Andy McCutcheonWe Stand On Guard For Thee
July 6th 2007 02:01
Chapter 3
We Stand on Guard for Thee
As I pondered the evolution of my existence, I took an introspective look back to where it all began. It was difficult - Not because I had forgotten, but because in many respects - I didn’t want to remember.
I arrived home from work one afternoon to discover an official looking letter lying on the kitchen table. I knew exactly what it was.
I can say with certainty, ‘that piece of paper changed my life forever.’
The day I left for the military was filled with mixed emotion. The mood in the car on the way to the airport was sombre to say the least and my attempt at levity did little to change that.
You somehow expect your mum to be emotional at a time like that, after all, I was leaving home for the first time – but seeing my dad cry was gut wrenching.
As I boarded the aircraft, I turned back and waved one last time.
Being a military flight, everyone on board was in dress uniform. I on the other hand, flew in a white suit jacket, pink shirt and thin blue leather tie. This ensemble, popularised by the ‘80’s new wave music scene, overstated the obvious and did very little to camouflage the fact that I was a new recruit.
After landing, we were met at the other end by hardened infantry instructors, who boarded us onto a bus bound for the PPCLI Battle School in Wainwright Alberta.
The PPCLI was one of two English speaking infantry regiments within the Canadian military, commanded by Major-General Lewis Mackenzie.
Wainwright was a “frontier” town in Canada’s rural mid-west. As I recall, there were plenty of saloons and lots of brawls, but not many women! Its population consisted largely of cowboy’s, oil riggers and soldiers.
Our first morning in Wainwright came excruciatingly early. The doors to our Quonset hut flew open at 4:00am amidst shouting and mass confusion. The highlight of our morning was issuing our weapons, while the remainder of the day it seemed, was consumed by learning how to assemble and care for them.
We lined up for the stereotypical inoculations and our first army haircuts. While mine was already short, some recruits saw their bare scalps I imagine, for the first time since birth?
As I settled into army life, a sense of the daily regimen began to materialize. Physical activity dominated our training and we began forming a cohesive group.
We did everything as a platoon – “Mount Sorrel Platoon,” named after one of our regiments many historical battle honours.
‘You are only as strong as your weakest link,’ we were drilled by instructors.
Those in the group, who maintained the standard of physical training, were often forced to compensate for those who didn’t. The under-achievers amongst us often gasped and vomited, in an effort to keep pace with the rest of the group.
It was a gruelling pace, but at the same time, it was also difficult to feel sorry for them - really, burdened by having to “carry them,” it was an added workload that was neither appreciated – nor tolerated.
It was always the same people too - the “buddy fuckers,” the ones acting as “individuals.” They were weighing down the rest of the group.
Military justice however misguided, divided the group’s morality. In the end, only the “strong” survived.
“Blanket parties” were commonplace, targeting “individuals” and included throwing an army issue wool blanket over someone’s head while punching and kicking the living shit out of them in vigilante frenzy. It was like something inspired by the novel “Lord of the Flies.”
It was a harsh, but necessary remedy for misconduct, that somehow brought “honour” to silence, “meaning” to bruised bodies and “absolution” for transgressions against the “group.” It was here that I received a glimpse of the Army’s darker side.
My life over that first few months had completely metamorphosized. My girlfriend Carmen, the one I had left behind, seemed strangely unaffected by the changes. I began developing mixed emotions for her almost immediately, knowing our compatibility was in divergence, as she clung desperately to the notional status quo.
As our basic training neared completion six months on, I was ordered to cease training. This abrupt halt in training had resulted from an ongoing personality conflict with one of our instructors and as a result, I suspected I was going to be released from the army altogether.
“Mount Sorrel” was due to graduate in the two weeks prior to Christmas and I had been “re-coursed” back to “Scarpe” platoon - currently three months behind us in training. It was a devastating blow to my career and one, I had imagined, would be difficult to recover from.
Flying home that first Christmas was something I wasn’t looking forward to. While I managed to conceal the truth behind a brave smile, my heart couldn’t lie.
When I returned to training after Christmas break, I found adapting to my new platoon difficult. Friendships had already been formed - alliances forged.
