Mortars -- They're Fun!

I wasn't quite sleeping. I remember we'd been sent down to the leaguer in a LAV III (Light Armored Vehicle) that belonged to four platoon (us being six platoon) while the engineers continued the tear down of COP (Combat Outpost) Talucan. I had lived in that COP for the past three weeks, sometime back in July of 2008. It had been a good home, I suppose, although brought along with it memories of Captain Leary, the man who had died not even two hundred meters away from it. Anyway, the current higher ups felt that they wanted to create some kind of stability box to reinforce the Canadian presence in the Panjwai District, and COP Talucan no longer fit that description, so it was getting shut down. A massive convoy of tanks, LAVs and support vehicles had come up the river to our area. Some Badger's were tearing down the Hesco walls, and like I'd said previously, I and my section had been sent down to the leaguer. We weren't needed for security or anything -- they had tanks up there.

Taking a combat stretcher, I'd set it up and run it between the tires of the LAV about halfway so I could at least snooze in some kind of shade. My legs were sticking out, but I didn't quite care. Not at least right away. We'd been sitting there maybe forty-five minutes when the first mortar hit. We'd kinda expected to get hit, to come under contact. I mean, the area is a Taliban hotspot, which was why COP Talucan was set up in the first place. So it would be safe to assume they'd send us off proper by shooting at us. Well, that first mortar hit dirt maybe thirty feet away from me. Snapped me awake fast. I remember rising and smashing my face against the underside of the LAV before pulling me legs under and giving them a quick pat down, making sure they were okay. I did the same with my junk -- you know, make sure the proper equipment was still there and not a ruined mess from shrapnel.

Using my initiative -- more like common sense and training -- I slid out from under the LAV, yanked the stretcher out while I was at it, folded it back up and stowed it before tossing on my flak jacket, chest rig. Donned my helmet, unstrapped. Was only wearing a t-shirt instead of my combat shirt. Got my rifle and headed around to the back of the LAV. Everyone was there. We crammed inside. When being mortared, you seek cover first. Let the armor fight. So, suddenly instead of being the normal number you'd expect crammed into the back of a LAV, you have the nine of us in the section plus two interpreters and the Doc. Hatches get closed and we can still hear the mortars tolling away. Little whumps with booms outside. The radio traffic is already frantic by this point.

They're calling in for chopper support and some artillery, if not a jet to get on station and start mowing things down. The firefight goes on, the LAV moves to a new position where it can support the fighting. Except it's really only a position to cover the leaguer. It doesn't fire at all. I'm not surprised. Forty-five minutes pass cramped in the back with twelve bodies listening to officers, majors, who don't do this kind of fighting, not like the captains who lead their platoons, call out for support and give sloppy orders. Eventually, the choppers come in, mowing down anything that moves. A jet drops a five-hundred pound bomb on the position identified to be the mortar base point. Finally, after an hour, things return to normal.

The LAV parks, the ramp drops, and we scramble out to stretch legs. A little laugh, a few slaps on the back, and we begin joking about the episode like it was nothing. The interpreters head back to their vehicle, the Doc his. Like nothing happened.

Just another day in Afghanistan.