We Were Invincible: Testimony of an Ex-Commando 9782894317990, 9782894317983

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WE WERE INVINCIBLE Translation : Jennifer Makarewicz

© Les éditions JCL inc., 2011

Les éditions JCL inc. 930, Jacques-Cartier Street East, Chicoutimi, Quebec Canada G7H 7K9 Phone: (418) 696-0536 - Fax: (418) 696-3132 ISBN: 978-2-89431-799-0 ISBN (ePub version) : 978-2-89431-798-3

DENIS MORISSET in collaboration with CLAUDE COULOMBE

WE WERE INVINCIBLE Autobiography

WARNING This is a true story. The events in this book have been reconstructed from the memories of a soldier who was a member of the Canadian Forces Elite Special Operations Unit: Joint Task Force 2, from 1993 to 2001. For obvious reasons, most names have been changed in order to preserve the anonymity of those involved.

To all soldiers who returned wounded, psychologically bruised and battered from missions… and virtually abandoned!

NOTE A list of the abbreviations and acronyms used in this book is found on page 281. All words in this list are highlighted in grey in the text.

CHAPTER 1 Recruit School

Québec, 2005 Him too! I put down the phone. My throat was dry; I could feel the trickle of ice cold water running down my back. Unable to think, I felt myself slip into a deep and dark abyss. “Denis?” I was unable to answer. “Denis Morisset?” I still didn’t react. When my wife, Julie, found me sitting in the living room in the dark, she knew that something had happened. “Denis, what’s the matter?” “A sixth one, Julie.” “No! Oh, no! Not another one!” Her voice trembled. She knew exactly what I was talking about. That was the sixth of my old teammates from the Canadian Army counter-terrorism unit who had found no other solution to ending profound internal suffering than that of taking his own life. What we experienced had left wounds so deep that my six buddies had not found any other way out. I fully understand them; more than once, I also thought of taking that path. My family’s love is the only thing that prevented me from doing so.

I held on to Julie’s hand. I talk about it now. I go back to when I was young, years ago. A time of carefree living, when everything was incredibly easy. Unravelling the threads of my life helps ground me. Every moment remembered represents a brick in the demolished wall of my life. In the beginning, my journey was a rather typical one. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Disco fever swept through North America in 1980. Discos opened in every city and Québec was no exception. Eden, Balzac, and vendredi 13 were the hot spots for young people who moved to the beat on the dance floor, mimicking John Travolta, the hottest star at the time. I was part of that youth. At the time, I was 17 and, like many kids my age, had no idea what to do with my life. Academics, sports, and girls were my priority, but not necessarily in that order. Somewhat discouraged, my father watched me. The direction his son was heading seemed questionable to him. He wanted to talk to me and bring me back on what he considered to be the ‘right path’, but he was extremely aware that kids my age did not heed parental advice until only much later in life. He had to therefore be cunning. He knew about my keen interest in well-organized groups – I had successively been a member of the scouts, pioneers and army cadets. One day when I stopped by my parents’ house for a quick bite to eat before running off, he showed me an army reserve form. “You should try this,” he suggested. “Uh huh,” I answered. “It’s a job like any other; you’d be well paid.” That caught my attention. He knew that, like all teens, I constantly needed money. I took the form saying I would look at it. It was only some days later that I finally picked up the piece of paper and realized that it was actually a job offer for the Québec Voltigeurs. I applied for the job without really thinking anything of it and, to my surprise, was promptly accepted.

That is how I ended up in the army. I can’t claim that it was my vocation or a well thought-out and planned career project… had my father not handed me that form, I wonder where I would be today. Whatever it was, it was the beginning of a rigorous training period. I followed the drill, the very foundation of any army. They say that it develops the body and mind. Walking and filing by in perfect unison is no easy task. I picked up a number of survival tricks and was also introduced to weapons handling. Mostly, I made many friends with whom I partied more often than not. I was rather content with that lifestyle. One of our reservist group’s tasks was to serve as a training unit for the Royal 22e Régiment, nicknamed the Vandoos. We were the bad guys. I quickly realized that I grasped military strategy with surprising ease. During one particular exercise, I tried something that would not only earn me a great deal of respect but some serious problems as well. Along with two other reservists, I had to plan an ambush on an entire 22nd platoon. We set up some straight branches covered with leaves and twigs, simulating weapons pointed at them. When the platoon arrived, one of us leapt forward and aimed his rifle at the highest in command, Warrant Officer Pronovost. “Surrender, you’re surrounded!” Thirty metres away and hidden behind a tree, I then fired a shot in the air. The third member of our trio also fired a shot. We wanted to create the impression of many men surrounding the platoon. Baffled and confused, the soldiers hesitated before eventually surrendering. I requisitioned a transport vehicle at gunpoint and ordered everyone to climb aboard. When Warrant Officer Pronovost realized that there were only three of us, he turned beet red. Humiliated, he remained silent and sat apart from his men.

Because of that battle exploit, I immediately became quite popular; it helped me have some good times in the Army Reserve. I begin to seriously think about a military career. In my naiveté as a teenager, I decided I would be an army recruiter. I wasn’t aware that the job did not exist. Recruiters are actually enlisted personnel from different military occupations who, on a rotational basis, are sent throughout the country to recruit new members. I submitted my application and was accepted at the Canadian Forces Recruit School. The tone was set on the very first day of training. What an unpleasant surprise when I realized that our instructor was none other than Warrant Officer Pronovost. As I recognized him, he wasted no time showing that he had not forgotten me either. He headed straight towards me and made me stand to attention. With his face only inches from mine, he spoke in a low voice. “You, son, have just committed the worst mistake of your life. You will pay unlike anything you can possibly imagine. I am going to break you, humiliate you. I swear you will drop out before the end of training.” Charming program up ahead. I questioned my decision in taking that path. I went through hell over the next six weeks. When most recruits were given special permissions after their fourth week, I had to wait for the eighth before finally being allowed out for a few hours. I was named Supervisor for Assistance in Safety and Security (SASS) for the program’s ten weekends. As if that weren’t enough, Pronovost kept me on as Platoon Senior, or recruit in charge of the platoon, for nine weeks out of the ten. Because of that, I was given all the administrative tasks and was overwhelmed with work during most of my training. I was not given any break whatsoever. During the gas chamber exercise, the Warrant Officer made me, as Senior, go through with the platoon’s three sections. After the third time in the chamber, I

couldn’t see a thing – my eyes were swollen, my nose runny, and I threw up repeatedly. Despite it all, I refused to quit the program. I held the unenviable record of 29 charges laid against me, with every reason more absurd than the last. But I watched and I learned. I told myself that the day would come when someone would realize it. The Warrant Officer was blinded by his obsession to make me quit. Of the 29 offenses, the most common one was that of leaving my locker open. And yet, I knew for a fact that I locked it every morning. The only possible explanation was that somebody unlocked and opened it after I left. One morning, I made all 20 guys from my section check my locker to see for themselves that it was indeed closed and locked. When a new charge was laid against me at the end of the day, I knew that Pronovost had just committed a huge mistake. I lodged a complaint and had all 20 of my bunk mates testify. The Warrant Officer was reprimanded and fined for having lied. He was furious but I had it easy for the last seven days. Those ten weeks taught me a few things. First – I had leadership qualities. Second – although I was bold and provocative (something I realize even more so today), I was also revolted by injustice and always ready to fight it. Throughout my career, my rather unconventional behaviour would prove to be as detrimental to me as it would be helpful. I could put up with a lot simply to prove that I could hold my own and face challenges, but I was not made of steel. Although I did make it through to the end of my training, I was exhausted both physically and morally. Since I was Platoon Senior for nine weeks, all the guys came to me with whatever problems they had. Admittedly, I was incapable of listening to them as well near the end as in the beginning. I was carrying too much weight on my shoulders. When one guy named Bédard came to me one day saying he couldn’t take it anymore, I could not stand the whining.

“You can’t take it Bédard? In that case, open the window and jump out,” I answered dryly. I didn’t think that we were on the tenth floor and that Bédard was probably as morally exhausted as I was. As I turned away to address the next person, Bédard went to the window and opened it. I swivelled around in my chair just in time to see him jump out. Horrified, I ran to look outside. By some miracle, he had slid down along a ridge of snow to the fourth floor where he then fell into a bank of soft snow. He did not have a single scratch. When I asked if he was hurt, he looked at me in a daze and gave me the thumbs up. We had both never been so scared in our lives. I will never again make the mistake of not listening to someone in need. * The recruit program ended and I was promoted along with the others. I had held on to the very end. On graduation day, my father went to see the school’s Chief Warrant Officer, a man named Groulx, a distant acquaintance. He asked how everything had gone with the new recruits. Proud as a peacock, Groulx looked at my father. He didn’t make the connection between him and me. “I can tell you they were treated like shit. You can’t imagine to what extent.” He pointed his finger at me. “Especially him there, young Morisset.” “I know, he’s my son. But despite all of your underhanded crap, he made it.” My father turned sharply on his heels, leaving the Chief Warrant Officer dumbstruck. *

On my eighteenth birthday, and without quite realizing everything it entailed, I became an active member of the Canadian Army. Since I was bilingual, I had decided to become a Radio Operator during Recruit School. I found myself at the Kingston School of Communications, the shortest path, I was told, to becoming a recruiter. I was so gullible. Once in Kingston, I quickly learned that there was no such job as recruiter. I made the most of it and attacked my studies of Morse code and HF, VHF and UHF communications with enthusiasm. I became familiar with cryptography in all its forms. While studying communications, I pursued military training. I took pride upon realizing that I was a good soldier- tough and resilient. Not to mention my unbridled enthusiasm. However, my arrogance irritated a number of people… in particular my career manager, Warrant Officer Chamberlain. Luckily, I would not have to meet with him often since he believed that all Francophones were pathetic losers. I couldn’t help it; in spite of myself, I was always the one who had to add that extra word. During a parade in front of the Lieutenant Governor, we had to sing O Canada. At the end of our national anthem, I couldn’t resist loudly saying, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the game!” Naturally, everyone cracked up and that caused the Commanding Officer in charge of the platoon to lose his composure. After that, even though I was not dear to the hearts of most officers, I progressed nonetheless. I was soon sent on my first peacekeeping mission in the Golan Heights in Israel. There, like in Syria, I discovered different cultures. Unlike many of my comrades who preferred staying among themselves, I enjoyed meeting the locals, sharing their knowledge and learning from them. To this day, I still don’t understand why people are wary of strangers. I see it differently – as an opportunity to learn something new.

In fact, life will teach me that most problems come from people we know. In Cyprus, I figured out for the first time that, in the army, promotions are not necessarily based on merit. Escorted by a captain, I patrolled the border between the Turkish and Greek parts of the island. Everything seemed fine; soldiers saluted us and we responded in kind. One day, a Turkish soldier who thought he was pretty funny waited until we came up close to him before aiming his weapon at us. Taken by surprise, the captain soiled his pants. He babbled a few incoherent words, cleared his throat and ended up telling me to stay calm and step back. His attitude emboldened the Turk who began threatening us more overtly. Rather than step back, I stood squarely in front of him, calmly removed the magazine from my machine gun and showed him that it was loaded with real ammunition. I reloaded my weapon and this time, I took aim at the Turk. I yelled at him to back up and drop his weapon, something he obviously did not understand. I took a step forward, yelling even louder. He started backing up. Realizing that I was not going to back down, he eventually gave up his little game. That should have earned me congratulations or at the very least some form of recognition, but no – the captain was furious with me. He said I could have created a diplomatic incident, that he would file a report on my behaviour, blah, blah, blah. What must have really gotten to him was losing face. I would have most probably forgotten about the incident but he was afraid I would talk about his cowardice and ended up digging himself in even deeper. I met many courageous men during my career, whereas others did not deserve the stripes they flaunted on their uniforms. Amidst my comings and goings all over the world, I was based at Valcartier. In 1986, the Canadian Army wanted to computerize its operations and launched project ECAC. The Commanders of different units throughout Canada, who knew nothing about computers, delegated officers who were at the end of their careers or

on the very verge of retirement. My commander at the time, Colonel Roméo Dallaire, was quite the visionary and, instead, he sent two young guys. I was one of them. I discovered a fascinating world. My comrade and I returned from the program totally captivated, our minds filled with a variety of different projects. We immediately asked the Colonel for permission to go follow a number of other courses, most of which were in the United States. The very moment we would return from our courses, we wasted no time putting into practice what we had learned. With our help, Valcartier Base became a pioneer in computerizing the military. For years, I did not count the number of hours I worked. I was crazy about computers. Two years before leaving my job at Valcartier, I implemented the Metropolitan Area Network (MAN) with Banyan Vines in Unix platform network. Street-Talk, a user-naming method, would be bought by different companies, allowing them to use @ as an address element. It is the basis of the Internet. Under Colonel Dallaire’s instigation, we went from 1 server on the base to 17 in less than 12 months. When, after 12 months, I received my first evaluation, I was deeply disappointed! I was still with my regular unit since there was no computer unit, and I was evaluated according to regular, ordinary criteria and yet, I had just spent a year which was anything but ordinary! I decided to object in my own way in order for them to correct the situation. Using my computer, I went through the base network and crashed the colonel’s computer. In a matter of minutes I was called to his office. “Hello, Colonel. What’s up?” “It’s my computer, chief; I can’t do a thing with it.” “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it.” As I worked on the keyboard, the colonel noticed that I was not my usual self. “Chief, is something the matter?” “No, no… everything’s all right.”

