Free The Patrol by Ryan Flavelle Page A

(Canada did not, at that time, have helicopters in Afghanistan). Of course, this being the Canadian military, the helicopters broke down before they even took off. We waited around for four hours after the scheduled H hour (military term for start time, it stands for “Hour hour”). Finally, we rode into the field in MLVWs–Medium Logistic Vehicle Wheeled, usually shortened to ML—standard, reliable transport trucks built in the 1960s, but still going strong. Most of us believed this was inevitable and few soldiers had actually planned on riding a chopper. We were told that a part needed to fix the chopper was being emergency FedExed and would arrive that night. We carried on with the first part of the patrol and moved into a laager.
Laager
(we pronounce it “leaguer”) is the army word for defensive circle, in this case a ring of soldiers looking outwards. After a sleepy radio shift, I settled down to a cold Manitoba night and slept in the fetal position on the ground. As dawn approached, it was my turn on the radio again. I watched as the OC gave orders to his assembled platoon commanders.
    “Orders—General Situation—We are going to be getting the choppers at about 0730 this morning. We will be mounting up and departing to this grid, Objective Molson.” As he gave his orders to a group of keen young officers kneeling in front of him, pen and paper in hand, I watched Major Lane spit tobacco into a 500mlwater bottle. I remember thinking that I had never seen an officer chew, let alone spit into a water bottle during orders. I soon realized that this was just one of many infantry foibles I had never encountered before. At that moment, I received a message on the radio:
    “
2, this is 0—be advised, there will be no helicopters today, all movement will be conducted via Mike Lima [MLVW]. I say again, there will be no helicopters today.”
    No explanation, no detail, and no reason were given as to why we wouldn’t be receiving the choppers. Instead, all we got was the voice of God coming over the radio and spoiling our plans.
    “2, roger, out.”
    As usual, I was to be the harbinger of bad news. I asked Ryan LaFontaine, my fellow signaller, to watch the radio and walked over to the OC with a hangdog expression.
    “Sir, I just got a message from 0. There will be no choppers today.”
    Major Lane stopped mid-spit and looked at me as if I had two heads. “Are you fucking serious?”
    “Yes, sir, sorry, I just got the message.”
    That was my first personal contact with Major Lane. He would later become the guy in front of me on most patrols. I had no idea, at the time, of the role he would come to play in my life overseas.
    We push on to the Arghandab riverbed, and walk along it. We descend a steep slope and move quickly along the silty terrain of the mostly dried up river. A few times we have to cross the river itself, and I get my boots wet. As we walk, we get a welcome message on the radio: “29er, this is Haji. Be advised we have eyes on your lead elements at this time.”
    The guys at the Haji outpost can see us; we are almost done the first leg of our patrol.
    I feel stronger as we inch ever closer to COP Haji. The first leghasn’t turned out to be so bad. In about 15 minutes, we can all see the HESCO Bastions and razor wire on the horizon. In 30 minutes, we climb a very steep slope and walk the rest of the way into the COP. We are greeted with cases of cool water.
    “Twenty minutes, troops,” says the sergeant-major.
    I sit beside our section commander, Jeff Brazeau, take off my helmet, and grab a bottle of water. I ask Jeff to take out my tin of smokes from my shirt pocket; I light one and relax. Fatigue is beginning to set in, and I’m covered in sweat. I relish the immense comfort of sitting, smoking, and not having my helmet on. I hear a few guys talk around me, mostly about the OC’s IED.
    “It was a fucking twig!”
    “Seriously man? You’re fucking me.”
    “Nope, actually a twig.”
    I