Having almost completed basic training in its entirety at that point with my former platoon, I was in a unique position now, to be able to leverage my abilities to look good. After spending three months more than I “had to” in Battle school, I successfully completed the training and graduation was looming on the horizon – I was being posted to Workpoint Barracks in Victoria B.C.
I had invited my parents to graduation, but they seemed ambivalent about making the journey and in the end, declined the invitation. ‘Weren’t they proud of me?’ Graduation was a big deal – a milestone; I was being named “top recruit” in my graduating class?
On the day of the graduation ceremony I had no alternative but to go back to the barracks alone. While everyone else spent time with their families and friends, I sat alone, head in hands questioning why my parents hadn’t shown up.
It was my lowest hour. All I had accomplished seemed to lack meaning. Instructors were empathetic and stood alongside me as unlikely champions.
As I prepared to leave the tumultuous nine months of Battle School behind me, the emotional trauma I endured there was medicated by the impending move to Victoria.
Garrison life as a fully-fledged soldier was worlds apart from life in Battle School as a recruit and it took very little effort to adjust to my new freedoms.
My first weekend in Victoria provided an opportunity to reunite with “buddies” from my former platoon, “Mount Sorrel”.
While out drinking on my first night with Dan Kerslake, I was nearly run over in a pedestrian crosswalk. Stopped mere inches from my leg, was a car occupied by a male driver and his girlfriend. I gave the driver “the finger” and his door flew open immediately. I could sense he was looking for trouble, but I was willing to let the entire situation die without incident - until he swung at me.
I bent him over the hood of his vehicle holding his left arm firmly - pinning his other arm under the weight of his own body. I punched him mercilessly in the face, losing count at about twenty-five and knew I had broken his nose. There was blood everywhere - his girlfriend was screaming! My heart pounded wildly from the rush of adrenaline. I stopped and stood back; he slumped motionless to the ground.
Several months after arriving in Victoria it was time for our annual summer leave. With the military paying for flights, I flew back to Toronto and when I got there, I showed up in my new dress uniform. My mum was ecstatic to see me. I wanted to surprise Carmen and nervously knocked on her parent’s front door later that evening.
We had been apart for nearly a year and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect? I knew that we were two very different people. Sadly, I think we both knew what “should have” been said that night. As the night wore on however, we found ourselves alone – it was comfortable. I embraced the familiarity of her touch and her soft wanting kisses and in that moment - I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I remained silent and what should have been said and wasn’t - left a promise of things to come. I returned to Victoria leaving her ever hopeful.
While back home, I did raise the issue of her coming to Victoria - so far from where she had grown up. She had immigrated to Canada from the Azores when she was five and astonishingly, had never travelled outside the town she grew up in.
Her family was typical Portuguese, but despite their impinging nature, she seemed destined to establish her own path in life. We began making plans for her to fly out and visit me. Even as a working adult, her parents demanded that she take a chaperone.
Upon returning to Victoria our timetables were filled to capacity. We found ourselves on field exercises more than we were at home. Troop morale was high and we looked forward to our upcoming training schedules.
On this particular occasion we were off to Fort Lewis in Washington State, a U.S. military base that housed 75,000 troops. We were scheduled to train with the 75th Ranger Battalion.
While enroute, southbound on the Snohomish Highway, the military radio frequencies were alive with reports of three “hot” girls approaching our convoy, coming up low and fast, making “friendly” with the boys.
We began crowding the gun ports to catch a glimpse. Suddenly - a stroke of genius! In a coordinated effort, we used permanent markers and a rations box to fashion a sign, passing it to the “gunner” to position with tape. All eyes were glued out the tiny portals.
As the girls came alongside, the gunner rotated the turret and we could see the girls laughing. This was closely followed by them lifting up their tops and exposing themselves.
‘Message received – and understood,’ shouted the gunner.
The sign clearly read - “Show Us Your Tits!!”
When we returned to the Battalion several weeks later, “C Company” attended a formal function at the Governor General’s house. It was a black tie affair and called for strict dress uniform.
The short lived champagne, canapés and caviar, was overshadowed by a series of up and coming commitments for Britain’s Royal Family, beginning with the Queen and Prince Phillip. “Prince Charles and Lady Diana” were also in Canada, for the opening ceremonies of “Expo 86” in Vancouver.