“Don’t take me for an idiot; it’s written all over your face.” I stopped typing and looked up. I then innocently took my evaluation from my pocket. “This is what’s bothering me, Colonel.” He took the paper and read it. He grabbed his phone, called my immediate superior and reprimanded him. That very afternoon my evaluation was reviewed and I was promoted. It was during that period that I met the woman of my life. As is often the case, fate seemed to play a great role in it. A friend of mine met a girl he asked out but she told him that she was already doing something with a girlfriend. He asked me if I wanted to take care of her friend. I was more than willing to offer my friendship. But when I met both girls, the one I was interested in was not the one originally meant for me. Luckily, the object of my affection felt the same. I didn’t waste any time – I invited her to the movies… alone! The first movie we saw together was Rambo… Was it prophetic? We quickly bonded, so much so that we soon couldn’t leave one another. We both tried seeing other people at one time or another, but we ended up back together, realizing it was in each other’s company that we were happy. Although surprised when Julie told me she was pregnant, I can’t say I hadn’t wished it. On the contrary! In addition, I had a good job that allowed me to provide for a family. What else could I ask for? We married shortly after the birth of our child. That was the beginning of a wonderful period for us. I worked like crazy but I knew that the experience and skills acquired would come in handy even if I decided to leave the Armed

Forces. Time flew by at amazing speed and our son soon welcomed a baby sister, and then another one. I basked in happiness. Julie is not the Army’s biggest fan. She let me do my job and, early on, picked up the habit of not asking any questions. Things could have gone on that way but, particularly in the army, others higher up in the hierarchy sometimes take charge of the path you take. In 1993, to be precise, one such person decided that my path would change direction and move on to something I had never even thought of. Had this person detected certain characteristics of Rambo in me or was it more likely they needed a good communications specialist? For whatever reason, I was offered the opportunity to integrate the new military counter-terrorism unit created by the Canadian Armed Forces: Joint Task Force 2 (JTF2). That is how I wound up in an elite secret unit, sent to the four corners of the earth on missions so confidential that even the media never mentioned them, or if they did it was only after time had taken its toll. But whatever I had to do, whatever I was going to experience, I must acknowledge that those eight years were thrilling, albeit Dantesque.

CHAPTER 2 Six-Day Purge

In the 1980s, the only counter-terrorist unit in Canada was the Royal Canadian Mounted Police ERT – Emergency Response Team. The unit operated only in Canada. Although the officers and police were well-trained, the ERT was difficult to deploy quickly in a crisis situation since most members were not grouped in a same area. It is also very difficult for a unit under police authority to conduct operations abroad, even if performed under a different cover. In addition, through its training, a police force is more inclined to protect and save people than to terminate lives, even when dangerous. The Canadian Forces began repatriating this unit under its own authority, increasing its operational capacity as well as the ability to intervene abroad against terrorist threats. It modelled the unit after the renowned SAS British counter-terrorist unit – Special Air Service. Over the years, Joint Task Force 2 will become one of the best of its kind throughout the world. But the term ‘counter-terrorist’ is very broad. Other than physically eliminating threats, ‘cleaning up’ scenes of massacre intended to terrorize – keep in mind that a terrorist’s job is to spread terror with the purpose of bringing the adversary to make concessions – and preparing the field for ‘regular’ intervention units, we would, during our years in JTF2, do a number things that fall well outside the simple boundaries of fighting terrorism. * When all military commanders were asked to propose candidates for the different positions needed within the new ultra secret task force, my name circulated as a communications specialist. It was my commander at the time, Roméo Dallaire, now a General, who

recommended me. He believed I was one of the best radio operators in Canada and, without question, one of the best with computers. But I was unaware of those discussions about me, just as I was unaware of the investigation the Army was conducting on me and my family. And, without my knowledge, I was selected. Ottawa Headquarters took this new unit extremely seriously and those who, like me, were selected in advance saw doors subtly close before them over the next two years. We were being steered towards only one possible posting – the counter-terrorism unit. Actually, when the Armed Forces officially asked me to be part of JTF2, I refused. I was married, had three young children and I liked my job as a computer specialist at Valcartier. I had everything I needed to be happy. But the Forces pursued their plan and, strangely enough, the project I was working on was cancelled. Not knowing exactly what was in store for me and realizing I didn’t really have an option, I ended up accepting their offer. * The creation of the counter-terrorism task force also unofficially marked the dissolution of the Army’s Airborne Regiment, which officially disbanded in 1995. A number of its members were incorporated into JTF2. However, most did not have the psychological profile required to integrate into the new unit. They did not fit in well with the attitude of the new group – they were too confident, had inflated egos and lacked autonomy. In addition to the Airborne’s ex-members and the thirty or so pre-selected candidates, of whom I was part of, the CF ask for volunteers from different army corps in order to have a bank of approximately 150 candidates for the selection process. Along with the other pre-selected candidates, I was given the opportunity to be relieved of my daily duties in order to prepare for the selection process. We were even sent in small groups of five to train with the American SEALs[1] in Virginia. With 70 to 80% of

volunteers unable to complete Hell Week – the first phase of training in becoming a SEAL – I can safely say that we were in pretty good shape. When I arrived in Ottawa with the others, the atmosphere resembled that of a jamboree with everyone talking and laughing loudly. One officer explained what the unit would be composed of. Under a sole commander, with two sections: one for military operations and the other, for which I was initially destined, the service unit. Theoretically, 30 jobs were already filled and approximately 20 others were to be determined. But we were all required to go through the six-day selection test. That changed everything. It began with a physical fitness test – the Cooper test, which was composed of five phases. First, wearing boots and pants, run a distance of 1½ mile (2,4 kilometres) within 11 minutes. Second, do at least six pull-ups followed by 42 push-ups in two minutes or less. Then we had to do 50 sit-ups in less than two minutes and lift a minimum weight of 65 kilograms. Believing it was nothing more than physical fitness preparation for the real selection test – the six-day – a lot of men did not take the test seriously. But after the first ordeal, the atmosphere changed radically. An officer announced the results: 65 guys failed and, for them, that was the end. Anger, frustration and, mostly, disbelief could be seen on their faces. At the second ordeal, 10 more candidates were sent away, and so on. The Cooper test ended with weight lifting, an event where we could hear a pin drop. Over half of the candidates got eliminated and had to pack their bags. The others, of which I was a part of, were sent to Dwyer Hill, the former ERT camp based in an Ottawa suburb, which would later become the JTF2 secret training base.

The six-day was the worst selection test I ever endures. During six interminably long days, we were subjected to physical and mental ordeals which had only one goal: push us to the limit, beyond our individual capacities. Everything was set up to make us afraid, stressed, disoriented, exhausted. They even substituted our names for numbers; I was 27. We were not awarded a single second of rest during the day and, in addition, the nights were short. The test, developed by one of Britain’s best SAS officers, was designed to select only the best of candidates who, in any imaginable circumstance, would never give up. And the results were surprising. One by one, the plans of the future unit headquarters’ fell through. Certain pre-selected candidates failed and would have to wait one year before going through the selection process once again. The guys from the Airborne Regiment, who we expected would get into military operations, all failed. Without exception. As for me, things went rather well since I ended up where I was not supposed to be. At first, I was expected to take care of communications, in the service department. I did not meet the physical height and weight requirement standards to work in military operations. I looked like a dwarf compared to the selected group of giants. But, as each day went by, I was always positioned among the best. The future unit commander was among us, incognito, and he went through the six day test like the rest of us. Very charismatic, but mostly a shrewd analyst, he quickly realized two important things. First, the elimination process resulted in a greater number of victims than expected, therefore disrupting pre-established plans. Second, he would need bilingual radio operators on the field and, as usual, not one Anglophone spoke French whereas there were very few perfectly bilingual Francophones among the remaining candidates, and only two radio operators. One morning, two days before the selection process ended, the Commander called me to an office adjacent to the cafeteria.

Although unaware of his rank or role in the unit, I immediately understood that I was in the presence of a great leader. His speech reinforced that initial impression. “Number 27,” he said. “You have been through numerous ordeals over the past four days, but the worst is yet to come. I absolutely need you to succeed in this selection process. I am going to need you. Tell me I can count on you, that you won’t give up.” “No problem. I will succeed.” “Thank you. That will be all, number 27.” Naturally, I was somewhat bragging because I had no idea what was coming… No one can even imagine the intense physical and mental endurance needed to get through those days. A psychological test would immediately follow a physical ordeal. Between two ordeals, the rare moments of rest were anything but that, since we had to continually work on solving mathematical enigmas – our puzzles – as they called them. Try to imagine the following: you start with a 10-kilometre run. Exhausted by the effort, you must, regardless, then memorize a series of objects laid out on the platform of a truck. You leave to run another 10 kilometres and you enter a room where an examiner asks you what you saw on the platform. If you mention, say, a pistol, he asks for the make, model, if it was loaded, etc. When that is over and you leave the room, you return to your puzzles. Then you are called for the next ordeal which consists in taking a ride beneath a helicopter, over a lake, tied to a 30-foot rope. We call that the tea bag. And it went on just like that, without stop. The intervention by the future unit commander gave me incredible motivation for completing the last test days. But it was far from pleasant. I had to face my greatest fear: heights. Yes, I was afraid of heights! Perched on the platform of a Rappel Tower, I had to throw myself down with an elastic tied to my ankles. I was so nervous that I was dripping with sweat. The instructor knew about my phobia – it was written in my file – and he had to help me

overcome it. While getting me ready, he said the following, “If you don’t want to freeze when you’re supposed to jump, close your eyes and keep them closed while repeating these three words non-stop: facta non verba[2].” I followed his instructions and when I arrived at the bottom, the person who untied me asked what was written in large white letters on the tower that I could read going down. I looked at him, dumbfounded. I had kept my eyes closed the entire way down. And then I uttered three words: “Facta, non verba.” “Good, move on to the next ordeal.” The smell of chlorine tickled my nose. I was in the pool locker room with the other candidates. That ordeal would eliminate the largest number of candidates. In bathing trunks, we had to take a shower which, of course, was freezing. At the door leading to the pool, we were handed a gas mask where the eye openings had been obstructed as well as a huge bullet-proof vest, so heavy that we named it the beast. One after the other, we had to go through a circuit that disoriented us. We then climbed up the three steps of a small podium and stopped. An instructor started by asking if we could swim. He explained that we had to retrieve a number of objects at the bottom of the pool and bring them to the pool edge. Then it was time to dive. I immediately removed my mask and let the weight of my vest drag me to the bottom. I identified the objects and began retrieving them. Suddenly, I felt pulled upwards. Like the others, I didn’t know that once filled with water, the vest floated. I was able to get out of the pool very easily. That was not the case for everyone, though. Many panicked at the bottom and tried to take off the vest. But unzipping something underwater is far from easy. As a result, they were instantly pulled to the surface without having picked up a single object. They had to shed their vest and dive in a number of times. If they did manage to finish the exercise, the chronometric

results were disastrous. In the end, only two of us completed the test in time with our vests still on. I then witnessed something quite funny. The next exercise involved disorientation. Once again, we had to wear the mask with the obstructed openings. We were sent in a room and had to feel our way out. It was forbidden this time to remove the mask. The catch was that the exit was blocked by big tires which we had to line up in order to make a tunnel that would lead us out into the open air. During the entire time we were inside, sounds of explosions and deafening music played, disrupting our concentration. One of the candidates, a colossal man who had until then been the best in the physical events, completely lost it in that room. He ripped off his mask, broke down a wall with his fists and stumbled outside, yelling with his eyes bulging and foam coming from his mouth. It took quite a few examiners to calm him down. Verdict: eliminated. I believed that the worse was over. I was wrong. At the start of the sixth day, the remaining survivors were at the end of their rope. Exhausted both physically and mentally, we did not even have the strength for conversation at breakfast. We had hardly swallowed our last bite that we had to head for the gym. There was a boxing ring in the center surrounded by stationary bikes and sand bags. We started on the bikes, standing and pedalling for two minutes at full speed. Then we boxed for two minutes on a punching ball which had to keep at a 45-degree angle; making impossible to hold back the punches. Back on the bikes for another intensive two minutes and then we had to get in the ring with one of our team members. Had we been more intelligent, we would have tried to spare one another during the boxing match. But, convinced that the round marked the end of the ordeal, we gave it our all. Huge mistake. We were sent back on the bikes and then in the ring again, where this time we were up against a Canadian taï-boxing champion. During this final round, it was impossible to land a single hit. The guy pounded us without mercy, taunting us to come back for more. I fell often but kept getting back up to confront his devastating series of blows. When the

bell finally rang and I was told that the ordeal was over, I did like all the others – I dropped to my knees and threw up until nothing more came up. * From the outside, this may possibly seem totally insane. But there is an underlying logic. They were looking for one thing and one thing only: to identify those who were determined to make it to the very end, who could take the blows, the pain, the exhaustion, and persevere despite it all. They were looking for those who, when injured during a mission, could still finish the job. In an ordeal as demanding as that one, those who confronted the pain – a pain which intensified with every passing minute – were what true combatants were made of. The weak threw in the towel at that point in the six days. A macho vision? Let’s get this straight. When I say weak, I am not only talking about physical strength. I saw giants crumble during those days, crying like little kids, unable to take any more. You’ve got to be solid physically and mentally to get through those six days. I would even say that mental strength is what matters the most because it allows you to go beyond your limits. It is our brain that pushes the body to its very boundaries. I was the smallest man there, yet it was the boxing ordeal that made me become definitely chosen. As the baseball trainer, Yogi Berra would say: it ain’t over till it’s over. There was still the main course left. We had to perform an obstacle course in the gym. We were called one after the other for a last interview. The examiner had our military file on hand, the investigation performed by the army secret services and the notes taken during the six day test. He used that information to try, one last time, to push us over the edge. Not very difficult to do in the state we were in. Using lies and insinuations about our career or family, he provoked us into states of anger or grief to try to break us. It is

important in that type of an interview to provide complete and wellarticulated answers. It gives us time to think and analyze. That way, we can detect traps and lies. Those who had a short fuse or who answered with only a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to the questions inevitably messed up. It was at the end of that interview that I learned I was chosen. I had no idea whether I should rejoice. The examiner made me go through a door where I joined those who, like me, were the new members of the Canadian Forces counter-terrorism unit, JTF2. We were only 17 out of the 150 candidates to have succeeded. The army would call back some of the candidates who failed only by a small margin. By making them go through some extra tests, they would be able to complete the unit. In hindsight, I find it clear that the Army did not proceed properly. We were guinea pigs, agreed, but we lacked preparation. Despite our suggestions, the Army never changed its strategy. Headquarters should have trained a preparatory unit on a military base where, over the years, recruits would become familiar with the different facets of the role of a counter-terrorist commando: shooting skills, rappel, physical training, field analysis, cartography, gathering intelligence… all the competencies necessary to transform green recruits into prime candidates. But military bureaucracy is worse than government bureaucracy. Nothing changed and the small problems piled up. It did not take long before rumour circulated within the Armed Forces about the extreme difficulty of the six-day test. Over the following years, many candidates arrived during recruiting period with, as their only objective, to succeed the six-day test as a personal challenge. Afterwards, they refused to pursue the unit training program and returned to their home base. A preparatory unit

would most probably have eliminated the ones who showed up only for the challenge. 1. The SEAL acronym stands for Sea, Air, and Land, which identifies the elements in which this Special Warfare unit operates. This elite military force, trained for special operations and combat in all environments, was established by President John F. Kennedy on January 1, 1962 to conduct unconventional warfare. 2. Deeds, Not Words : JTF2's motto.

