Lions of Kandahar (22 page)

Slowly the sun slipped below the mountains, and I thought of the Canadian soldiers, pinned down and buttoned up in their vehicles in the hellish heat, surrounded by scores of enemies, with little air cover.

We listened as the Canadian infantry moved forward again. This time, Andy’s unit would fake an attack to the north to draw fire and Charles Company would push across the river. Artillery and 25-mm cannons signaled the push. The Taliban answered with recoilless-rifle and machine-gun fire, and we periodically heard the metallic thump of RPGs against the Canadian trucks’ armor plating. Even with superior equipment, the Canadians weren’t gaining ground. The terrain was as much the enemy as the enemy.

Andy’s feint was dashed when we heard over the radio that an A-10 called in to engage an enemy position had strafed the Canadian forces by mistake, killing one soldier and wounding more than forty. The whole attack stopped as the Canadian forces reorganized and evacuated their wounded.

Jared, Shinsha, and I stood over the map. The attack had to be reorganized, but quickly. “It wasn’t necessarily a bad decision—unless, of course, they wait too long,” I said to Jared.

Several critical hours passed.

“This is bad,” I said.

Jared agreed. Shinsha inhaled heavily on his umpteenth cigarette, as engaged as if it were his unit in the fighting. “If they wait too long,
the Talibs will move into positions closer to the Canadians than before,” he said urgently. “It will be much more difficult to use the airplanes. The fighting will get very, very bad.”

The whole intent of my training was to teach us always to remain two or three steps ahead and to think like an insurgent. I pulled out my notepad and started to work out the scenarios. If I was trapped what would I do? Where would I go? How could we get in there and help?

Then I saw it. Sperwan Ghar. It wasn’t really a mountain—it was more of a tall hill surrounded by villages. It hadn’t captured our attention during planning, but now, with the battle unfolding before us, it was clear that not only was this key terrain, but based on their radio calls, the Taliban thought so too. I knew that once on top, we could call down hellish air strikes in support of the Canadian forces pushing west. I picked my words carefully as I pointed it out to Jared on the map.

“Sir, this terrain feature could be the key to success or failure for this entire operation,” I said.

For the next several minutes, I laid it out. Charlie Company had attacked Objective Rugby and had been repelled. The enemy’s numbers and strength were far, far greater than anyone had expected, and they were wholly committed to the fight. The Canadians had had to stop to evacuate their wounded, and their ability to use air cover was limited.

We had just lost the initiative.

“Look at the defense they put up against a mechanized task force,” I pressed. “This is bigger than anyone ever planned. This hill holds too much potential to either side not to own it.”

I presented three alternatives. The first split our force between the blocking positions and the hill. The second moved our force to the top of Sperwan Ghar and used the advantages of the high ground to control the whole southern part of the valley. The last option was to stay put and take our chances.

Slowly, Sperwan Ghar became an obsession. The more I discussed it, the more certain—adamant—I was that we had to take it.

“If the enemy takes this hill, and holds it, the Canadian forces will be open to direct observation and will have their flank and rear unsecure when they push farther south,” I argued. “No doubt about it. Whoever is out there advising the Taliban is experienced, probably foreign—Pakistani, or worse, Chechen.”

Jared studied the map one more time and agreed to call Bolduc and brief him—on one condition: “You can go if you convince another team to go with you,” he said.

Jared headed over to his truck and pulled out his satellite phone. Twenty minutes later, he gave me the thumbs-up. Good. I set off to recruit the other team.

I went to Bruce first, figuring he would take the longest to make a decision. He was new and tended to debate more before approaching his team. I understood. No one wanted to come to their team with a stupid idea and look bad. I gave him the same pitch I gave Jared and he agreed to take it back to his men.

My second target was Hodge. He and I thought alike, and before I got halfway through the pitch, he and his team sergeant, Jeff, were on board. I suspected they would have done anything to get us into the action.

“Hodge’s boys agreed to go,” I stated, walking toward Jared.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, because Bolduc thinks it’s a really good idea in light of the current circumstances and we’re all going,” Jared said. “He’ll call once the movement is approved by ISAF. Get me a plan pronto. We move on Sperwan as soon as I get the call.”

I glanced over at Hodge; he looked at me and laughed. “Oh, no, brother. This is your idea, you do the planning. We’re just along to make sure you’re alive to pay for the case of beer this is going to cost you,” he said.

Bill drove over in his truck, his shit-eating grin making it clear he had already gotten the word from Dave or Brian.

“S’up, Captain?” he said. “You know I’m not going to let you make the plan without me.”

“This might be a little detailed for you, Bill,” I said, straight-faced.

Bill knew tactics better than I did. After a little more requisite ribbing, we spent the next several hours poring over maps, satellite pictures, and checklists. On the satellite imagery, Sperwan Ghar was not that impressive. The ashy gray mound stood nearly sixty feet tall and looked like the world’s largest dirt pile. A large berm, nearly twenty feet tall, surrounded it. It looked like it had a large circular pool at its top—probably an abandoned water storage facility. A circular road wound from its bottom around to the top. A U-shaped building at the base looked fairly new; another, smaller building stood a short distance away. Only two roads led to the hill, one from the south, where we would be coming from, and one from the north. From the aerial photo, the site resembled a spoon, with the hill and the buildings in the bowl, accessed by way of the handle. The location was entirely surrounded by compounds, grape huts, and walls.