On the night of the opening all eyes were affixed on Diana, as strong winds in the Kodak Bowl made it difficult for her to keep her dress in place, leaving the troops in eager anticipation of a wardrobe malfunction.
Later that month the “Colonel in Chief” of the regiment also made an appearance. “Lady Patricia - Mountbatten of Burma,” is the daughter of Lord Louis Mountbatten – the Queens cousin. One tier down from staunch royalty, Lady Patricia was approachable and made a point of spending time with the troops.
After a brief reprieve from endless parades and drill, our recently acquired close quarter fighting skills from Fort Lewis would be put to the test.
U.S. Navy ships armed with active nuclear warheads were docked at the Naval Base in Esquilmalt. Anti-nuclear war protestors gathered at the gates - and with increasing violence we were tasked to quell the angry mob.
I instinctively knew it was going to get ugly.
Clashes by protesters who spat in the soldiers faces, made headlines in the local “Victoria Times Colonist Newspaper,” dubbed the “Times Communist” by soldiers caught in the fray.
As the U.S. Navy sailed out of port, we were immediately sent to the mainland to provide high-level security at the “Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting” (CHOGM).
This was no training exercise.
Escalating violence from Vancouver’s growing “Sikh” population was cause for concern, as news of an assassination plot on Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Ghandi was revealed. Federal police and military personnel were on high alert status.
While “Ghandi” remained safe in our care during his visit to Vancouver, Sikh extremists in India later killed him upon his return.
By autumn, the training cycle returned to Battalion life and because of my ardent leadership potential, I was nominated to undertake the “Junior Leaders Course,” that, upon successful completion would result in a fast tracked promotion.
During training however, I inadvertently injured my left knee and was unable to complete the course. I was later diagnosed with “Ilio-Tibial Band Syndrome,” an affliction caused by damaged tissue joining your quadriceps to your calves.
‘With intensive physiotherapy,’ I was told, ‘the prospects looked good to continue a “faster than normal career progression.”’
I looked back on my days in Battle School - I was fighting it seemed, the same old “demons” in the face of another massive setback.
In the process of healing my knee - and my broken spirit, I reported to the base hospitals physiotherapy clinic each morning for the next two months.
I was one of several soldiers whose injuries were being mitigated by an attractive female Captain named Katie Cooper.
Katie was a lovely girl, wholesome, smart, but she was an officer – and technically I was still with Carmen - both sides of the equation were considered taboo.
As time went on it was obvious that we were attracted to each other and I asked her out. Because of the delicate circumstances, we saw each other socially and kept a very low profile.
She was responsible for getting my injuries – and ailing career back on track. As my physician, she had me medically reassigned back to my unit, where I worked in Battalion Headquarters while under her care.
Being assigned to “Headquarters” was disheartening. ‘I wasn’t a “real soldier,”’ I thought – but worked there for six months doing the best job I could under the circumstances – and my efforts didn’t go unnoticed.
The silver lining was that Headquarters is where all the decision makers worked. I gained the friendship and respect of every high-ranking officer who worked there. When my knee had healed and the opportunity presented itself, I made a very bold move and asked to have my name put forward for the “Jump Course.”
Having a “Jump Course” would qualify me for selection into the Airborne Regiment serving as a member of the elite Special Forces unit 2 Airborne Commando.
Being a paratrooper in the Airborne was the highest accolade of your abilities and the ultimate prize of any self respecting infantry soldier. My plan worked - within two weeks I was on a flight to Edmonton.
It felt good to be back in familiar territory, where I had done my basic training - but the jump course proved no holiday away from Battalion life.
Our course comprised eighty soldiers, all filled with aspirations of going home with golden wings affixed to their chest. 6000 soldiers had applied for this course with only twenty expected to graduate.
The jump course was daunting - fraught with the expectation of Battalion pride, all the while knowing my fragile ego was unable to withstand another catastrophic blow.
Jumping out of perfectly serviceable military aircraft is an unnatural act that requires a unique blend of strength, stamina and courage. It’s a unique apprenticeship that demands quick thinking in volatile and highly dangerous situations.
One component of our training involved jumping from the “mock tower,” a jump platform positioned at the psychological height of fear – thirty-five feet above the ground.