CHAPTER 3 Hell in Rwanda

We were given a week off to go back to our families and, for those who were married, tell our spouses the news. I tried to describe my future job to Julie. I explained that I now worked for a unit regulated by a maximum security rating. I would no longer be able to tell her what I did or the places I would be sent to. “It doesn’t change much,” she told me. “What do you mean?” “That already you didn’t tell me anything and I never asked any questions.” “But now, what’s different is that I won’t be able to tell you. I could leave without telling you and return two or three months later without you knowing why. Do you feel you can handle that?” “I don’t know, we’ll see.” I had no idea that that week would be the last vacation I would take for a long time. Neither did I realize to what extent work would take me away from my family, nor that, by taking this route, I was placing my loved one’s well-being into the hands of the Armed Forces. Before leaving for a mission, we were often told not to worry about our family’s well-being, that the Army was there to take care of them. * Once I returned to Ottawa, we began studying the different subjects in our training program. Our main instructor, the man who actually thought of and created-JTF2, was a SASCaptain hired by

the Canadian Army. We had the best specialists in every field. It was during that time that they started grouping us into small sections in order to get to know one another better. * Unfortunately, Canadian duality was much more evident in the Army than in civil society. Antipathy and hostility towards Frenchspeaking individuals was omnipresent. It didn’t matter that I had gone to an English school or spoke English as well as English Canadians; I always had to do more than the others to prove that I was at least just as good. And sometimes that was not enough. That attitude often came from above. One of our First Commanders was so obstinate regarding that issue that he did not understand why there were Francophones in the unit. According to him, everything had to be done in English and so even Francophones who were bilingual represented an unnecessary risk to him. Luckily, he did not last long and the Commanders who followed did not have that same mentality. But it was never very far… Headquarters chose men of experience for this unit. All the courses were more comprehensive versions of what we had already learned in our respective garrisons. A young inexperienced recruit would have been unable to keep up. We had to be proficient at reading maps of every type and drawing – with the utmost precision – small diagrams for our missions. The instructors gave the utmost importance to every detail. We became first-rate soldiers for both ‘green’ and ‘black’. There are two types of operations within a counter-terrorist unit. Green operations are missions tied to a war or performed within combat zones. Black operations designate more secretive urban guerrilla missions, hostage taking, eliminating snipers, etc. We were in training for a few months in Ottawa when the Army decided to send some men to Rwanda to serve as bodyguards for

General Roméo Dallaire. Problems had arisen in that country and the General was no longer safe. Four guys – Steve Bureau, Ken Belley, André Sheehan and I – left for Fort Bragg in North Carolina to follow accelerated bodyguard training with the American DELTA FORCE. The course normally lasts two months but we completed it in three weeks due to the urgency of the situation. Once it was over, a quick stop in Ottawa and we were placed on a plane heading for Rwanda… without even having had one minute to speak with our families, Whereas I had just returned from spending three weeks in the United States and was now on my way to Rwanda, Julie still thought I was in training in Ottawa. I was beginning to see the type of life, or absence thereof, that my being part of JTF2entailed. I was unaware of it at the time, but for the next eight years, my life would only consist of training followed by a mission, then more training, and another mission. Non-stop. And always prohibited from revealing our activities and the locations we were in… even with the person we shared our life with. Whatever the Canadian Army states on its web site, I know that most of my teammates unconsciously sacrificed their families. The divorce rate was frightening. Our health was also sorely tested. In order for us to survive such a hellish pace, steroids and several other drugs became readily available. We were not bound by the same code of ethics as athletes. Since our unit was top secret, officially it was not a JTF2 commando that disembarked at Kigali. That mission was truly representative of what was in store for us in the future. The briefing we received before leaving was excellent, giving us a good picture and some understanding of the county’s situation. Added to the antagonism between the Hutus and Tutsis, was the hatred the Rwandese in general harboured against the Belgians, who had colonized Rwanda. An understanding of the local customs would prove to be extremely useful to us during the three months we would spend in the Land of a Thousand Hills.

There had already been trouble and ethnic massacres in that country. In 1959, Tutsis were massacred by the thousands; in 1963 also and, in 1972, it is the Hutus’ turn. Upon our arrival, ethnic confrontations had begun once again and we were to experience them live, in all their horror. In principle, we were to ensure only the protection of General Dallaire, but we did a bit more than that. Our first assignment consisted in locating Canadian citizens in Rwanda and placing them under the protection of soldiers at the Hotel des Milles Collines in Kigali. Everything went smoothly until an unfortunate incident occurred after a missionary refused to leave his clinic despite our strong urging. He did not want to leave the sick people under his care, convinced that the Interahamwe militia would spare him. We returned the following day to try to convince him once again to follow us. It was already too late. The butchers had passed through. The only remains were the burned buildings and piles of bodies cut to pieces by machetes. Among them was the missionary who had thought he was safe. The situation degenerated. And then came the tragedy of the Belgian soldiers. Hutu members of the Rwandan army captured Belgian soldiers from the United Nations Mission (UNAMIR) and held them at Camp Kigali. General Dallaire sent us on a spy mission to see what could be attempted to rescue them. For him, it was out of the question to leave the Belgian soldiers in the hands of the Rwanda Armed Forces (RAF) soldiers, the so-called rebels. According to our General, the sole objective of the person who seized power after the attempt against President Juvénal Habyarimana’s plane was to make the Belgians leave Rwanda. Since the Operation Restore Hope incident in Somalia, where American soldiers were killed, many African leaders were aware that occidental powers were loath to see their soldiers die in Africa. They would pack their bags if that were the case. All those who caused the failure of the Arusha Peace Agreement – whose aim was to end civil war in Rwanda – knew that the Belgian contingent of the Multinational Forces was the best armed and most powerful. If the Belgians left, the military power would be terribly weakened. For us,

we had to save those soldiers, no matter what. While the General negotiated with Colonel Théoneste Bogosora, who claimed to be incapable of bringing his soldiers back to their senses, we gathered intelligence for a possible coup de force operation that Dallaire wanted to attempt if the talks failed. Separated in two groups, we deployed around the camp. Ken and Steve on one side, whereas André and I left for the other. We hugged the fence with extreme precaution, analyzing everything we could see inside. We came upon an area which lacked surveillance and where the fence was not properly installed. After enlarging the opening, we penetrated inside the camp and performed a meticulous search under the soldiers’ noses. We took the opportunity to install about twenty distance bombs… they would create quite a racket. Unfortunately, they would not be of any use. We realized, quickly enough, that we did not have the resources to perform such an operation. The power ratio was much too unbalanced. Our report to General Dallaire concluded that such a mission would be the equivalent of the commando unit committing suicide. We attended the last meeting with Colonel Bogosora before the tragic end of the Belgians. I cannot recall that incident without feeling nauseous. The massacre of the ten Belgian soldiers was horrible and, without wanting to escalate horror, it was far worse than what General Dallaire describes in his book. We returned to spy on the Kigali camp in the ultimate hope of attempting something, anything. It was too late. We helplessly watched the bloody slaughter of the men. The RAF soldiers began killing the Belgians, cutting them up with machetes. It was performed with indescribable violence and bloodshed. They threw the parts over the camp fence and they fell not far from us, some at our feet. Seeing the body parts drip with blood, we knew that some soldiers had still been alive when they were dismembered by the machetes. The General arrived at the scene. He was horrified and, at the same time, infuriated. The killing of those soldiers represented a resounding failure. It was an open

door to the bloodbath that was to follow, something he was keenly aware of. Feeling utterly helpless, we pursued our duties as bodyguards, accompanying General Dallaire wherever he went in his desperate attempts to stop the contagious madness. When we had left Canada, General Baril had warned us that General Dallaire’s life came before ours; we knew that we were to protect him at all costs. While he was at Headquarters, we risked our lives to gather information in town. Dressed as civilians, with a small pistol hidden in the small of our backs, we looked for information about weapons caches, Interahamwe comings and goings, and other useful bits of information. We developed a small network of informants who told us which hot spots to avoid during our patrols with the General. For some extremists, Roméo Dallaire represented a rather nice trophy. I witnessed massacres without being able to intervene; if I did, I would only be slaughtered myself. Besides, our rules of engagement were so strict that, unless we were to hear a bullet whistle by our ears, we were not allowed to retaliate. I witnessed the very definition of horror. Barricades were erected on roads with piles of bodies that machetes had gone through. The stench was appalling. In order to let the General’s convoy through, we had to move the dead bodies. Limbs would sometimes remain in our hands. The women, mostly, were horribly mutilated. The Interahamwe demons cut their breasts, arms, or ripped their babies from their wombs. I didn’t understand anything anymore. I had the feeling that the militias who were on a rampage seemed intent on always taking how much suffering they could inflict one step further. One particular image would come to haunt my dreams: at the end of a road, a river filled with so many bloody bodies that it was literally red in colour. A river of blood! We were confronted with violence without cease. One night, while on patrol, the General wanted to visit a family he had met before the massacres and had enjoyed their company. Although he suspected every one of them had been killed, he hoped for a

miracle. Everything was dark when we arrived at the house. I stopped the vehicle before addressing the General. “General, it would be safer for you to remain in the car.” “Out of the question; I’m going in with you.” You did not question the General’s orders. We searched the house with our flashlights and discovered another scene from hell. Although we were not experts in crime scenes, it was quite easy to reconstruct the crime. The General’s hosts had been killed by a bullet in the head, their children chased throughout the house and killed in the same manner. The people we found and who the General remembered as all being related – brothers, sisters or grandparents – had been systematically eliminated. As though eliminating an entire family line. Dallaire shook his head, helpless and overwhelmed by so much hatred. We rode back in silence, thinking of all the innocent victims. We try, unsuccessfully, to unwind at MINUAR headquarters. We had a long conversation with the General who was furious against the Rwandan authorities he had trusted and who had betrayed him. He was weary from the systematic refusals from UNO to provide him with what little he requested. He thought aloud about what he could have done with only fifteen armoured vehicles. He could have calmed the belligerent parties, prevented the erection of barricades at crossroads and reassured the population about MINUAR’s ability to enforce compliance with the peace agreements. Yes, only about fifteen armoured vehicles would have been enough to prevent the genocide. But, whether by stupidity or some calculated strategy I’d rather not think about, UNO had failed at carrying out the simple mandate of implementing a peace agreement and had let the situation degenerate into one of scandalous apathy. Had General Dallaire not still been employed by the Canadian Armed Forces when he published his book and required to submit it for their approval, he would undoubtedly have been more virulent than he was. He would have denounced UNO’s stupid three-page rules of

engagement which prevent the intervention of peacekeeping soldiers in situations where they otherwise could, under penalty of being court martialled. The danger of peacekeepers becoming targets while mediating conflicts is, without question, very real; but to stand by helplessly during massacres is indisputably the worst ordeal ever. Incidentally, upon our return from Rwanda, those rules would be completely changed for our unit. They could be summed up as such: the moment there was any threat, we were authorized to use our weapons. To my knowledge, no one took advantage of this rule. I could talk about other events we experienced there, but they would only be repetitious of what I have already described. At any rate, they would never succeed in aptly portraying how savage and excessive the Rwandan butchery was. Nothing ever will. * The General eventually gathered all his men in the conference room of the Kigali soccer stadium. “We have unfortunately nothing left to do here,” he said. “This country, which is so beautiful and filled with rich resources, reflects only hatred and sadness. It is time for us to return to our own reality. No commander of any mission could have wished for better support than what I received from your team. Every one of your names is forever engraved in my memory. Your devotion is exemplary. You arrived here as I did, with hope that you could change things. But that hope was denied to us. You and I have been little more than a balm on the atrocities we have witnessed. I am almost certain you will never again see such acts of barbarism.” He was wrong about that last part but his speech, short and tinged with sadness, marked the defeat of a man. We could see the bitterness of failure written on his face. I had known the General for a long time and had never seen him so distraught. This man who, to me, had always been a role model – a winner, proud and strong –