The plan seemed easy enough, and now all teams would be involved. Two teams would move into the bowl of the spoon and one would be in reserve at the handle. My team would be in the lead, with Jared as the ground force commander (GFC). His truck would follow me, as the command and control unit, as we probed forward. Bruce’s team would trail us as the last element moving toward Sperwan Ghar and maneuver to the left or right depending on enemy fire. Hodge’s team would provide fire support and reinforcements at the entrance in case we got trapped inside. If things got out of hand, Hodge would knock the wedge in between the enemy and us so we could get out. Shinsha’s Afghans split into their platoons and were distributed among the teams.

When the attack started, my team would clear the route to the mountain and set up on the first large berm, covering Bruce’s team as they cleared the buildings at the base of the hill. Hodge’s team would set up a defensive perimeter. Once on the hill, we’d set about
leveling the Taliban positions that were delivering lethal fire on the Canadian task force across the river.

We briefed the plan to the other teams and the Afghans, checked our equipment, and waited for Bolduc to give us his final approval. After more than ten days in the field, I finally found myself with nothing to do and realized that I hadn’t talked to my family since I arrived. A phone call home would settle my nerves.

The black satellite phone was hot when I pressed it to my ear. The distant, scratchy ringtones were finally interrupted by my wife’s familiar voice. After a short hello and family update, she put my child on the phone.

“Daddy, whatcha doin’?”

“Oh, just getting after the bad guys,” I said.

“Be careful. Daddy, I had a dream. In my dream the bad guys were shooting at you from the bushes. They wanted to hurt you.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, honey?” I asked, pouring all the support and love I could muster into my voice.

“Shoot into the bushes, Daddy. That’s where they are hiding. Shoot into the bushes. Shoot everywhere.”

BLACK ON AMMO

F
rom a distance, the westward end of the Panjwayi Valley looked like Eden. The endless sea of sand slowly gave way to the lush vegetation that embraced the mud huts and compounds strewn throughout the fields and irrigation ditches. The jagged mountains surrounding the valley seemed to protect it from the outside world.

But as my eyes scanned east toward the river I saw the mirage melt away. Scars and wreckage from the battle stretched for miles. I could see gunfire tracers and flashes from rockets exploding. Buildings and vehicles smoldered in all directions. The Canadian task force clogged the radio with messages about how they continued to “consolidate and reorganize” under enemy fire. Victory was slipping away.

We had no choice but to occupy Sperwan Ghar. Without control of that ground, the Canadians could not advance and would be stopped. Losing this decisive battle would be catastrophic for the people of Kandahar, the coalition, and all of southern Afghanistan.

The wind felt hotter than usual as everyone loaded up. I checked the radios inside the gun truck and scanned the laminated notepads
and quick reference sheets stuck to every available empty space below the windshield. Tucked neatly around my seat were ammunition bandoleers, smoke grenades, medical equipment, water, and signal flares. Ready, I grabbed my hand mike and called Kandahar.

“Eagle 10, this is Talon 31. We’re moving.”

The convoy of gun trucks tucked into a perfect V-shaped formation. The route took us down from our perch on the ridgeline and past some green pine trees that masked our approach to Regay, a small village in the valley between us and Sperwan Ghar. We’d been watching the villagers from up and down the valley flee for days, but the scene when we entered the village was still shocking.

The villagers hurried past us, packed on broken carts, tractors, donkeys, camels—anything that could move. Regay was the final stopping point for the caravans of refugees seeking water before their journey to safety in Kandahar city. Hundreds crowded around the well. Each villager gripped a bright yellow or lime green water jug. No one made eye contact with us. They knew who we were and who was waiting for us.

Some of our ANA soldiers in a Ford Ranger were flagged down by a man leaving Regay in a faded white Toyota Corolla sedan. He never stopped but pointed to the hill, said, “Mines,” and drove off. The warning was radioed up to us. “This just gets better and better,” Brian said.

The open desert faded into Ole Girl’s side mirror and the tactical nightmare of villages and compounds opened up like the mouth of an immense beast. I glanced down at the map. After Regay, we were headed straight for Sperwan Ghar.

As Hodge’s team passed Regay, we switched the formation from a broad V to a straight line or “Ranger file” of trucks to maneuver through the never-ending labyrinth of broken buildings, irrigation ditches, marijuana, cornfields, and grape vineyards. Centuries-old
ashpsh khana
, or grape-drying huts, which stood three or four stories
tall, dotted the fields, perfect redoubts for snipers. I kept one eye on the huts and the other on the dust-covered display of the digital map. We were close to the point of no return, an imaginary decision point on that map.

My nerves spiked as we raced down the dirt track toward the first compound. There was too much vegetation and too much cover. It was harvesttime, a bad time to start any operation. The enemy could hide anywhere. Shooters could be ten feet inside any one of the fields and we’d never know it, until they started firing. Brian, as driver and senior communications sergeant, always rode “dirty,” meaning he had his shotgun out the open window, ready in case an enemy fighter popped up. In this case, it would likely come from behind the compound walls or out of the fields.

The radio finally squawked to life. Jared, our ground force commander, wanted a countdown to the marker. “Talon 30, this is Talon 31, two hundred meters, wait one,” I responded.

Just as I said it, I caught a glimpse of movement—a figure, half crouching, half standing, on top of the thick walls of a large grape-drying hut. Snatching my binoculars, I focused in on him. I knew in my gut that he shouldn’t be there. The jet black turban and dark brown clothing stood out in stark contrast to the biscuit-colored dry mud walls. The hair on the back of my neck rose. RPG! I prayed that I wouldn’t see the flash of a rocket-propelled grenade headed toward my truck.

“Contact front. Enemy at eleven o’clock, two hundred meters on top of the grape hut. Kill that motherfucker,” I called to Dave, my gunner on the .50-caliber machine gun mounted on the top of the truck. The World War II model machine gun—known as an M2, or “Ma Duce”—with modern optics is as lethal today as it was sixty years ago.