"TPT One, Loud and Clear, Over."
I looked at Ryan, strapped into his driver's seat, his 5-point harness, helmet and dark issued glasses making him look like he was about to fly a Herc instead of making the most dangerous 14 hour drive of his life.
He kissed his wedding ring, crossed himself, and touched the roof of the 30 tonne vehicle, reverantly with his gloved hand.
"You crossed yourself backwards, you unfaithful twit."
"Go fuck yourself. Doesn't matter if I don't believe. You know we are going to die, right?"
I laughed. He was probably right.
"Do something lucky. You have to. I don't give a fuck what it is, find something."
"Don't tell me what to do." But to appease him I snapped the rubber band I wore on my wrist...For luck.
"There. Happy?"
"If I die, tell my wife I love her."
"If you die, probably means I'm dead too. But I will. I will tell her. And than I will take her to the Keg, be her shoulder to cry on at the funeral, and when she collects your benefits we will drive a Viper with JODY ONE as the license plate."
"I hate you."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know. Now...Can we catch up to the packet?"
We were departing Kandahar Air Field for the first time. We had been in theatre all of an hour before we had been informed by our Chain of Command that we were going to Patrol Base Belanday, to be attached with Delta Company HeadQuarters. This was a good thing. During build up training, Ryan and I had trained with all the companies in First Battalion, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, and we had established that DCoy had the most competant troops and leadership, a biased opinion since our old platoon and Sergeant Major were members of the company.
The butterflies had started to creep as we had sat in packet form for hours, waiting to to roll out through the Estonian guarded gate, but as we took the left at the ancient MIG fighter jet onto Highway 4, it felt more like a vanguard of birds were flying around inside of me. My heart raced, pounding against my chest like Tommy Lee on a speed binge. Ok, now I'm nervous. It was also terribly exciting, as I sat there, riding shotgun, my life completely out of my hands. Sickening, Exhilerating...
"STOP!"
We had made it 400 meters outside the gate before we saw the first Nyala in the packet go up in smoke.
"Holy Shit. Holy Shit. Holy-"
"Shit." I interupted him. "Dude...There are dudes with AKs 50 meters away on our right."
I nearly pissed myself with laughter, as Coca Cola sprayed from his mouth.
"You thought it was time for a Coke break? Really?"
"What!?! It helps me concentrate while I drive! Are you serious? Men with guns? Shoot them!"
We were as green as the grass on a freshly mowed Ontario soccer pitch. The Nyala was being driven by Reservists out of British Columbia, and they had failed to service it properly. Hence the smoke spewing like dragon's breath from under the plated hood. The "insurgents" to our right were actually security guards for a petrol depot owned by the Afghan government. To us though, we felt that the entire might of the Taliban was about to reign 7.62 death down upon us. We were surely going to be dragged through the streets of Kandahar by white Toyota trucks, and CBC would report on our deaths somewhere between news of a Nova Scotia sex scandal and a feel-good piece of some small town prairie boy awarded for saving his neighbours 14 year old Labr-Doodle from asphyxiation. Due I am sure to The Han's (the not-so loving nicknamed given to Ryan) backwards non-faith and my rubber bands, we escaped death. After two hours, several Cokes and a vehicle swap, we began to roll again, down that ashphalt goat path to Kandahar City.
There is no way to describe that fabled city, named after Alexander the Great, who once called it "The City of Dogs," after all the strays that fed on the garbage and decay. Not much has changed since he was there. Still garbage.Still decay. Still filled with dogs.
We drove. And we'd stop. Drive. Stop. Traffic. Culvert sweep. Drive. Stop. IED threat. Culvert sweep. Traffic. Kid throwing rocks.IED. Pigeons released. Stop. Roof top threat. Nevermind. It's a pipe. Drive.
We drove to Camp Nathan Smith. We drove to Forward Operating Base Mas'um Ghar. At one point the 19 year old reserve lieutenant had us driving continously around a traffic circle in downtown KC. We finally drove to the Dand District Centre, where our Delta escort waited impatiently for us.
"Look. This is simple. See that dirt road. That's Lake Effect. It leads into the boonies." The burly Jack spoke with a Welsh accent, watered down from years of living in London and Alberta. "You follow us, we drive until we get to the gate with Maple Leaf flag. Any problems, not that I give a fuck?"
Ryan and I shook our heads. We were drained. The sun was going down, in the exact direction we were going to be driving. We'd been up since 4am. Our brains were scrambled. And Johnny, as we'd later find out the Jack was named, scared the "bloody piss" out of us. We had no problems.
"Right. Well, let's get going. EOD found 3 IEDs on Lake Effect, so we are gonna be checking all the culverts." Great. That is "bloody good" news.
Lake Effect is appropriately named. Driving it feels like bucking over Lake Simcoe on the back of a SeaDoo. By the time we reached the pitiful gate of Belanday, perched right across the street from the largest pot field I've ever seen, my insides felt like soup. My brain was so rattled that I felt like I just taken a concussive blow against the boards. And tracer rounds were screaming over the roof of the truck as we parked in the Helo pad....ie, the sandpit at this time located OUTSIDE the small camp.
Excellent first day outside the wire.
I could barely feel my legs trying to adjust to standing again when Ryan cheerfully piped up.
"Dude, check that out!"
"What could possibly be more important than getting the fuck to bed?" I was cranky. The days' adranline was spent. I turned around to look anyway.
Four months later, in a remote village camp, 15 km southwest of KC, 5 km north of the Afghan Red Desert, my heart stopped again.
There she was.
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