was deeply affected by stress, pain, and fear. My admiration for him grew. Before me stood a person who had given his all and who, visibly, was now an empty man, devoid of resources. Yet, he was courageous enough to stand before us and show his true self. We returned to our sleeping quarters where André and I cried for a long time. I understood the General. It was as though something had been taken from us, a part of our humanity. Suddenly, it was much too clear to me exactly what I had gotten into and I could hear the words of our British instructor: Emotions are for the weak, the field is the field. You must set aside everything that has nothing to do with the mission. Forget your families, they are safe. Never trust the enemy, no matter if they are young, old, woman, or child. No one knows what that person may be hiding. Your job is to complete your mission and return alive. If you think about the mission beforehand, don’t go. Concentrate on the results without thinking of anything else. FACTA NON VERBA. We were far from ready to experience anything of the kind. Who would have been? The crazy murdering spree had left its mark on every person who experienced it, one way or another. The consequences manifested themselves very quickly in some, taking longer in others. But we all, at one time or another, felt the same distress as General Dallaire. I still think about the General. To him, the genocide was a vast, pointless mess. But can we cope with the madness of men? As I climbed the stairs of the plane waiting to bring us home, I turned back to admire – for one last time, I thought – the beauty of Kigali. My gaze rested on the charred remains of the first event of this bloodbath: the frame of President Juvénal Habyarimana’s plane, shot down by a missile. Since then, I had heard that the missile could have been launched by the very man who was supposed to defend his ethnic group. I also heard that it all was the result of a power struggle between two foreign powers, that it was perhaps

calculated, planned with the simple goal of obtaining the diamonds in neighbouring Congo. Since then, I knew that the horror orchestrated behind that bloodshed concerned us all. Over the years, I understood that there are instincts of a warrior within us all, whoever we are and wherever we come from. They can be unleashed at any moment, under given circumstances. At that moment, on the steps leading to the plane which would take us back to Ottawa, I was convinced that people like me were necessary to avoid repeating such bloodshed. I felt important, and not like some number that could simply be replaced. After a flight which lasted a few hours, through which I mostly slept, we landed in Ottawa. The plane stopped beside a line of Suburbans waiting for us. Without customs or questions, each of the four members of the unit was sent with his gear to a separate vehicle. We were taken to the military base for individual reports. I didn’t understand. I was interrogated as though I had done something wrong, as though the protection mission had been a failure. I was questioned on things as stupid as how many bullets were used during the mission. At the time, I found those questions entirely useless, but I would later realize that my life could depend on such details. Everyone was called together for the group report. We were all eager to get it over with. Our families were not aware that we were back; in any case, they didn’t even know we had been away. I had only them on my mind. The Commander took the floor and asked for our impressions. Had this mission given us anything? His questions had more to do with what we had just experienced. After two hours in the conference room, it was finally time to go home. I took the plane to Québec where a car was waiting to bring me to Valcartier. My thoughts were still in Rwanda. I wanted to run, to get rid of my feelings of frustration before arriving home. But I had to keep it all inside. When I stepped out of the car, my children were already gathered around me and Julie held me in her arms.

“My God, your course was long, Denis! Did it go well, at least?” “Very well. You can’t imagine how happy I am to be back home.” My life of deceit had just begun. I wonder today how someone can be asked to hide the truth from their spouse. That request immediately placed a soldier in an unnatural and aberrant psychological situation. He was forbidden to break the isolation, to confide in the very person he would most likely find the sole support to questions and thoughts that plagued him. His deepest needs were deliberately overlooked. And to make the danger of that situation even more complete, we did not see a psychologist or doctor to help heal our psychological wounds. As though what we had experienced in Rwanda was perfectly normal. FACTA NON VERBA!

CHAPTER 4 “The Men are not Ready”

We were given a few days off to recover… from jet lag, we were told. The rest, of course, was nothing. Training soon began again. Three or four days at Valcartier, a week in Alberta, followed by a few days in Petawawa, Ontario. The unit was not yet completely formed and operational but bonds were gradually being created among us. During the last day of training in Petawawa, we were eating our cold rations, our back packs at our feet, and sharing our eagerness at wanting to take part in a mission where we could truly make a difference. We were to get just what we asked for. We had barely swallowed our last bite that evacuation was ordered and the helicopters arrived. We changed our gear and we were dropped off at the airport. From there, we were sent to Trenton where the Armed Forces DC-10 awaited. We took off for an unknown destination. We learned we were in Italy when we landed. There, we were finally briefed on the mission that awaited us. War was raging in exYugoslavia and about thirty Canadian Forces members had been taken hostage in Bosnia. An Officer was even handcuffed to a communications tower as a human shield to deter any bombing. If negotiations to free them failed, we would have to free them ourselves. The moment we arrived on site, we began our research on the operation zone. I was in charge of radio communications and had to be familiar with the lie of the land to know what frequency to use and where to position the material for optimal reception. Once planning was over and done with, we quickly built a scale model to memorize

the operation site. We worked eighteen hours a day, until we dropped from exhaustion. For the very first time, a doctor gave us each a pill the night before the mission. It was intended to help us sleep in order to be in shape the following day. Before going to bed, I took out a piece of paper and, without thinking, wrote to Julie and the children. As I started thinking about the future, I suddenly lost my confidence. For the first time, I saw the risk of dying on a mission. What would happen to my children, my wife? The Army’s official speech on the matter did not comfort me and I was unable to put my thoughts aside and feel reassured that they were safe. But the sleeping pill took effect and I dozed off. After a night of deep sleep, I awoke in great shape and, like the others, felt no side effects. That little pill was frighteningly efficient and would be part of our medical kit for the next eight years. We ate a quick breakfast and were taken to the helicopter hangar where we were briefed with the latest details. In the hangar, we witnessed a scene that was less than reassuring. Our British instructor, Captain Baird, was yelling and swearing. “The men are not ready. You’re going to lose half of them on this mission. Do you really want to take this risk, you idiot?” A Canadian officer answered him, stating the exact opposite. The Brit continued yelling but the decision was not his. Zero hour had arrived and we embarked in the helicopters. A heavy silence reigned. We were all thoughtful. We could not put aside the comments of the British instructor, yet we felt ready for action. After fifteen minutes of waiting, tension had reached its climax. Then we heard some words in our headphones. “No go, it’s a no go.” A combination of disappointment and relief followed those words. Naturally, we were disappointed at not leaving for this first real

mission, but at the same time, it felt as though a ton of pressure had been lifted from our shoulders. We would never again felt that tension on subsequent missions. A sign that, like the British Captain had loudly pointed out, we had not been quite ready. While he stood there, muttering to himself, I approached him. “Did we have a chance to succeed?” I asked point blank. He stared at me with that expression of dry wit the British are known for before replying. “Yes, of course! You would have completed the mission without any injuries or deaths.” He paused at my surprised look. “You are wondering why I was so adamant. Because the extraction was simply impossible. The enemy was too close for everyone to return alive. But I am glad you are still here. Whatever happens, stay alive. You are my Surgeon in Chief. You will understand later,” he added. We returned home without attempting anything else and Captain Baird used this interlude to perfect our training and ensure our readiness for the next mission. Everything was included. We were first preoccupied with green. Baird made us understand that if we perfectly assimilated the rules of war on a battlefield, we would be more comfortable when involved in an urban warfare and hostage taking situations. We went through it all step by step. Once the techniques for green operations were well assimilated, we began exercising hostage rescue operations. Our instructor took us to Woodstock Hospital – an old deserted psychiatric hospital, located west of Toronto and scheduled for demolition. Because of the vast amount of rooms, he was capable of developing a number of different scenarios. Once we mastered one to perfection, he would develop a new one, making us practice until each manoeuvre

became automatic. When we eventually left the building, the work for the demolition crew was well advanced. Every single door was ripped off its hinges, the windows broken, the cabinets gutted. We were exhausted, yet pleased. We knew we had progressed. Back at Dwyer Hill, which had officially become our secret training base, we gathered around the shell of a DC-10 and learned how to storm a plane filled with hostages. Rather than work with figures cut from wood, our instructor decided to divide the group. One group played the role of the ‘bad’ hijackers, or badgers as we call them. The others, the ‘good’ guys, had to succeed in eliminating the hijackers without a single hostage, or dove – a role played by just about every civilian working on the base – being hit. We used 9 mm training bullets with a plastic rounded tip and a small amount of paint. The bullets had the distinctive feature of losing their velocity very quickly. At twenty feet or more, they were ineffective but, within five feet, being hit by one of those bullets proved to be extremely painful. During our first try, I was designated as one of the bad guys with three others. I was determined to give a hard time to every one of my colleagues who would enter the cockpit. At the time, I was unaware of the entrance procedures… I hadn’t yet received training. The moment the door opened, I saw a hand throw an object. It was a flashbang grenade – the weapon of choice of counter-terrorist units. When they explode, those grenades deliver a powerful blast of blinding light and deafening sound, temporarily disorienting those in its vicinity by rendering them deaf and blind for a few seconds. That was all it took. Before I could even react, guns were pointed at me. My colleagues yelled at me to drop my weapon. I wanted to but was so dazed by the explosion that I continued pointing my weapon at them. Obeying their orders, they wasted no time peppering me with much enthusiasm. The other so-called hijackers were given the same treatment. It was over in one minute. I staggered out of the plane amid sounds of mocking laughter and jibes. That night, half my

body was black and blue and the pain was atrocious. I got my sweet revenge during the next exercise. We continued training with trains, buses, boats and cars. When possible, Baird perfected our training by sending us to train with the American DELTA FORCE or SEALs commandos. We were able to determine the quality of his teaching by comparing our skills to those highly-trained and experienced units. Our captain did not want us to look like a bunch of clowns among them, which was why he was so demanding. We had to be the best. He challenged us constantly. If we succeeded in performing an exercise in one minute, he would ask us to do it in 55 seconds, then 50, lowering the time limit until we couldn’t do any better. If something had never been tried before, he would challenge us to do it so that we would at least try. We progressed exponentially. We were focused on what we had to do and nothing could distract us. When Baird was convinced we had assimilated his training, he had us assemble at the Dwyer Hill gym. In the simplest of manners, he said, “Men! It’s time to see just how thoroughly you understand. Which is why I booked for the Rangers training program…

CHAPTER 5 Canadian Rangers

That was his way of doing things. To him, a good revision consisted in sending 16 guys to go through one of the toughest military training courses in the United States. Rangers are reconnaissance units specialized in jungle warfare. They are often the first in a combat zone and prepare the terrain for Marine Corps or infantry troops that follow. They are the best trained units and are even airborne-qualified. Their facilities at Fort Benning, Virginia, were quite impressive. Square kilometres of terrain in which to play war, city settings to simulate black operations, it lacked nothing. Fort Benning even has the biggest airborne training site in North America. Upon arrival, we were given an American uniform, our heads were shaved, and we were off. Like in the movies. Except that in real life, things were much more gruelling. But once again, our instructor told us to concentrate on the task at hand. No distractions allowed. Nothing was to disturb us. Our level of concentration was such that we outperformed the Americans in every exercise. One evening we were eight Canadians and eight Americans aboard two helicopters, simulating a night mission. As we had been taught, we were to disembark the copters at landing and deploy in a circle – all around defense – crawling on the ground for a dozen metres, wait a few minutes for our vision to adapt to the dark, and secure the perimeter. From the start, something wasn’t quite right. We were told to jump as the helicopters hovered on a stationary flight a metre from the ground rather than land as planned. Once on the ground, we began crawling but heard

some yelling and saw the Americans flee. It was out of the question for us to change our plan. Like my teammates, I felt things brush against my legs but continued moving forward. I had a bad feeling. To see what was going on, I used a small stick which, once broken, sparked a chemical reaction which gave off an infrared light. I put on my night vision goggles and turned over. My legs were covered with snakes. Although it made me shudder, I had to finish the exercise. Like my teammates, I slowly got up and the mass of reptiles fell to the ground. Some were still tangled around my pants, but as I continued moving forward, they dropped off and slithered away. We eventually arrived at a clearing where the helicopters and American instructors were waiting for us, astounded to see us arrive as though nothing had happened. The exercise was a joke they had played on us. They had dropped us off in a large corn snake nest. Although the reptiles were small, they were also venomous. The instructors had expected all of us to run off, yelling, once we felt the snakes on our legs. But the eight stupid Canadians carried out their mission above all else. As a result, we all had snake bites and were rushed to the hospital to receive treatment and the antidote for the venom. In the emergency room, Captain Baird walked between the beds, his chest puffed out with pride, and congratulated us for having carried out the mission first and foremost. * The next phase of the program promised to be thrilling for a guy who suffered from a fear of heights: parachuting. Unlike my fellow team members, I was not a certified parachutist and had to start with the very basics and try to catch up. The exercise towers for jumping were 37 metres high. With a combat jump being about 60 to 90 metres, it was close to the real thing. I had to climb to the top of one of those towers where I was harnessed and literally pushed off. I saw the white chute unfold above me and, for the first time, felt the real sensation of parachuting. As additional pressure, my British instructor had advised me not to let the Americans see my fear of

jumping. There was always that obsessive desire to be the best. But it worked since, over the years, he cured us of our phobias. He taught us how to face our fears. Everything, according to him, was a matter of will power. The jump phase ended with a challenge from Captain Baird to an American instructor. We took off in two Galaxy aircrafts, one for the Americans and one for us. We were to jump at the signal and the team which had all its men on the ground first was the winner. The prize? A weekend off with a one-night stay in an air-conditioned hotel room. Our instructor was determined to win. He looked at us with that little smile of his and asked us to grab hold of the parachute of the guy in front of us. Rather than exit by the side door, he had the rear panel opened. I only had seven jumps to my name and was still terrified. When the green light turned on, we all went out in a single bunch. The parachutes opened automatically. Naturally, they did not deploy properly. We ran over the white chutes to try and free ourselves. It was totally insane but it worked. When our last man touched ground, the Americans were not even all out of their plane. They called us insane, idiots, and every other name they could think of. But we won. Despite my fear, the adrenaline rush was so powerful that I was ready to go up again. I think I’m somewhat addicted to everything that creates an adrenaline rush. In defence of the Americans, they did not know who we truly were. To them, we were nothing more than regular Canadian soldiers who had come for the Rangers training course. And never before had Canadians proven to be better than them. The big difference between those Rangers trainees and us was our team spirit. Although the Americans were proud of being part of the Rangers, they were individualists. Stingy with their support and encouragement, they did not understand our great pride when one of our team members completed a manœuvre or exercise. For us, it was as though the entire group had succeeded. There was no ‘to each his own’ among our unit. The bonds created at the Rangers

camp were the very foundation of our successes and also our problems. That esprit de corps, or team spirit, was particularly evident during the combat obstacle course, an extremely demanding obstacle course with, as its high point, a Tyrolean. We had to cross a 75 metre-wide river by hanging on to a rope suspended 20 metres in the air. From the starting tower, we could see the outlines of alligators in the river below. We left one after the other, at a few seconds interval. We were exhausted by the first part of the obstacle course and, like the others, I knew I would struggle to get to the end. The first man could not hang on and he let go of the rope 15 metres before arriving at the end. There was no way we were leaving him alone with the alligators; together, the entire group jumped in to join him. We took out our knives, prepared to viciously fight the reptiles off. I was about to let out a loud war cry when my comrades and I realized there were only plastic decoys. Relieved, we burst out laughing and brought one back as a trophy. That display hit our American friends hard. When the results were revealed at the end of training, we held the first 16 places. Not one American came out ahead of us.

