Part 1: A perfectly designed ambush / July 2006
At home on leave, I had stopped by my local Legion, where an old war veteran asked me about my role in Afghanistan. Then he put his arm around me and told me that now we could share Remembrance Day together, every time the flag is lowered at Parliament.
I remained puzzled by his comments until just a couple weeks ago. Remembrance Day has a new meaning for me now.
Three guys in Ambulance - L-R Sanders, Creelman & Toezer
Every day in Afghanistan starts the same way, and this day had seemed no different. At 9 a.m. I received a warning order for what my superiors were calling "the Big Op," but to me it seemed just another operation, this one three days in the Panjwaii district.
The armoured ambulance I drive rolls at the rear, at least a kilometre away from the action, and normally the only time we go forward is after the fight to clean up and transport the wounded.
Packing for three days is easy: six pairs of socks, six pairs of boxers and two sets of combat fatigues, but also included is some mac 'n' cheese sent by a good friend of mine, an MP3 player, a crossword book, and the New Testament, sent by Josiah, the nine-year-old son of a friend.
As with every operation, I need to make sure this 13-tonne ambulance remains in top order. Oil levels are checked, grease nipples lubed, 48 hours of rations packed, and as much water stored as the vehicle can hold. After that, weapons are oiled and loaded. An ambulance is not meant as a fighting vehicle, but under enemy contact, we need to be as deadly as required.
The medic in the back of the ambulance is Cpl. Toezer, an ex-infantryman who re-enroled as a medic. He has taught me everything from how to insert IVs to dressing an amputation.
After Toezer finished preparing his end of the ambulance, we were greeted by our crew commander Cpl. Creelman. He's another outstanding soldier, a former combat engineer who re-enroled as a medic five years ago. He commands the vehicle and is responsible for the care of casualties from the time they are injured until they are removed via helicopter. Combined, the three of us with over 30 years of combat trade experience make up the most experienced ambulance crew in Afghanistan.
Secondary orders revealed we would not be leaving until 8 p.m. that night under the cover of darkness, providing time to relax and prepare ourselves. I walked over to the Burger King for my traditional pre-operation dinner, and three Whoppers later enjoyed a short nap. But before long I was standing ready by my ambulance. The compound was filled with three companies of vehicles, about 60 vehicles. After a quick radio check it was time to roll.
The trip to Panjwaii took about two hours, one of the quietest drives I've experienced here. The moon was full and cast an odd silhouette from our vehicles, which were driving in blackout mode without lights. The road changed from paved to gravel and then eventually faded into a wadi, or a dried-up riverbed.
A perfectly designed ambush
A couple of kilometres before our staging area, the radio broke silence. Air reconnaissance reported women and children leaving the area we were to occupy, a clear sign Taliban were in the area and prepared to fight. Even before the warning was completed all hell broke loose.
Bloodied stretcher
The light-armoured vehicle just in front of us flashed in silhouette as a rocket-propelled grenade exploded directly ahead. A perfectly designed ambush unfolded, a fury of bullets raining down on our column of vehicles, the sky filled with tracer rounds. A flood of contact reports came over the radio. The enemy, dug in, gave us everything they had.
Our vehicles returned machine-gun fire while soldiers armed with C7 rifles returned shots from the air sentry hatches in the vehicles. The turrets of our light-armoured vehicles, mounted with 25 mm Chain guns, engaged Taliban in bunkers that circled us.
The initial contact lasted about two hours and produced some of the most intense fighting any of us had seen. The sound of bullets whizzing past my head was almost comforting, as I knew they weren't too close. Then the bullets starting cracking, a sound that means they're just missing.
No sooner had I lowered my seat to use the periscopes than bullets began striking our vehicle. I reached for my camera and mounted it outside my hatch to videotape the chaos, thinking it would serve later to remind me of how safe we are in Canada.
It's hard to explain the feelings that passed through me at this time. It was unreal, but 12 years of training and field exercises in Canada designed to prepare me for this day were having their proper effect.
Shortly after the enemy fled into the neighbouring village, reports of injured starting coming in, which meant it was our time to get busy. The only injured were the enemy, proving the value of our armoured vehicles once again. Regardless of which side the injured were fighting on, our job as medics is to sustain life.
In this case the injured enemy was on the other side of a mud wall and could not be easily moved because of seven bullet wounds. Without a second thought, I drove straight through the three-metre wall and came to a rest beside the injured combatant, whose perilous condition suddenly made this fight seem very real.
Toezer jumped out of the back and began to bandage bleeding wounds, but shortly after determined his patient had a collapsed lung. He pulled out a huge needle, fingered down the rib cage and then in a single motion jabbed him with the needle. It was shocking to see, and I asked him what the heck he had just done.
"Ever see the movie Three Kings? Toezer asked, and then I remembered its graphic description of how to treat a collapsed lung. The movies are not always just Hollywood tricks.
A few minutes passed before the injured man was put on a stretcher and moved to the back of the ambulance. A helicopter was ordered and we drove to the landing site.
By this time the first light from a rising sun had begun to show on the horizon, and our battlefield revealed itself. Not even five minutes into the evacuation, the radio was jammed again with contact reports. Above the roar of the vehicle we heard gunshots and explosions. My foot slammed the accelerator to speed delivery of our casualty so we could return to provide assistance.