‘If you couldn’t exit the tower, you would never be able to exit from a plane.’ The mock tower had a reputation for making professional soldiers cry and I can assure you it didn’t disappoint. It seemed to affect everyone differently – but the experience definitely leaves a lasting impression on your psyche. When people ask me about my experience I say,
‘I had to jump - because I was so scared, I had pissed my pants and I thought, if I jumped - it would dry on the way down.’
The mock tower was child’s play - we still had to jump for “real.”
Over the remaining few days of the course, we had to complete both day and night jumps and had Air Force pilots on standby 24/7.
A strong cold front had increased wind speeds to dangerous levels and as we neared the final 24-hours – it was “do or die” to go.
I boarded the aircraft weighing 220kg with kit and weapon and as the four turboprop engines of the C-130 came to life, we were in the air positioning for the drop zone.
‘Jumpers – stand up!’ I heard the “Jump Master” say, followed by…
‘Hook up!’
I attached the snap clip of my static line onto a cable above my head.
‘Check - your - equipment,’ the sergeant barked!
All eyes were on the Jump Master as he had given the go ahead to open the doors.
The aircraft slowed. I could feel the rushing cold air, mixed with the smell of pungent exhaust. I was the fourth jumper in the “stick,” but with the doors open, it was impossible to hear the Jump Masters voice.
He cupped his hands - blowing into them. He raised his hands showing all ten fingers! - I knew it was a risky jump! His hand signals indicated that winds aloft were beyond the allowable limits for training - but we “had to jump” to complete the course.
As we lined up on final approach to the DZ my veins were throbbing; adrenaline was pumping that hard - the next few seconds of my life became a blur.
As the green light on the door illuminated, I jabbed forward and leapt into the frozen darkness, gripping my emergency chute tightly.
The taper of the fuselage causes jumpers to pass dangerously close while crossing under the aircraft’s belly. As I exited, I got caught in the draft and collided with another jumper causing me to spin uncontrollably – the pain was excruciating.
I heard a loud popping noise and felt a violent jerk on either side of my balls.
‘1 - 1000, 2 - 1000, 3 - 1000, “check canopy”,’ I recited aloud.
My hands traced a path along the risers and I tilted my head far enough backwards to get a good look at my rigging. My primary chute hadn’t malfunctioned, I had come away unscathed – for now!
Within seconds I had floated down far enough to make out a faint shadowy outline. I heard a loud cracking noise, caused by my gear breaking off tree branches - I only had a millisecond to react.
As I descended I was being dragged through the foliage.
‘There are no trees on the DZ,’ I remember thinking to myself - ‘Where am I?’
At the point of impact - I hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of me.
I could hear vehicles, ‘but how?’ I thought. I heard other jumpers and began walking in the direction of their voices. As we huddled together to stave off the bitterly cold winds, we tried to figure out what had gone wrong.
We eventually worked out that the flight crew hadn’t accounted for the increased wind speeds and exited us too early – completely at the mercy of the wind – drifting like dandelion seeds towards vehicle traffic on the highway.
That jump officially concluded our course.
Later that morning, on November 11th 1986, the painful memories of the jump, were numbed, as I stood alongside nineteen other soldiers and had a set of gold wings pinned to my chest.
I had done it! I had fought back against all odds and accomplished what all aspire to, very few try and even fewer succeed at.
I was on my way to the Special Forces.
The Canadian Airborne Regiment was formed on April 8, 1968 and was conceived as a tactical unit manned from members of other regiments. It suffered from an identity crisis until 1979, when the regiment created three infantry commandos.
Over time the commandos were legitimized however, on occasion the quality of their support was questioned [i.e.: Somalia Affair]
Ten days after returning to Victoria from my jump course I reported for duty in Petawawa on the other side of the country. The odd timing of my posting however, rose more than a few suspicions within the ranks.
Alternatively, rumours surrounding the Regiment had been circulated, linking both “organized crime” and a “white supremacist” element within the ranks. From first hand experience, they were “rebels” in every sense of the word and military authorities seemed powerless to do anything?
In light of the rumours surrounding the timing of my posting, I was about to have the extent of my training and depth of my courage put to the test.
I recall when living back in Victoria, a soldier by the name of Robin had spent the previous 3 years of his career attached to the “Commando.” An altercation I witnessed between Robin and a Navy Seaman ended in a nightmare of human tragedy. After being hit the Seaman fell to the ground. It’s what happened next that proved the most disturbing.