CHAPTER 6 The Unit’s Official Debut

Ottawa, 1994 We were ready! Squadron A, divided into two commandos of eight men, was the shock team which was to take on the missions abroad. Our instructor later formed squadron B, which we called the gray team, where relief members were prepared or those who lost the trust of their team mates were temporarily placed. Setting them aside often resulted from the revelation of a weakness which had not been detected beforehand. For others, a stay with the gray team could result from experiencing problems going back to normal. For whatever the reason, most resumed their regular position in the unit once the problem was resolved. Over the years, my comrades Robert Abraham, Steve Bureau, Mark Stewart, Ted Belford, Ken Belley, André Sheehan, Peter Tessier and some others, would experience an out of the ordinary, dangerous, and at times thrilling adventure which was not to end well. For the official creation of our commando unit, all the members and their families were transferred to Ottawa on the military base. Julie did not speak a word of English and found the first year very difficult. The kids, however, became bilingual quickly and ended up being the family’s official translators. In order to celebrate our arrival in Ottawa, we organized the first of many parties that would spice up our rare moments of rest. The

parties I organized for Saint-Jean-Baptiste were memorable. Meanwhile, Julie became acquainted with the ‘monsters’ I worked with. She was impressed by Ted Abraham, a former member of the armoured corps. He was six feet tall and was so muscular that he didn’t seem to have a neck. He was our MOE – man of entry – our door demolisher and the most heavily armed; he was also protected by a different bulletproof vest. Ted, who was very aggressive in missions, was extremely shy in daily life. He balanced that character trait by always sticking close to Steve Bureau, the bon vivant of the group who wore an eternal smile at work and at play. Julie fraternized with Ted Belford, a former firefighter, a gifted athlete who would be my mission teammate until his tragic death. She laughed with Ken Belley, a guy from New Brunswick with an accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. Ken was an elite sharpshooter, at ease with any weapon and unnervingly calm. He liked classical music and gave the image, rightly so, of being a very good man. Because of the language barrier, Julie could only introduce herself to Mark Stewart, a highly intelligent combatant and shrewd analyst who was never caught off guard. She shook hands with Peter Tessier, the medic who would have, without a doubt, made an excellent doctor. For a good part of the evening, she spoke with André Sheehan, originally from Quebec. It was back to routine. Maintaining our level of physical fitness was a full-time job. Our days were composed of a series of exercises, sports games, shooting exercises, hostage taking simulations, and other exercises. We had to constantly be in top shape, have sharp reflexes, and keep our adrenaline levels pumping. In order to keep up with that demanding pace, we had access to doping substances provided by the unit’s doctor. A medical sports specialist, he gave us supplements of all kinds. Creatine, DHEA, and amino acids were part of our daily diet. Once we were accustomed to our daily cocktails, the unit Commander, in agreement with the other officers and the doctor, decided to take things further.

Although he considered us as elite soldiers, he did not find us impressive enough physically. He decided he would make us superhuman and asked the doctor to select a test subject, a guinea pig. The Doc, as we called him, wasted no time selecting his candidate. André Sheehan, a Francophone from Montreal, an excellent soldier, highly motivated and very competitive in every phase of combat, was perfect for the job. A six-foot tall marathon runner weighing 135 pounds, a playboy and rather independent, he was very concerned about his physical appearance. The doctor saw the ideal recruit in André for his experiment. He called him to his office. “André, have a chair, I want to talk to you.” “Anything serious, Doc?” “No! No! Don’t worry. In fact, I have something to offer you.” The doctor then proceeded to fully explain the program he wanted to experiment with him. Under constant medical supervision, André would build up his muscles until he became a smaller version of Hulk. André accepted enthusiastically. The results were nothing short of spectacular. In six months, he added nearly 100 pounds to his frame. His body was so radically changed that we would have had difficulty recognizing him had we not seen him every day. I took Julie out to see the movie, Rambo, on our first date – now she could see his lookalike on the base in terms of his build. André claimed he had not received any steroids but it was hard to believe it, seeing how quickly his body became so welldeveloped. Since he apparently was doing well, we were all treated to different versions of the program according to the specific needs of our respective positions within the commando. The formidable development of our body mass went straight to our heads. We forgot to follow the basic precautions when taking such substances. We took stimulants, such as ephedrine, in industrial doses. We were stronger and more resilient but, on the other hand, our level of aggressivity went soaring. Could that be the objective of the

program? Undoubtedly, but it was never directly confirmed. I didn’t question myself either on how it could possibly affect our reactions. Were we to acquire great physical appearance at the cost of our emotions? When the time would come to cut the throat of an enemy, would the cocktail mix we took play a role in our decisions? Would that also be the case for our decisions and actions in everyday life? On another level, the experience André accepted provoked an additional unexpected effect. When our English colleagues saw that a Francophone was willing to be a guinea pig for the good of the team, they became more respectful towards us. This strengthened the bonds within our unit even more.

CHAPTER 7 Hold-up in Ottawa

In 1994, we were soldiers who were at the top of our form. We were also soldiers who were bored. We needed action. Whether called for a mission or an exercise, the program never changed. The Commander required that we be ready at all times for a real mission. Therefore, we always remained in a high state of alert with our adrenaline level at its maximum. However, when we would change our red magazines – which contained real ammunition – for blue training ammunition magazines, you could feel the disappointment. Captain Baird put a lot of effort in diversifying the exercises but we felt somewhat like a Rolls Royce that the owner rarely took out of the garage for fear of scratching it. We killed time by pulling stupid pranks. We showed little restraint when it came to celebrating a teammate’s birthday. We would abandon him along the roadside a few kilometres from the Farm – that’s what we called our training base – with a pair of cut-out pants, exposing his butt to the wind as well as to whoever happened to cross his path. Another was tied to a chair and thrown in a swamp. We stopped at nothing. We did that, first and foremost, to have fun and nothing made us laugh more than to place our comrades in ludicrous and, sometimes downright dangerous, situations. On my birthday, I was tied up and, for 30 minutes, hung upside down from the rappel tower. Since I was prone to a fear of heights, I found that half-hour long, very long! Despite everything, those stupid jokes strengthened the feeling of kinship that reigned within the unit. Months passed and fall settled in. One gray cold day, we were to simulate, under RCMP supervision, a hostage taking on a plane that

was relegated to one end of the Ottawa Airport runway. We practiced every manœuvre. Entry through one door, entry through two doors… We even practised a method called the ‘Trojan Horse’, where we came out of a fuelling tank by surprise and ambushed the plane. We had been exercising since 5 AM. At 10 AM, we took a break for some snack time. The Unit Commander was half listening to the radio while reading the newspaper. A special news bulletin came on. Suddenly, he started paying attention. A robbery was taking place in a bank in Ottawa. Things had gone wrong and the robbers had taken shelter, along with numerous hostages, in the bank. From what we were hearing, it was clear that the police were overwhelmed. Even the SWATteam, called in for support, was being fired at and was unable to free the hostages. Our Commander called the Ottawa police to offer our services. Our British instructor liked the idea. He thought it was time we got a little action in. Accompanied by a Liaison Officer, our leaders went into town to examine the bank visually and see what could be attempted. After a quick analysis, it seemed the only conceivable option was the roof. Located in front of the Parliament, the bank was an old building with few windows and the SWAT marksmen were unable to get a good overall view. The only option was to get inside, take our positions, and eliminate the crooks. Our officers returned by early afternoon and told us we might have the opportunity to conduct a real mission. During the briefing, the Commander was very explicit. This was no rescue mission. We were going in to eliminate the hostage takers. We would enter, neutralize, and leave. The Ottawa police would take care of the hostages and deal with the media. Nobody was to know that-JTF2 had carried out the operation. When the call finally did come in, we were ready. Two helicopters picked us up. They were to fly very low above the building and we would fast rope, a technique we learned with the Rangers which consists in sliding down long ropes as though they were firefighter

poles. It is very quick but dangerous since we are not attached to the rope at all. We flew towards downtown Ottawa. The copters slowed upon approaching the bank. In a single, fluid movement, all eight men from the first aircraft grabbed hold of their rope and slid down to the roof. The eight others followed and both helicopters flew away. We opened a trap door on the roof, entered the roof space and located the door which gave access to the bank’s top floor. We hid in a room while two of our men left in reconnaissance with miniature cameras. They entered the ventilation system and began a task that was very long and required much patience. When they returned with their images, we studied the layout and the best angles to shoot. Above all, we memorized the positions and faces of all five hostage takers. When we heard ‘Stand by’ in our earphones, we screwed the silencers on our MP5 machine guns. At ‘Go! Go! Go!’ we moved to both sides of the large room where the hostages and the hostage takers were. We took position. We were no more than five or six metres from each target. No more than a handful of hostages saw the masked men in black who had entered the room. According to what they told the journalists afterwards, they thought we were the police. When we finally head the word ‘Lightning!’ in our earphones, a series of muffled shots could be heard. The five hostage takers were eliminated. We quickly climbed to the rooftop where both helicopters picked us up. That was our first and only mission on Canadian soil. No police corps has ever called upon our services since… As for me, that was the first time I killed. I was surprised to not feel anything more than telling myself that I was now a person who had killed. There was no turning back. Could everything we witnessed in Rwanda have already dulled my feelings and emotions? The hostage takers had made a choice. They placed the lives of other people in danger to protect their own and they lost. There was no reason to cry over their fate.

* At the time, numerous politicians, civil servants, and especially journalists questioned the relevance of a unit such as ours. Many could not understand what our purpose was and, since most questions referred to the utility of our elite unit, our ability was not what was in question. Nonetheless, the Commander decided to organize the first of many demonstrations we would perform in front of groups of carefully selected people. That day, about fifty people were invited to witness the display of our skills. Naturally, we were to go all out. The guests were given a short introduction regarding the ability and efficiency of our little unit. They then attended demonstrations of rappel, fast rope, rescue, ambush, take-over of a building, a plane, or a train… we covered everything. The showstopper was the hostage taking, followed by a car chase and the rescuing of the hostages. Our guests were gathered on a terrace which overlooked the scene. Two teammates and I were the hostage takers. Our role was to suddenly appear, masked, among the guests, grab one, and take him to a car where we would then be pursued by our colleagues. As my gaze swept over the crowd of people on the terrace, I felt a jolt of surprise. One of them was Chief Warrant Officer Chamberlain, my Career Management Officer. I couldn’t stand his type – a Francophone who, in order to be well regarded by Anglophones, consistently created problems for the guys from Quebec. He had always refused to help me throughout my career and constantly searched for ways to belittle me. I couldn’t resist – Chamberlain was in for a hard time. And, since I was unaware of the fact at the time, it had nothing to do with his keeping company with his very good friend, Chief Warrant Officer Holmgren, who would later become our unit’s Chief Warrant Officer (CWO). The same person who would screw everything up.

Once the signal was given, we slipped on our hoods and jumped on the terrace. I immediately headed towards Chamberlain and grabbed him firmly by the arm. He went down the stairs faster than his legs could take him and was out of breath by the time we arrived at the car. I shoved my gun into his ribs and told him that, just for the fun of it, I was going to kill him before I would get killed. We climbed aboard and the car chase began. The car was filled with explosives for show purposes. Once we reached 80 km/h, those in pursuit started shooting at us. We set off the explosives. The hood went sailing into the air, the tires blew off, the car screeched to a halt, and a fire started inside. I looked at Chamberlain. Even though it was nothing but a game, he was terrorized. I was ecstatic. The car was surrounded, the end was near; I knew I was going to ‘die’ soon. I turned to my hostage. “Remember what I told you before?” I asked. He looked at me bewildered, not understanding, and that was when I shot four paintballs at him point-blank. His nice white shirt was ruined and I knew that at such close range, it was extremely painful. I must admit, though, that he did not utter a sound. The demonstration was over. The Commander invited the guests to come down and explained the manœuvres. He presented the unit members, finishing with the hostage takers. When I removed my mask, CWO Chamberlain turned pale. He had always told me I was useless. To see me as a member of the Canadian Armed Forces elite unit must have felt like a blow to the stomach. The event ended with a flourish. A journalist from the television show, The Fifth Estate, who had always openly criticized the unit, decided to put in his own two cents. Standing firmly in front of the Commander, he loudly claimed that any well-trained person could do what we had done. The Commander did not say a word. He took out a small target from his pocket. Looking the journalist in the eyes and

holding the target above his head, he yelled, “Lightning!”. A detonation was heard and everyone froze. “How many shots did you hear, sir?” “A single one.” “Very well, could you look at this and tell me how many holes you see?” “I see one also.” “Look again carefully, please,” our Commander urged. The journalist bent over the small piece of cardboard. There were three holes grouped so close together that it looked as though there were only one. The journalist couldn’t believe it. We had just performed a group fire through the guests, without any injuries. When the marksmen came out of hiding, it was all the more surprising to see them located in different spots, very far from one another. “Sir, do you still believe anyone can do that?” asked the Commander. That time, the Commander had scored a point. No unit had as many competencies or qualifications. We were the best and we would prove it.

