Read Online The Taliban Don't Wave by Robert Semrau - Free Book Online Page B

was in huge bladders outside the tent, being heated by the sun. Stephens told me the gym was on the far north side, and as far as gyms in war zones went, it supposedly wasn't half bad. Some engineers had a shack attached to the main building, which contained the battle group soldiers' and officers' living quarters, as well as the HQ.
    I tried to forget about my sticky armpits and the sweat dripping off my forehead and pointed out another building with a hand-washing station next to it. “I take it that must be the kitchen.”
    â€œYep. Breakfast is zero-six hundred to zero-eight hundred hours, hot food and cereal. Lunch is cold food, sandwiches and subs, stuff like that. Supper is hot again, from sixteen-thirty to eighteen-thirty hours. Hand washing is obligatory.”
    â€œDo we have a hand-washing Nazi stationed here?” I asked.
    â€œYeah, sometimes, when the officers catch the men not using the stations, some numpty gets posted on Nazi duty. Over there you see an old-school hand pump for water. The ANA are allowed to take purified water from here, but they steal it at all times of the day and night, and they use up everyone's share, so every now and then we have to cut them off and force them to use the hand pump. They play the game until we give them our water, and then they do it all over again. It's never-ending.”
    He then led us into the HQ building and went over to a fridge by the door to grab us some Freezies. I looked inside a room to see how the battle group lived. They had large rooms with double bunk beds, and it seemed comfortable enough. Their weapons were left outside their rooms, along with their body armour and tac vests, which were placed on rows of wooden “t”s that looked like small crucifixes to dry out their gear after patrols.
    Stephens continued to the end of the hall and knocked on the briefing-room door. We walked inside, and he looked over at one of the guys and said, “Sir, this is Captain Semrau, the RCR OMLT captain who'll be replacing me. He and his three guys just got in this afternoon.” Stephens stepped aside so I could shake hands with the OC, the “officer commanding” Sperwhan Ghar.
    â€œHello,” he said, not bothering to extend his hand, and barely looking up from the papers on the large map table in front of him. He was about my height, around five ten, but of slight frame, with a sort of distracted look about him. Clearly he was too busy to worry about being polite, but I supposed not everybody made it to the lofty height of major in the Canadian Forces because he won the Good Joe of the month award back in basic training.
    â€œHello sir,” I said, extending my hand. He looked at me and then slowly walked over so we could shake hands. Holy crap, I'm not going to rob you!
    â€œHello,” was all he could muster, again. An awkward silence filled the briefing room. Was I supposed to say something? Wasn't it his job to say, “Welcome aboard, blah, blah, blah?”
    I walked over and introduced myself to his company sergeant major (CSM), who kindly asked if we needed anything from a PX back in KAF. He was going on a convoy run and offered to bring us back some gear. I knew that Hetsa, Fourneau, and I all wanted an American-style day sack with a CamelBak water carrier inside of it, so I gave him some money that I'd already collected from the boys and told the CSM thanks a lot.
    â€œNo problem, sir. My room's just across the hall; come and get me—day or night—if you need anything or got any questions.”
    â€œGreat, thanks.” I looked at the OC and said, “Goodbye, sir,” as I walked past him toward the exit. He didn't respond. As the door closed behind us, Stephens clapped me on the back. “Well, that went well!” he said, smiling away.
    â€œOh, didn't you know? I'm the guy who wrote that Pulitzer Prize–winning novel entitled I'm OK, You're an Idiot. Everywhere I go, Stephens, I