The sailor lay face up on his back clearly conceding defeat. Robin looked around, raised his boot and brought it down repeatedly on his face. He did so with such force, you could hear the bones cracking beneath the veil of his facial skin. Blood pooled on the walkway.
The dark side of the military I had seen in Battle School with “blanket parties” didn’t hold a candle to what went on in the real world.
I had called in a favour from my days in Battalion Headquarters, after Carmen had indicated she wouldn’t move to Victoria - away from her parents. Petawawa was the closest geographical posting – but still a five-hour drive away.
I felt strangely uneasy, as I had been tipped off several days earlier that “my days were numbered.”
From the edge of a wooded clearing, I could sense trouble and the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up.
I had wandered away for a piss while on a field exercise and was confronted by two Paratroopers from my unit. They became aggressive straight away!
‘Why are you here?’ One asked.
‘I got posted here,’ I replied – a bit of a smart ass.
‘Why didn’t you get posted with everyone else – are you an MP? They queried.
‘No! – What makes you think that?’ I asked.
‘We’ve heard all about you,’ they continued… ‘Everyone in the Commando thinks you’re a “narc.”’
‘You’re a dead man,’ the other piped in – ‘That’s what you are.’
The aggressor reached down and drew his boot knife forcing it to my throat.
I reacted instinctively grabbing his wrist and twisting it outwards - disarming him. As I locked his elbow, I threw him to the ground – hard!
I positioned myself over him placing the heel of my combat boot firmly on his throat; he struggled to breathe as I delivered the following message:
‘If you ever touch me again – I promise - I’ll kill you!’ ‘Now - fuck off.’
The remainder of the field exercise went by without further incident and indeed – he never touched me again.
By early December, an emergency situation mobilized the regiment to the tiny community of Hay River in Canada’s Northwest Territories, above the Arctic Circle. A satellite originating from the USSR had decayed orbit and crashed in the vicinity and we worked alongside U.S. Special Forces teams to recover it.
It was a harsh environment and while 700 soldiers camped in tents to the northwest of the airport, temperatures plunged into the minus 40’s.
After spending two weeks eating LRRP processed field rations, the lack of fresh food in our bodies was beginning to take its toll.
I was pulling late night “stove-watch” duty in our ten-man tent while the others slept. As I sat there, I began feeling abdominal discomfort as my intestines “gurgled” audibly and both the sound - and the sensation continued moving south!
Oddly, it wasn’t the kind of noise your stomach makes when you’re hungry, instead - it was an urgent message to move “quick-smart” to the nearest lavatory.
The outside arctic air was –42c and the moisture from inside the tent had frozen the zipper shut – I was trapped!
The message my brain was sending to my legs was interrupted by a “sputtering” sound and unfamiliar warmth replaced the usual dry comfort in my pants.
In the process of stripping back 6 layers of clothing, my worst fears were laid to rest. The processed rations I had ingested over the past two weeks had manifested them self into an acrid sludge.
Alarmingly, it was now located from the small of my back, clear down into the tops of my mukluk boots. I gagged!
I used my combat knife to cut the stitching of my jocks and began wiping frantically with paper towels - which I planned to set alight once outside the tent.
After melting away the frozen tent zipper with a lighter, I employed the tip of my knife to flick my “shit soaked” garments into the abyss.
I assumed the “evidence” had buried itself in the freshly fallen snow – nobody was the wiser and my reputation had remained intact. It wasn’t until daylight however, that I made a grisly discovery. The trajectory of my “flick” it seems, left it clinging on a branch of the “only” tree surviving in the Arctic Circle.
Rumours of how it procured it self there were rampant and realizing that the best “defence” was an “offence,” I joined in. I did what any sane individual would have done in my circumstance - I denied any involvement whatsoever, (despite knowing my name was etched in permanent marker on the inside band.)
We returned from the Arctic late Friday afternoon. I was exhausted, but had to make the five-hour drive from Petawawa back to my hometown - Carmen and I were getting married the next day.
In hindsight – I never should have married her. I didn’t love her, but perhaps that wasn’t clearly evident until years later? After allowing things to develop for so long – I felt obligated to follow through with the marriage.