CHAPTER 8 Failures in Montreal

The months that followed were like the movie Groundhog Day. Each day, we had the feeling we were starting over the previous day. We attended courses, we performed simulations. Our exercises were increasingly elaborate, but we longed for action. One of those exercises would stand out and remain engraved in our memories. It happened in Montreal, in the summer of 1995. During that referendum year, tensions were running high in the province. An unfortunate incident would create quite a racket, both literally and figuratively. For practical reasons, most of our training was performed in Ottawa. Police department collaboration was excellent. Our training base was in Ottawa’s suburbs and the airport provided support for our hostage-taking simulations. But a counter-terrorist unit also gathers information and we had to collaborate with the different police departments throughout the country. Communication was conducted in French in Quebec, and I was in charge of maintaining good relationships. The SQ (Sureté du Québec Police Force) invited us numerous times to train in Montreal. They readily provided all the support required. Eventually, Canada’s Military High Command decided to accept the offer and we organized a week of activities. The SQ found an immense abandoned factory in the Montreal East end that we could use. We planned on preparing the hostage taking for two days and follow with the simulation. We would rest for a day and end the week with an airplane ambush operation at Mirabel Airport.

The site was phenomenal. The plant they found for us was a huge six-storey concrete building that had been abandoned for the past ten years. It was private property – we would not be bothered by anyone. Preparations were coming along well. The comings and goings of vehicles aroused the curiosity of a few faraway neighbours but nothing more. Finally, everything was ready. We waited well into the night and our fictive mission began with a call to the commanding officer to notify him of a hostage taking. We then immediately sent in our mobile command post. Our specialized technicians were sent to the site with miniature cameras and microphones. The explosive specialists placed their charges on the roof of a tower which overlooked the building we were to investigate. Both helicopters took off. Each pilot was wearing night vision glasses. The co-pilots didn’t wear any to avoid the possibility of being blinded, in particular during explosions. That’s when things went awry. The building was in pretty bad shape and the explosive charge way too powerful. As the helicopters approached, everything blew up. The top of the tower shattered into pieces, making a deafening sound. A streak of light illuminated the sky. All four pilots were blinded. It was impossible for them to drop us off. Anyhow, the floors were crumbling. The kidnappers, unaware of what was going on, began shooting in all directions. But it didn’t take long for the fake bandits and hostages to flee in panic, out of the shaking building. Our mission had failed miserably. The explosion was seen and heard for miles. Calls immediately poured into the different police stations. The radio and television stations were on high alert. Unaware of the turmoil, we flew over the site and eventually landed the helicopters. Disappointed, we joined those on the ground and helped gather our material. We returned to our home base for a good night’s sleep, oblivious of the impact our actions had created.

When we woke, the next morning, everything seemed normal. We had breakfast and went to work out in the gym with our commanding officer. The radio station we were listening to played some music and then broadcast the news. Astonished, we realized that our fiasco of the previous evening had made headlines. Luckily the media had few details. The commanding officer instantly reached the liaison officers to establish a strategy that would hush up the incident. His motivation was to avoid the media finding out that a serious Canadian Army hostage taking exercise had turned into a farce. Despite our training, the lack of real missions made us nonchalant and, to some extent, careless. We had to keep our unit a secret and be as unobtrusive as possible. And yet, that morning, we disregarded those very rules. While two or three guys relaxed, soaking in some sun, I accompanied the others for a jog. Soldiers from the regular army were playing softball. Seeing us run by, they asked if we’d like to join them. We accepted with pleasure. In order to set the teams apart, we took off our shirts whereas they kept theirs on. The soldiers stared at us, wide-eyed. Accustomed to our over-developed muscular bodies, we had given no thought to the impression we made on others. They immediately bombarded with questions. “Who are you?” “What is your unit?” Unfortunately, we could not satisfy our opponents’ curiosity. Just as our friendly game started, there was some activity at the gate. The journalists investigating the incident of the previous night had decided to visit the military base in the hopes of finding a lead. Naturally, they immediately noticed the ‘bare-chested monsters’ and began asking questions. This worried the base authorities. Minutes later, our commanding officer arrived and put an end to the game, motioning us to get dressed and reproaching our lack of discretion.

We hastily retreated to the Officer’s Mess where, upon listening to the news on the radio and television, we became fully aware of the magnitude of the explosion. There were even political repercussions. Quebec’s Prime Minister, Jacques Parizeau, was indignant, qualifying it as an intimidation attempt by the Federal Government. Before things turned into a political scandal, our commanding officer decided to cancel the Mirabel activity that was planned and we were immediately repatriated to Ottawa. We dressed in our work clothes, packed up our weapons and material, and piled everything into our big trucks and black Suburbans. At a few minutes interval and each taking different exits, we left the base of Longue-Pointe in convoys of three or four vehicles. Our rallying point was Hawkesbury, Ontario. I drove one of the Suburbans and we sped across the highway at over 140 km/h. A police car tailgated us for many kilometres with lights flashing and sirens howling.We didn’t even slow down. He gave up the chase at the Ontario border and it was one of his OPP colleagues who eventually intercepted us at Hawkesbury. The poor man lost his composure upon seeing us get out of the car dressed in black from head to tœ, strapped in bullet-proof vests, and armed to the teeth. There was no doubt that he was intimidated by us. He didn’t ask any questions. The police officer made a small gesture that meant that everything was all right and quickly returned to his car and left without further ado. We drove on and reached our base without a hitch by evening.

CHAPTER 9 An Eye for an Eye

A few weeks later, our commanding officer called us to the briefing room. We were finally going away on a mission. “Men, four of you are leaving for Haiti. You will be bodyguards there for a few weeks. M. Belley, Bedford, Sheehan, and Morisset, you have a few hours to get ready.” The Rwanda group was united together once again. However, this mission was very different from the one in Africa. The vast majority of military personnel in Haiti at the time were Canadians. The Contingent Chief, a Belgian, asked that his bodyguards also be Canadians. I barely had time to say goodbye to Julie and the kids that we were already on our way to Haiti, only to land a few hours later in a completely different word. The ‘Pearl of the Antilles’ had become an empty shell. Misery – in every possible tragic dimension – was rampant. Violence was omnipresent – a violence inherited by many generations of dictatorship. Whereas we thought we would be able to make a difference, the mission would be cause for huge disappointment. Our first assignment was modified so as to become a humanitarian mission. We tried to help the people as best we could, but we met with indifference – when it wasn’t downright hostility – from the population. We were confronted daily with theft and vandalism. The people had nothing and respected nothing. Surviving on a day to day basis required all of their energy. There was no room for learning, let alone thinking beyond the most dire of needs. During our patrols we met a nice American who was in Haiti for a humanitarian project. A driller by trade, he wanted to dig sixty wells

and equip them with manual pumps. Drinking water was a permanent problem there and his idea was more than interesting. We decided to fill our spare time by lending a hand. However, the moment the wells were up and running, armed groups of people took over them and controlled their access, making the people pay for the precious liquid. At other sites, the pumps disappeared in order to be sold. In addition, we saw people throw their garbage in the freshly dug wells, contaminating the water. It was discouraging. Ted Belford and I often escorted humanitarian convoys. We were ideally located to watch the spectacle given by thieves who attacked merchandise transport vehicles. Their modus operandi was always the same. The moment we stopped at a red light, one or more young men sprung out of hiding and, quick as lightning, opened the doors of the vehicle they had targeted, leaving with whatever they could. It was out of the question to try and catch them… we would be lynched by the crowd. One day we witnessed a group of fifteen teens empty the back of a pick-up in five seconds flat. We didn’t know what to do anymore to deter them. They crossed our threshold of tolerance the day they attacked our vehicle. A twelve year-old kid opened the rear door of the Suburban. It was unlocked since there was no handle or lock on the inside. We had a computer and a camera on the seat and both disappeared. The following day, André Sheehan sat in the back seat; the dark tinted windows prevented him from being seen. We drove slowly, stopping at every red light. It did not take long before another young kid, no doubt emboldened by the loot stolen by his friend the previous day, opened the door. He was immediately grabbed and hauled inside. Over the next block, we treated him to a car ride he would not soon forget. We did not touch him. Instead, we shoved our weapons in his face and strongly suggested that he convince his friends to leave us alone or we would resort to using our weapons. He was perfectly positioned to see the arsenal we had exceptionally transported that day for our little demonstration. He was so scared that when we let him go, he scampered off like a rabbit. Granted, the

method was not very orthodox, but we were left alone for a good number of days. It is an undisputed fact that when a country is too poor to ensure the education of its population – let alone the education of its young generations – sometimes fear alone succeeds where, elsewhere, acting civilly would suffice. Every week brought its very own manifestation, sparked by the heated remarks of Haitian radio commentators. The people gathered together, yelling and shouting; everything invariably ended in chaos and violence. We were beginning to have a bad case of frayed nerves, but mostly, we felt disgusted with the entire rotten atmosphere. The efforts of some of Haiti’s population to escape misery were systematically sabotaged by unscrupulous freeloaders who made life on the island extremely difficult. Law and order were openly disregarded, crime was an ever-present reality, and the country was ruled by an unwritten law whereby the spoils went to the strong. After a two-month period, the mission ended and my companions and I left Haiti feeling troubled by the insidious violence and extreme poverty we had witnessed. I did not feel I had been of much use and my counter-terrorist abilities had not been of any help. I left for home, relieved it was over. My respite was short-lived. We barely had the time to get over it that we were told our entire unit was going to Bosnia – a place some describe as hell on earth. Once again, we required some training to prepare for the mission. Three years working together had resulted in perfectly coordinated soldiers. Our team spirit had never been as strong. We were as close as fingers in a glove. Laying a hand on one of us was the same as laying a hand on us all. One morning, a member of our

commando came to our meeting with a swollen face. He was unrecognizable. We all rose to greet him. The questions flew. “Last night, I went to a small restaurant with my wife, not very far from here,” he said, explaining what had happened. “I didn’t know the restaurant – had never been there. During our meal, people kept bumping into my wife, even purposely spilling things on the table. We didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so we hurried through our meal to go enjoy a liqueur at the bar in the far end of the room. A girl we had not yet seen walked by my wife and suddenly punched her in the face. Then two other girls got up and jumped her. I immediately jumped out of my chair but before I could do a thing, I was hit by a baseball bat. I couldn’t retaliate. But I swear that I’ve got a photo of each and every one right here,” he added, pointing to his temple. After spending a night at the hospital, he returned among us. His wife was in worse shape. The Commander took him aside and asked for details. Back in the room, he addressed the entire group. “Nobody, I repeat, nobody will do whatsoever to seek revenge. Let justice run its course.” He knew very well what was going to happen. His warning was useless. I even wondered if he would have been disappointed had we obeyed him. Without saying a word, we each went our own way, going about our own business. At 4 PM, we left the Farm, our training base, to return home. At precisely 9 PM, 16 pagers beeped in unison. A meeting. We met at the Farm and left minutes later in small groups of three or four. For the record, we were going to have a beer together. In a small bar in the south of Ottawa. Nothing more. In the meantime, we had done a bit of work. It seemed that the bar in question was the headquarters of a biker gang. Our

unfortunate comrade had been mistaken for a police officer. They committed a big mistake in attacking him – we were not the police. With us, it was an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. There were sixteen of us and we were not afraid of anything. We would teach them what the price was for attacking one of us. One after another, each group entered the bar and ordered beer. I was part of the last group of three to enter. Our unlucky friend who had gotten beaten up the evening before was among us. He nodded towards three men sitting at a table. I went straight to their table and, without asking for permission, sat down with them. As though I was their good friend. “Hi guys! You see my friend over there? I don’t like what you did to him.” “Really! And what do you think you’re going to do about it?” They laughed among themselves. “Finish up your drinks, boys. The next one you’ll be drinking with a straw.” For one of the men, that was too much. He suddenly jumped out of his chair, turning it over. “You dirty fuck, you’ve finished provoking us…” At the same time, a few bikers burst into the bar and came towards me. It was my turn to laugh. The guy who turned over his chair was inches from my face. “How do you think you’re going to get out of here without getting the same treatment we gave your friend?” he asked. “We? You’re not able to on your own?” I asked. “Nothing beats teamwork,” he retorted.

In reply, I punched him in the throat and he was knocked out flat. The others wanted to jump me but, since this was a teamwork affair, my buddies jumped in. The fight did not last long. In no time at all, the bikers were all on the ground, some seriously banged up. The furniture was smashed to pieces. We quietly finished our beers and left the place. * The next morning, news had reached the base. The Commander was furious. “I had warned you,” he yelled sharply. He stared at each one of us, looking very serious, but when he saw a large smile break across Darren’s face he couldn’t resist laughing. “It did you some good?” he asked. “Yes, but they weren’t enough; the pleasure was short-lived,” Darren replied. Everyone burst out laughing. Darren was called Obelix for a while after that remark, referring to the character’s love of a good fight and tendency to always want more. Our British officer, who was also in the room, rose and addressed us all. “Great team spirit, men. I am proud to be part of a group such as yours.”

