my head in the game.” Halfway around the world, alone and in the dark, having left a much-loved family behind and heading towards possible death or dismemberment, it can be hard to feel the clarity of purpose that was so strong a few months ago. The heart aches for peace and a soft, warm embrace.

  JUNE 3 | Afghanistan Again

  I woke up at 0900, dragged my gear over to the baggage loading area, then headed over to the weapons shack to draw my rifle, pistol and ammunition. This area is no longer a sea container but a real building; in the daylight I could see that the base had expanded considerably.

  As we climbed aboard the Hercules, the transport gods (who had so cursed my last trip to KAF) smiled upon me yet again: the aircraft was only half full. There was ample room to stretch out. I tried hard not to sleep, to get over the jet lag quickly.

  When we got to KAF, I went to the orderly room to get the routine in-clearance paperwork done.* I then reported to my company commander, Major Annie Bouchard, a little dynamo whom I had met during my pre-deployment phase.

  Major Bouchard began by congratulating me on the impact that ultrasound has had on the ability of her medical company to provide cutting-edge emergency care. In the months before the company’s doctors and physician assistants (PAs) deployed, I had given them a basic Emergency Department Echo (EDE)† course and conducted advanced training for three of them. I had also gotten the SonoSite company to donate (Yes, donate! For use in a war zone!) three brand-new systems for the duration of the rotation for use on the FOBs, or forward operating bases. The guys I trained have been making excellent use of this gear, detecting injuries that would have been missed otherwise.

  Major Bouchard then briefed me on my mission. It’s going to be a busy summer. A lot of enemy activity is expected, which we will do our best to counter. We will also continue to support reconstruction as much as possible. The “operational tempo” (military-talk for how hard we will be working) will be extremely high.

  One thing hasn’t changed: this is still a civil war, and it is still the Afghans who are enduring most of the suffering. Since the current rotation (Roto 7) began in late March, only one Canadian soldier has been killed: twenty-one-year-old Karine Blais, the second Canadian woman to die in combat in Afghanistan. Casualties among Afghan troops and Afghan civilians have been high.

  Major Bouchard then said something that struck me as very odd. It seems that, at the FOBs, I will be treating Afghan casualties almost exclusively. The helicopter evacuation system has become much more efficient in the eighteen months since I was here last, and wounded Canadians are almost invariably picked up from the battlefield by air medevac. Helicopters have also changed the way non-medevac functions are accomplished. Since February of this year Canada has had its own helicopter squadron at KAF for transportation and air assault missions. We no longer depend on our allies to fly us around. This should have a positive impact on our casualty rate, since most of our deaths have occurred as a result of roadside bombs striking our vehicles.

  The major adroitly anticipated my next question. The Afghan army and police, she said, can call for helicopter evacuation, but to date they have not been fully integrated into the Coalition communication network. If they are not accompanied by a Coalition mentor, communication with the medevac choppers is extremely arduous. It is therefore more efficient for the Afghan forces to load their wounded, and even their dead, into the back of a truck and bolt for the nearest FOB.

  I also learned that I will be joining this war very soon: I head for my first FOB at dawn tomorrow. That being the case, I had to draw additional ammunition as well as a desert-pattern flak jacket this evening. The ammunition was no problem, but getting my flak jacket proved to be a challenge because the clothing store where these items are kept is run by civilians and closes at 1800, and it was well past 2100 when I arrived. The clothing store supervisor explained that it was inconceivable—inconceivable!—that he would wake up one of his people to allow me to get the gear I needed. We had to get Captain François Aziz-Beaulieu, one of the senior officers of the medical company, involved. Captain Aziz-Beaulieu, who can bark with the best of them, resolved the problem. It seems that not everybody here accepts that we are at war.*

  With all my gear collected, I went back to my room to pack. I started by loading my rifle ammunition into the (many) additional magazines I had been given. My infantry background shows when I do this. At the top of the magazine I load a few ordinary bullets, to be fired off quickly if a firefight starts unexpectedly. This gives the enemy something to think about, and gives me something proactive to do. That helps to calm you down, even if the shots are only vaguely aimed. By the time those shots are away I hope to be in good cover, trying to locate the source of the enemy fire. Once I figure out precisely where the bad guys are, I want some tracer rounds ready to go to indicate to my comrades where the enemy is. Finally, I leave my mags slightly underfilled, because mags filled to capacity are more prone to jamming.

  I finished loading my two backpacks with what I would need for the next four months: clothing (which, given the heat, is pretty limited), my laptop, my DVDs and some books. I learned during my previous tour that the boredom of the FOBs needs to be countered with more than movies. After the first month, I was desperate for something to read.

  By midnight I was done, and I stepped outside to call home. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Claude that I was headed outside the wire the next day. This meant that I could also avoid talking about the worst part of the next day’s activities: I will be going by road rather than helicopter. There is a convoy headed to my first FOB, and it makes more sense to send me now than to wait for a helicopter. The helicopters are so occupied with medevacs and combat operations that routine KAF-to-FOB transfers are unpredictable. It is essential that I get to my first FOB to provide coverage, so I have to go tomorrow. I will be going with the Bison (armoured ambulance) crew from my FOB. They returned from vacation today and are headed out tomorrow.

  Going down the roads of Zhari-Panjwayi, the threat of roadside bombs and ambushes are ever-present. The place where most Canadian deaths have occurred.

  The worst thing you can do.

  After Major Bouchard told me that, she sent me to get my picture
taken. I went to pack my gear instead. The picture in question is the one they show on the news when you are killed, the one with the Canadian flag off to the left. No way was I letting anyone take that picture.

  Afghanistan’s Kandahar province, showing three Canadian FOBs

  Kandahar street scene: dilapidated building . . . with satellite dish*

  JUNE 4 | Back to the FOB

  I woke up at 0500 and spent the next half hour finishing my packing. The Bison crew arrived in front of my quarters half an hour later to pick me up. I jumped in the back and took my usual position in the right rear (starboard) “air sentry” hatch, and we drove off to the area where the convoy was being marshalled.

  The pre-convoy briefing began with a description of enemy activity in the area we will be traversing. The briefer began with a map indicating the locations where the Taliban had planted bombs or had sprung an ambush in the past week. I couldn’t believe how much activity there had been between Kandahar City and the FOB. Things were not nearly this bad when I was here during Roto 4 , a “winter tour”. There has always been an increase in the fighting in Afghanistan in the summer, and it was clear that the “fighting season” was upon us.”

  The view from Northeast Observation Post, looking south

  There are a number of routes you can take to get to Zhari-Panjwayi from KAF. The one we chose took us through Kandahar City. This is a strange experience. You’re driving through a city of a half-million people that looks like many other communities in the developing world. This should be a cultural experience to be savoured. But here you’re riding in an armoured vehicle, part of a convoy bristling with heavy weapons. Every vehicle that crosses your path might contain several hundred kilograms of high explosive accompanied by an individual convinced that he will go to heaven if he blows himself up beside you. Your attention is focused on vehicles that are within fifty metres of your own. The city itself goes by in a blur.