After the wedding and a tearful farewell - leaving her parents for the first time, we headed back to Petawawa the following day.
By 4:00am the next morning I was on a bus headed for the Trenton Air Force Base on a one-day exercise. Several days later we were on a two-week Mountain Operations Course in Banff. It was a hectic schedule to say the least.
After returning from Banff we learned we were providing high-level security at the “G7 Economic Summit” in Toronto. The bulk of the military contingent provided security to delegate’s aircraft, similar to our role at CHOGM in Vancouver in 1986.
Troops were rotated on two – fourteen hour shifts, overlapping two hours each, twice a day. It wasn’t so much the hours, but the complexity of our objective that left us physically and mentally drained.
The likelihood of “Red Army” terrorist threats intensified and we were on high alert. Operations hit critical status, as authorities learned of four “SAM-7” surface-to-air missiles that had been stolen from a U.S. military compound overnight. “SAM-7’s” were an ominous threat that could be fired from the back of a vehicle. They are capable of bringing a passenger jet down from a range of over 2km.
That afternoon while doing a routine mobile patrol, I spotted a white Ford van on the shoulder of the highway, ten minutes before US President Ronald Reagan was scheduled to land. I immediately called it into HQ.
‘Headquarters, this is Rover 1 over.’
‘Rover 1, this is HQ, go ahead.’
‘HQ, this is Rover 1, I have a white van, unknown marker, stopped in front of location OP Charlie; advise?’
‘Rover 1, this is HQ, standby.’ I seemed to wait forever for their response.
‘Rover 1, this is HQ, proceed immediately to vehicle await civilian authorities, over.’
‘HQ, this is Rover 1, roger - moving now!’
I jammed the jeeps gears into forward and sped off. As we approached, no occupants were visible. We raced against time. I skidded to a halt blocking their vehicle, exiting low and fast in a cloud of dust. I loaded my magazine and cocked the action.
We opened the doors discovering 2 occupants in the back, huddled over some equipment.
‘Put your hands on your head,’ I shouted, training our sights. ‘Step out of the vehicle,’ I continued…
The instant we removed them, an RCMP officer handcuffed them and drove off. We found out later it was a false alarm. They were trying to get a photo of the President’s plane?
Several hours’ later hangar personnel awaited France’s President, Francois Mitterand in the Air France Concorde. Not to see him, but to get a glimpse of aviation history. After talking with the pilots I graciously accepted their offer to board the Concorde for a tour.
Admittedly, the gruelling schedule of the Commando was hard on relationships.
I had been married now for 7 months, yet had seen Carmen only a handful of times. In the weeks that followed, operational commitments slowed and I was home on a more regular basis, giving us an opportunity to spend some quality time together.
In an attempt to work through some of the issues established early on in the relationship, Carmen admitted that she allowed her parents to control her – leading to her insistence of the “Airborne” posting in the first place. She now wished we could’ve reverted to our initial plans of moving to Victoria, as her mixed feelings about my life in the “Airborne” led us to a crossroads.
Her solution was to have me abandon the military altogether but despite her coaxing, leaving would be a bittersweet decision. Even though I had a rough start – there was no other job I would rather be doing.
In the midst of making that decision, the political climate in the Middle East was at boiling point and the Commando was placed on “24 hours notice to move” in response to the Iran – Iraq war.
We were scheduled to fly to Al Muharraq in Bahrain with the “advance party” departing immediately. In the end, the unit’s presence wasn’t fully required and we were eventually stood down.
In 1988 it was unanimously decided by the Nobel Committee, that Peacekeeping Forces from around the world [including 2 Commando] would receive the 1988 Nobel Prize for Peace.
In their speech, the committee highlighted that, ‘Our collective undertaking in the monumental effort required to maintain peace amongst volatile nations of the world,’ was the basis for their decision.
News of their decision spread like wildfire and we were presented with a medal for our outstanding contribution to the United Nation’s efforts.
In looking ahead to my own personal resolutions - I was faced with making the decision to either leave the military or re-sign another 3-year contract.
If I stayed - I could return to 3PPCLI in Victoria, but not until after I had served 3 years in the Airborne. In the end it was decided – perhaps for me, that I would leave the stability of my career in the military to face an uncertain future.
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