CHAPTER 10 Open Season in Former Yugoslavia

Since our mission in Haiti had ended, two members of the unit were in the United States, following the Rangers instructor course. With Squadron B also abroad, we thought we would enjoy a relaxing break, since our unit was incomplete. But things in former Yugoslavia were not looking very good. Morning training had just ended and we were assembled in our briefing room which we commonly referred to as our ‘prayer room’. We were watching television and what we saw was not to our liking. The Canadian observation posts in Sarajevo had become the daily targets of shootings from buildings located on a road that would become notoriously known as Sniper Alley. I watched the television, shocked to see the devastation in Sarajevo. Like all Canadians, I recalled a beautiful capital city where Gaétan Boucher won several medals during the 1984 Winter Olympics. Now, most buildings along the main boulevard were in ruins. Seeing the images of the impact on the Canadian posts, we figured the shooters used.50 calibre or 7.62 millimetres. It was clear the snipers had to be removed. When the Commander entered the ‘prayer room’, he was surprised to see us sitting in front of the television, watching the very events he had come to talk to us about. He did not turn off the television; instead, he lowered the volume. “Men, you are looking at the location of your next mission,” he announced. “We received a call from the Prime Minister this morning, asking us to protect our men stationed in Sarajevo.”

The Commander explained that the Minister of Defence and the Prime Minister both agreed that it was best to remove the Canadian Forces from Bosnia. However, it seemed that the Commander in Chief of the United Nations Protection Force (UNPROFOR) had convinced them otherwise. “We don’t have a choice; we must go there if we want to keep our men alive.” * We would use our new rules of engagement for the first time. They were very simple: no more restrictions, no more specific situations required to use our weapons. We had to eliminate the threat, period. We had to be discreet and try to not cause a stir. We would wear our black uniforms to avoid being identified. No explosives allowed and, when we attacked, were not to leave any cartridges on the ground. The use of silencers was crucial. Our weapons of choice would be Beretta pistols; they had the distinct advantage of not ejecting the cartridges. However, we could only fire a single shot and that would force us to get very close to our targets. In order for the unit to be complete, the Commander assigned two new men who were still in training. They had recently completed the green and black basic training. This would be their first real mission. From the first time we met, they perceived the difference between us and them. The trust and confidence that emanated from our group was not yet part of their baggage. In the hours that followed, we were buried under a pile of documents that contained information, maps, and scale models. Everything to make our job easier. The mission was to last an undetermined amount of time. Nothing less than complete and total success would bring us quickly back home.

We left from Trenton aboard a Challenger reserved for us. Our displacements for missions were always conducted in total secrecy. We landed on an American base in Italy. On the tarmac, the show was spectacular. I had never seen so many planes, fighter aircraft, and helicopters together in one same location. An American Major was waiting for us and we were taken to the operations centre where we obtained the latest news from a Canadian Intelligence Officer. Extreme security measures had been taken to preserve our anonymity. The report was disturbing. Shots fired at the Canadian Base observation posts in Sarajevo were increasingly numerous and accurate. The soldiers were unable to precisely locate their origin. Only one sharpshooter had been located. After a one-hour briefing, we were taken to a hangar where a US Army Black Hawk was waiting for us. Officially, the helicopter was to transport supplies. It would fly all night, ensuring our arrival at the Canadian base as discreetly as possible. We took off at around 2 AM. During the flight, I contacted Captain Tremblay who led the troupes in charge of the observation posts. Our quarters would be ready for us upon our arrival and were located apart from the others in an area reserved specifically for us. A room was also prepared to receive our material. Upon landing, a number of soldiers surrounded the helicopter, expecting to unload it rapidly. They were surprised to see us disembark. Looking at us, they quickly understood that we were not regular Army soldiers, that we were undoubtedly there for a specific reason. Wide grins spread across their faces and I think that, had we asked them for the moon, they would have given it to us. Captain Tremblay warned them that our presence was to remain a secret. Only a very limited number of people were to know of the presence of JTF2 in Sarajevo. The less people knew about us, the better. Once settled in our little home, we slept a bit. Unfortunately, the night was very short. We had to prepare all our material, verify it once, and then verify it again. Nothing could be left to chance. We analyzed one last time the plan of the operation zone. The Canadian

camp was not very far from Sniper Alley. Two observation posts were built on the wall surrounding the camp and another was located outside the camp, directly in the axis of the boulevard. That one was the target of the most bullets and was unable to continue its observation mission. We decided to split our team in two. Four men would take care of the buildings that served as a cache for the snipers on one side of the road, while the four others would do the same job on the other side. We had to clean out each building over a distance of about one kilometre – that represented the range of the snipers’ weapons. The fact that the buildings had all been bombarded during the conflict and were more or less in ruins made the task all the more difficult. At the end of the day, once darkness had settled in, we made a small hole in one of the fences at our camp. This allowed us to leave discreetly, even with the enemy watching the Canadian camp. At once and as planned, the group split in two and we ran, hunched over, and crawled towards our first targets. I was with Ted Belford and the two new guys. Our group’s first objective was the building that housed the only sniper that the information provided had located. We took up position at the foot of the building and waited for the sniper to show. For the first time, we decided to use our nicknames in our communications. It was shorter and it avoided being identified by anyone who might intercept our conversations. I was Momo and Ted Belford was Red. Our two new men were Max and Fly. An hour went by before the shooting started. The sniper was hidden on the seventh floor and, clearly, we could not reach him from the outside. “Red, we’re going to have to climb up to his position,” I said. “OK. We’ll inspect the building floor by floor to make sure he’s alone. Max and Fly, you’re fine with that?”

“We’re fine…” I was paired with Max, and Red with Fly. At each floor, I made sure that my teammate was doing OK. He seemed extremely nervous. This was no exercise; it was pure reality. Upon reaching the sixth floor, I wanted to make sure one last time that Max was capable of seeing things through to the end. “You ready?” “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” I reviewed the procedure for safety reasons. Nervous as he was, I doubted that he remembered everything. He was to shoot the fatal shot with the Beretta. In a job as this one, it was the number 1 man – the one who entered first – who was in the most dangerous position. He ran the risk of being seen and shot. The second man only had to locate the target and shoot. I was going to do the most dangerous part and all my teammate had to do was shoot. We took up position on the seventh floor, on each side of the door giving on the room the sniper was in. I had my MP5 and he had the Beretta, both equipped with silencers. Red and Fly covered our backs. From where I was, I could see the sniper. He was not moving. He looked like he was asleep. I entered the room without making a sound; Max was at my heels. We approached him. The sniper still did not move. He was either deeply concentrated or was truly asleep. Two feet away from the target, I motioned to my teammate to shoot. But his eyes had an empty look; he had started to shake. I signalled him once again to shoot but he was paralyzed. Too late; the man noticed our presence. In a fraction of a second, he turned, pointing his gun at Max. I had no time to think – the reactions I had learned during our training kicked into gear. I already held my knife in my hand and, in one quick motion, I was beside the sniper, sinking

the blade in his neck, right where the jugular was. With a slight twist of the wrist, I removed it, letting the hooks located on the knife’s back tear off everything in its way. The sniper collapsed. He was most probably already dead. I felt nothing other than having done my job. Max, however, was in a state of shock. He was sobbing nervously. No matter how I tried to calm him, nothing worked. I called Red for him to join us, but then Fly panicked when he saw the man lying on the floor with his head half torn off. The new guys were obviously not ready. I picked up the sniper’s weapon and we went down a few floors to talk and let the pressure drop. It was clear that the mission could not continue like that, in those conditions. We did not have proper balance within the team. The simplest and most obvious decision would be to send the two new guys back to camp but, because of everything I’d been taught, I could not bring myself to interrupt the mission before it was completed. They were not at the same level we were, but now that they had been in the thick of the action, perhaps they would be capable of facing ulterior situations that would inevitably be bound to come. I asked them just the same what they wanted to do, making it clear that we still had more buildings to clean and that they risked facing the same situation, or worse still. They pulled themselves together and stated that they wanted to go on and back us up. It made me a little nervous because, normally, every member of a team was supposed to be able to count on the others at all times. On the other hand, I knew that by sending them back, I would not be doing them any good. Their self-confidence would be forever destroyed. Red and I agreed to switch roles. The two new guys would cover our backs and we would do the eliminations. Before leaving, I hid the sniper’s gun; if possible, I would retrieve it later.

We moved about a hundred metres towards another building. While I paused to adjust my night vision glasses, I looked at the other side of the wide boulevard. I tried to catch sight of the other team since we could only communicate in cases of emergency. I had them in my field of vision for a few seconds. I don’t know why, but I felt reassured seeing them there, at close proximity. Our new position was ideal for watching the second building. We knew that the snipers changed watch at 7 AM and 7 PM so as to put off any observers. Now that dawn was breaking, I knew we wouldn’t have to wait long to see if the building was occupied. As expected, at 7 AM sharp, a first shot was heard. We spotted the sniper’s precise location. * Our procedure was exactly the same as for the previous building. We visited every corner of each storey to make sure nobody was there. Once on the same storey the sniper was, we easily found the room he was hiding in. Red and I each held a Beretta in our hand. We had agreed that the first who saw the shooter eliminated him. There was a door in front of us. I slowly and gently pushed it open and came upon a wall of sandbags. Impossible to enter through there. We had to find another way to penetrate the room. In pursuing this reconnaissance, I had decided to make a small modification to my MP5 by attaching a bag near the ejection chamber to catch the cartridges. I did not like the idea of happening upon enemies with a single shot weapon. We went around, but it was impossible to penetrate the room where the sniper was. The bastard was well barricaded. Since we had just inspected the storey below and had not found any access, it seemed logical that the entrance to his lair must come from the storey above. Red and I climbed the stairs without making the slightest noise. A first glimpse revealed an unpleasant surprise. There were two men sitting at a table and another sleeping in the corner. We went back down to ask the new

guys if they could help us. The look in their eyes told me we would have to do this job on our own. We simply asked them to cover us and went back up. Nothing had moved. A signal passed between us. Red took care of the guy who was sleeping and sunk a bullet in his head while I took care of both men at the table. It was all over in a second. Two bullets in the chest and one in the head for each target. That left the lone sniper. As I had anticipated, a staircase led down to his cache. Red had the brilliant idea of dressing in the clothes of one of the guys we just eliminated. He began going down and, halfway there, spotted his target. We heard the muffled sound of his Beretta. It was over. I went down to join him and we both whistled in admiration at the soundproof bunker the sniper had set up. His weapon was also impressive; one of the most powerful guns I had ever seen. A.50 with a telescopic sight. Putting it up to my eye, I could clearly see the little maple leaf on the armlet of a Canadian observer in position. It would have been extremely easy for the elite marksmen to kill them and, naturally, we wondered why they had not done so. The only possible explication was that they had received orders to frighten them, nothing more. We joined the new guys with our trophy in hand. We hid it as had the first one, hoping to retrieve them once the mission was over. That weapon, however, brought up an additional problem. According to our knowledge of ballistics, that gun had an effective range of over 1000 metres. That meant that other snipers were potentially lying in ambush in neighbouring buildings, and could have the same weapon with which to continue their dirty work. Together, we decided to cover an additional 500 metres to eliminate the possible threat of those solitary snipers. That meant another building to clean. Beyond that, there weren’t any weapons powerful enough to work effectively against the Canadian observation posts. The targeted building was a former hotel. As we observed it attentively with our binoculars, our theory proved to be valid; we

found another firing station. But the sniper did not seem to be alone. In fact, there was constant activity in the building. We couldn’t afford to take the time to observe the place for days to try and figure out the comings and goings of all those lovely people. Red wanted to simply blow up the place, but we could not use explosives without giving away our presence. We had to therefore find a way to penetrate the building and climb to the same floor the sniper was without being seen. A mountain climber enthusiast, one of the new guys came up with a brilliant idea. He suggested we go up through the elevator shaft. The building was in such a sorry state that the elevator could not possibly be working. All four of us slipped into the hotel’s basement where we easily located the shaft. We opened the doors. I took out my flashlight and could make out a long shaft which went to the twelfth floor; the elevator was blocked at the sixth. We decided to climb at once, relying on the traffic in the building to block out the noise of our ascent. * The ascent was a veritable nightmare. We were tired. The weight of our equipment was a major obstacle. The bullet-proof vest alone weighed thirty pounds. We finally reached the sixth floor with great difficulty and all agreed that it was best to rest and take a nap. We had only had two to three hours of sleep in the last two days. Our arms hurt. Common sense told us to take a break. In order to do so, we found a safe place on our floor where there was only one possible way in. Our two new guys, still as nervous as before, were unable to sleep. They were given first guard duty. When it was my turn as guard, I decided to explore the floor we were on. Without taking my eyes off my sleeping buddies, I stole quick glances, scanning the area left and right. I discovered there were no more stairs between the fourth floor and ours. A ladder was positioned as a link to the fourth and sixth floors. There were footprints in the dust on the floor, signalling recent activity. I placed a

