We arrived at the fire base just after dark. A multi-national convoy of Canadian, American and Afghan soldiers and vehicles. Passing through the gates and barriers protecting the outer cordon, all one could see was a mass of armored personnel carriers, trucks, and tents. Following a quick meal of packaged rations, the Canadians gave a brief of their battle plan. The initial movement for the operation was scheduled for shortly after mid-night. That left us less than two hours for sleep.

The first phase of the operation was to take place in Panjawi in the southern part of Afghanistan. A few weeks earlier in this same area a US Special Forces team along with two Army National Guard embedded trainers and a detachment of Afghan National Army soldiers were engaged by a group of Taliban for nearly a day and a half. The fighting was intense. When the US and Afghan units finally withdrew, a US Special Forces soldier and an Army National Guard embedded trainer had been killed; the Special Forces medic had been seriously wounded.

Panjawi has been an area of rising Taliban and Pakistani insurgent activity. The plan called for an insertion into the area during the night, hitting the targeted compounds at first light. I grabbed my ruck and set it on the ground next to Missouri National Guard embedded trainer, Maj. Francis. He looked over at me and introduced himself, "When I was younger, I spent two years overseas in the Peace Corp. Back home I'm now a high school teacher. The embedded trainer mission is an important one. It seems to be a combining of my experiences."

As we talked, the conversation moved to the coming days events and with it, discussions of life and views of death. Maj. Francis continued:

"My wife is Columbian. She's a beautiful women and I can honestly say that I am completely happy with my life. I have never been in battle before, but I don't fear death. I would be at peace if I were to die right now. There is nothing in my life that I regret."

An hour later we were loaded into a Canadian armored vehicle driving out the gate.
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The Bison. A six wheeled light armored assault vehicle with space for eight soldiers in the rear. There were six of us. There is no visibility out. So, in the dark of night, in the dark of space of the troop compartment, you sit with a feeling of perpetual motion and no sense of direction.

The movement in was to take approximately two hours. Within the first hour, our convoy had come under attack. For the next three hours we sat, listening to the exchange of automatic gun fire and rocket propelled grenades. Without air conditioning, temperatures in the crew compartment rose steadily. Unable to move, wrapped in body armor and Kevlar helmets, we sat, sweat soaking through our shirts and pants, as minutes passed like hours. The temperature inside our metal box pushed upwards to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Then as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The rear access door was lowered, and we stepped out to see day break on the horizon.
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Maj. Francis and his group of Afghan soldiers were assigned to the Canadian unit, A. squad, 2nd Platoon, otherwise known as the "Red Devils." We began our advance into the area by foot. Following a narrow dirt road sided by the earthen walls of the village, we moved steadily forward to our first objective. As we crossed the irrigation ditch paralleling the farmer's fields, the unmistakable smell of death consumed the air. Before me lay the body of a dead Taliban fighter. He had been killed in the fire fight earlier that morning.

As we progressed forward, our movement was shadowed by the Red Devils second squad. They were working through an area several hundred meters to our rear. Ahead of us the path made a slight bend to the left, as the earthen walls on our right suddenly became dropped in hight; the mud huts of the village giving way to row after row of grapes on earthen berms. We had arrived at a clearing of sorts, and into an ambush set by the Taliban fighters who had been watching and waiting.

The moment that an attack begins is unique. There is always the initial round or explosion that focusses your attention. In our case, it was both... the crisp crack of an AK-47 round and the explosion of a mortar round to our rear. From that instant the awareness of time transforms, as seconds seem to stream on endlessly, yet events blaze past in a furry of chaos. One becomes clear in thought, relying on instinct, training and the deeply seated reasons that you are there. Yet the memories of the events are never quite what we think, as actions and movements are pressed into a seemingly virtual space of reflex. One becomes present and detached in the same moment as the primal instincts of survival are activated. All things become connected.

The initial volley was intense as machine gun fire from the enemies position some 300 meters to our front grazed the earthen walls. The squads pressed themselves forward and into the ground just as a rocket propelled grenade exploded a few feet from the squad leaders head. Radio contact was made with the Red Devils' second squad, as they moved forward to reinforce and return fire.

The Canadians responded with a fierce volley of fire. Using grenades, portable rockets, and automatic fire, they suppressed the ambush. Maj. Francis was to my left. His mission as an embedded trainer was to guide and mentor the Afghan soldiers who were now pasted against the lower part of the earthen wall. Maj. Francis quickly began coordinating with the Canadian squad leader and platoon sergeant. He then positioned the Afghan soldiers to best assist the Canadians with their response.

Pinned down and unable to move forward, a call from the rear was made to pull back. Now twenty minutes into the fight, directions were quickly passed along through the the Canadian and Afghan squads. With the Canadians maintaining suppressive fire, Maj. Francis directed the Afghan soldiers to withdraw. Within minutes we had all returned to the rear assembly area and the relative safety of the armored vehicles. It was 9 am, and our day had just begun.

For video, Panjawi- Firefight: Click here

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Copyright, Scott Kesterson- 2006

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