More casualties: Priority one
Ten minutes passed before we returned to the fight, halting this time near a school destroyed by the Taliban inside the abandoned village. I sat with my head poking out of the driver's hole, listening to the fight 500 metres away, when rounds started coming in at us. More cracking of bullets before I reminded myself to drop my seat and take cover.
Seconds later the radio called for a medical evacuation, which required driving through the firefight to the opposite side of the village to grab our casualties. This time there were four of them, all coalition forces. Over the intercom Creelman instructed me to follow the armoured vehicle in front of us, which would provide our fire support.
Evacuation helicopter
We entered what seemed like a video game come to life — rounds flying everywhere, Apache helicopters firing rockets, and A-10 fighter jets dropping munitions — but this was an experience beyond any simulation. Once through the firefight, and behind the protection of a mud wall, we arrived on the company Sgt. Maj. with the first batch of casualties — some shrapnel wounds, and one Afghan national army soldier (one of the good guys) with a bullet through his neck. How lucky was this guy — the bullet went in and out without hitting anything vital. He was conscious and breathing.
Again the helicopter was ordered and we returned through the firefight to the landing site. By this time the adrenalin was wearing off and fatigue setting in, but I shook it off, just in time to hear we had more casualties — a priority one this time. That's never good, and Toezer prepared for the worst. After driving back through the battle, we arrived at the casualty collection point, but found nobody there yet. Over the radio we were told the casualty was not breathing and had no pulse. They had stopped trying to resuscitate the soldier.
An eerie feeling filled the air as we waited to receive the casualty. Creelman asked if I knew how to get back to the landing site without his guidance. I nodded, and he said he would be in the back with Toezer trying to bring our friend back to life. After what seemed a long wait, our casualty arrived and we were off.
Minutes later we were at the landing site where the helicopter was waiting. I dropped the ramp and jumped out of the ambulance to assist. Creelman and Toezer were working non-stop with CPR and mouth-to-mouth. Within seconds, our fallen comrade was on the bird and whisked away.
Rest in peace my friend, you will be remembered always. I will pay tribute to you every Nov. 11.
Part 2: Here's a straw. Suck it up
Twenty hours had passed since the initial contact, and the sounds of bullets had faded to a familiar background noise. We moved into a staging area 100 metres behind a targeted area, a building where two insurgents refused to give up. We fired artillery, RPGs, 25 mm rounds and even Apache Hellfire rockets into this building, and still they continued to fight. The radio informed us that next they would be dropping something big.
Two more casualties were radioed in, and again we drove to pick up two injured soldiers. "Doc!" one of them screamed, "Are they all right?" Puzzled, we loaded him on a stretcher. "Are they still there?" he yelled again.
Mac and cheese before taking a nap
"What are you talking about?" Toezer asked, and then the casualty exposed his crotch, where he had a small shrapnel wound, but one that missed his children-maker by millimetres. Toezer ensured him everything was intact.
The laughter from our much-relieved casualty was broken by the deafening crack of a 2,000-pound bomb destroying the enemy bunker. Soldiers cleared the area and found a reinforced tunnel inside the building. We took off to the landing site and transferred our casualties.
The battle finally subsided after 34 hours of fighting. We pulled into a wheat field and set up a small medical station to deal with minor ailments. The companies rolled through our resupply point before they headed off to a staging area to replenish supplies and eat. We saw about 20 patients, most of them just dehydrated or with minor shrapnel wounds requiring a bandage — and a straw. When I asked Creelman what the straw was for, he laughed.
"Suck it up and carry on."
Wake-up call
It was now time for some personal maintenance. Mac 'n' cheese and a good read kept me company until I fell asleep on the ground. A few hours later I was woken to provide sentry duty for an hour. When you train in Canada, the enemy is just our guys playing a part. There's no threat of bullets, just embarrassment if they sneak by you. But in Afghanistan the fear of being shot keeps your eyes open better then any cup of Tim Hortons coffee.
As the sun peeked over the horizon, our company moved to a staging area north of Panjwaii, 48 hours into the operation. The enemy was defeated and the local population had reclaimed their village. Creelman left for orders, Toezer filled out a resupply request and I refuelled the vehicle.
An hour later Creelman returned. "I don't know how to tell you this, guys, but we are not going back. The British to the north have been receiving a lot of contacts, and they don't have the resources to resupply. We are going to be out here for a lot longer then we thought. Relax for the next six hours, and then we are pushing about five hours north."
It was a good thing I'd packed for another couple of days. I reached into the ambulance and grabbed our satellite phone. The best thing about our army is that they supply a phone so you can call home and talk to friends. As you are talking, you can close your eyes and imagine yourself sitting on your couch at home, talking on the phone. For a minute, it takes you away from the arid lands of Afghanistan.
I curled up beside the front tire of my ambulance and looked at the stars. Every minute or two, you could spot a falling star, which to anyone else would be spectacular. Here I flinched, waiting for a big boom. If 10 seconds passed without a boom, I knew it was just a star. Finally I caught a little sleep.
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