number of infrared (IR) alarms here and there to protect us from any unwelcome guests. After a few hours of sleep, it was time to resume our ascent. I placed a last IR alarm by the staircase shaft. If somebody tried to climb the ladder, we would be warned by the sound of a deafening siren. The stairs were still in place between the sixth and upper floors. We had to perform the tedious task of securing each floor before climbing to the next one. The seventh was no problem but the eighth floor promised to be more hazardous. Various pieces of furniture and sand bags were piled up in different locations, creating barricades. A quick check allowed me to spot five people. We had a decision to take. Red and I could eliminate two guys each. One of the new ones would have to take care of the last one. Could we trust them? The attack would have to be extremely fast and follow this scenario: I would go first, Red would cover me and one of the new guys would finish the job. The fourth could step in as support if things went wrong. I did risk taking a bullet but I relied on my equipment to protect me. We needed to wait for the five people to be as close as possible to one another. My teammates took that opportunity to modify their MP5s by also adding a bag to catch the cartridges. At my signal, Red and I leapt onto the floor. I eliminated my first target. Red did the same. Upon pivoting towards my second target, I felt a sharp blow to the chest. Just as I feared – I was hit by a bullet. Luckily, my vest absorbed the hit. I was not injured. I fired a second time and another body fell down. I heard a ‘pop’. Red hit his second target. The last belligerent was in front of me, his weapon aimed. His head suddenly flew back. I turned to see Max, wide-eyed and frozen in place. He had just shot a man for the first time in his life. I went to talk to him while Red covered us. “Look at what happened to my vest,” I said. “If you had not fired, I would have received the second bullet right in the forehead or,

worse, you would have got it.” “I know, it was me or him,” he replied. “Exactly.” His face changed. Standing before me was a combatant. I told both new guys that it wasn’t over – we had to continue our mission. We still had to flush out the elite marksman. They nodded in silence. Among the piles of furniture and sand bags, a path seemed paved to the marksman’s bunker. It was too easy. We smelled a trap. Red decided to take the lead and we headed towards our objective with the utmost caution. A shot resounded. As expected, a cover protected the marksman. Although Red’s vest had taken the bullet, he was in pain. I positioned myself over his shoulder and shot. My return fire was not precise because I did not know where the shot had come from. Red was now on the ground, trying as best he could to catch his breath. I had to continue the operation with the new guys. To my surprise, Fly reacted exactly as we would have, by offering himself up as a target. I was immediately able to locate the cover and killed him with a bullet to the head. We moved quickly and without a sound. I now had two operational men with me. It was Max who flushed out the marksman and eliminated him with two bullets – pop! pop! * Our mission was over on this side of Sniper Alley. It took less than two seconds to contact the other team without voice transmission using our HUITS system. We descended to the sixth floor to gather our thoughts. A more thorough examination confirmed my first impression: Fly and Max had crossed a major threshold. They were at the point where they should have been upon starting the mission. Was something amiss in their preparation? We would have to look into it once we returned

home. In the meantime, the other team had responded to my message: they needed a hand for their last building. No problem! In order to coordinate our attack, we had to use our regular communication system; yet we risked having our communication intercepted. We had to determine the exact position of the other team and know what their plan was. When crossing the boulevard, we would be vulnerable to enemy fire and they would have to cover us. According to their information, there were numerous targets, many of whom were located on the first floor. We decided to attack in two waves. That would end our being discreet but, since it was the last building to clean, we could afford it. The plan was simple: team 2 would open fire to send our adversaries on the ground. We would then cross the boulevard, firing to keep everyone on the ground while the team would make its entrance. Our role would be to cover the rear and prevent any opposing reinforcement from penetrating in the building. The wait was short-lived. We heard the ‘go, go, go’ in our earphones and started running like mad towards the building. We started shooting and Red threw a grenade behind their position. We penetrated the building to set up a defence position while team 2 climbed the floors one by one to finish its job. Upon hearing shots fired above, Red signalled to Fly and they decided to go up to serve as reinforcement to the four others. Max and I took shelter behind a counter that was probably once the reception desk. The rest of the furniture was piled into a corner and could not be used as a barricade. We were tired. Our nervousness made us jump at every small sound. I looked forward to seeing everyone come back down. I finally saw them appear, one by one, coming down the stairs and smiling broadly. The snipers were liquidated. Mission accomplished.

We now had to return to our base and still had to manage a twokilometre walk. Everyone seemed so certain that the return trip would be without any pitfalls that it made me nervous. If there was one thing I learned while I was in the regular army, was that missions in war zones were never simple. Once we thought we had eliminated a threat, two others would jump us from the rear when least expected. However, the man in charge of team 2 was ranked higher than I was and he planned our return. You must respect hierarchy. We advanced leap frog style, the simplest of manœuvres. One group protected the other while they advanced, and so on. We moved along the boulevard, keeping the buildings to our left. We finally arrived at the last building before the vacant field that separated us from camp. Craning his neck, Red spotted three men camped in front of the building, observing the Canadian observation posts with binoculars. Relying on my instinct, I signalled team 2 to look behind the building. What they saw was far from reassuring: there were three transport vehicles parked. Each could carry 12 men. Worst case scenario: they would be 36 against 8. We could rely only on the element of total surprise if we were to obtain the upper hand without sustaining any damage. Anyhow, it was out of the question to let anyone return into the buildings we had just cleaned. As we observed the enemy troops, we noticed they were positioned defensively rather than in a position to attack the observation posts. This meant that they knew what we had just done. They probably determined we were somewhere in the buildings and wanted to surprise us to avenge their fellow comrades. We had to act quickly and without any errors. One false move on our part and we would be the victims of a massacre. Fly and Max were comfortable with an observation mission. We sent them off to spy and spread out to cover them.

Why, why at a time like this? I saw my family, at home, in what seemed like a different world altogether. Did that mean I would never see them again? I couldn’t think about that! The mission! Later… Fly and Max returned, reporting there were 15 heavily armed men circulating within the building. We made an inventory of our weapons. Trip mines (light triggered), C4 explosives, grenades, and lots of ammunition. We put aside our 9 mm MP5s and grabbed hold of our big 5,56 mm C-8s which would make more noise and damage. The commando separated once again into two groups. Red and I went to join Fly and Max, whereas team 2 was to cover the rear of the building. We were all in position; Red and I penetrated the building stealthily. Two sentries were in sight. In order to avoid any noise, we decided to do them with knives. We could hear them breath when we were less than a metre away. Simultaneously, without as much as glancing at one another, we each grabbed hold of a man’s head with our left hand and, with our right, plunged the knife into his throat, slicing everything in its way. It was over without a sound. We dragged them to the back to conceal their bodies. We were in the main hall. There were some pieces of furniture, small side tables, sofas, but mostly many doors. Rather than visit each room or wait until the targets came out, we had to force them to move, to compromise their situation. Red spotted a breach in a wall that helped us to advance. During that time, team 2 was getting ready to make an entrance. There were no guards on their side. Our communications were short, but our information, precise. We had to avoid shooting each other in the thick of the action. Red, Fly, Max, and I crawled to the former reception desk. We heard voices coming from a room less than 10 metres from where we were crouched. I distinguished three different voices. We had no idea how big the room was or where our targets were. We would have to perform a lightning raid in order to give no opportunities to

our adversaries. Red tapped me in the back. That was the signal. I jumped up and kicked open the door. The room was small. I swept the room with a quick glance. To my right was a table where two men were drinking coffee. Facing me, on the far wall, was a window, a mirror, and a large counter on which the third target was leaning. I immediately moved towards the table. I noticed the third man lift a gun. I had to forget him and rely on Red. It was over in less than five seconds. Always the same method: two bullets to the body and one to the head for each target. Fly and Max were relieved to see us exit the room unscathed. With one knee on the ground and weapons aimed, we covered them so they could join us. We started crawling again. I informed team 2 of our position and they gave us theirs. We were only 20 metres from one another. They met with no resistance. The first floor was secured. It was impossible for the other targets in the building not to have heard the shots. Having taken refuge in the upper floors, they were probably waiting for us expectantly. The safest way was to take them from the rear and force them to go back down where team 2 would nab them one by one. How would we do it? Once again, Max had a plan. “What if we climb the elevator shaft again?” he suggested. “The building only has four floors. It should be quick.” It was an excellent idea but when we were back together on the fourth floor, I noticed that the recruits were tense once again. I tried to calm them down. “Haven’t you observed anything during the displacements? Act instinctively, don’t think. If you think before you act, withdraw – you won’t survive.” “But you and Red, you’re machines. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. Even our captain doesn’t move as quickly.”

Red looked at me to see what I was going to say. My words came from deep within. “As long as you are near us, you are invincible,” I said with passion. “No one can touch you. It’s time you put into practice what you’ve learned. You will never be alone. We are a team and we will leave here as a team. No one will be left behind.” I loved what I did and I believed in it. There was a ‘cancer’ that prevented our troops from doing their job. We had to eliminate that ‘cancer’. At that moment, I understood what Captain Baird, my instructor had told me: I had become a surgeon. The last floor was empty. Nobody had been there for a long time. Not one footprint on the dust-covered floor. We located the stairs and began our descent to the third floor. At the bottom of the stairs, accompanied by Max, I headed to the right. Red and Fly pivoted to the left. Slightly bent over, our weapons pointed in front of us, we moved forward, our eyes scanning the place around us. Shots were heard. Red and Fly were under heavy fire. We heard them return fire. We had to help them. By continuing where we were headed, we could take the enemy soldiers from behind. I came to a door. The action was going on behind it. I warned Red and his teammate to stop firing and to hide when I would say ‘go’. Kicking the door down, I shot the first of the two men who were peppering my two teammates. I aimed at the second man but Max took care of it. He was now also one of ours. He had eliminated the threat. Looking into his eyes, I saw that he needed some type of recognition and I quickly offered it to him. “Well done; we have one floor left. How are you feeling?” “I don’t know how I feel, I’m not sure,” Max replied. “Stay concentrated; we must finish the job. Don’t forget what I told you.”

I looked at Red. He winked at me. We started down the stairs to the second floor where we were expected. A series of gunshots forced us back up. Once again, we needed to be shrewd. Red leaned out the window to take a look below. That gave him an idea. He rappelled down the outside wall with Fly. One floor below, protected by the wall, they threw flashbang grenades inside. Stunned and blinded, our adversaries started moving. I took advantage of that opportunity and also threw a grenade. Now in a state of panic, our targets began moving down to the first floor. They were about ten. Max and I took advantage of the confusion and headed down the stairs. Red reached the second floor by going through the window. Our enemies were cooked. Caught between two fires, they were slaughtered by team 2 once they arrived on the first floor. We took care of those who succeeded in going back up. This time, the mission seemed truly over. We had to regain the Canadian camp. Approximately 600 metres on foot. We hid in a trench, 30 metres in front of the building, to wait for night – a more auspicious time for us to move. Five minutes later, five of the six men who were not on guard were sleeping like babies. Once darkness set in, we crawled to camp, hugging the ground. We returned to our quarters through the same breach we had exited. No one saw us leave, no one saw us return. Unfortunately, we could not retrieve our trophies – the weapons of the marksmen we had shot. * We slept for ten hours straight. At about two in the afternoon, the Captain who had welcomed us showed up at our tent. He apologized for not having come before over the past two days. He had been too busy. Red and I were at our computers, drafting our mission report. Captain Tremblay then said something that made us laugh. “Finally, we won’t be needing you,” he stated. “The firing has stopped. I think the snipers packed up and left.”

He was about to leave when he noticed our equipment strewn all over the floor. He turned around and looked us straight in the eyes. He knew. “But… but how did you do it in so little time without anyone knowing?” “We were called in for a specific mission. We are trained for this type of combat, Sir,” Red answered. “But why did you not notify camp authorities?” “Facta non verba, Sir.” “And what does that gibberish mean?” “Actions, not words. Which is what we did, Sir.” The Captain left shaking his head. We all went to the gym to work out a bit and shed the last vestige of stress brought on by the mission. The Captain came back and announced our return to Canada. “A British helicopter will pick you up here tomorrow morning to bring you to Zagreb airport,” he said. “A plane will be waiting. Thank you, men!” * Return to Ottawa without a stopover. One again, a convoy of black Suburbans was waiting to bring us directly to our base at Dwyer Hill, which we now always called the Farm. It was debriefing time. When I left the interrogation room, the Colonel took hold of my arm. “I want to know your thoughts. How did it go?” “Without a hitch, Sir. The inexperience of the two new men could have caused us problems; they were not quite ready. But I can guarantee that this mission made them the most efficient of

commandos. They understood many things. I would easily return on the field with them, Sir.” “Thank you, I’m happy to hear it. Now, go back home, your family is waiting.” At home, like always, Julie and the kids were happy to see me. Julie asked if my training had been worth it. “As usual, we learned a lot. Our instructors were really good.” Later, lying in my bed, I went over the entire mission. I wondered how Julie would take it if I told her the truth. Why couldn’t I talk to her? It seemed as though it put up a wall between us. Could a couple withstand such deceit? Being unfaithful did not only apply to sleeping with another person; it also applied to not sharing everything, to dissimulating things that were fundamental. Wasn’t I supposed to say everything to Julie? But it was impossible. Not now. Not yet…

CHAPTER 11 The Mark of the Devil

There are some crucial phases in life. The hell we were to experience during our second mission in former Yugoslavia would drastically change our vision of the role we played in the Armed Forces. Our attitude changed radically. The psychological damage we would later experience will mostly have been planted during those few days spent in a village where the devil himself had stayed. Our expertise as elite soldiers could be utilized in various areas. Our proficiency in terrain analysis, cartography, and communication, as well as our combat efficiency, automatically designated our unit for missions that were out of the ordinary – and often away from public knowledge. We were therefore deployed once again into the boiling cauldron of former Yugoslavia to help various Canadian observation posts and camps prepare evacuation plans. The situation had become increasingly tense among the different factions. In case of a major military offensive by one camp or another, we had to plan how to repatriate our military personnel in the safest possible manner. Both our sections were on site: 16 well-trained men under the supervision of Frank Adam. For the first part of the mission, we divided into small teams of two. Each duo was teamed with two interpreters who also acted as chauffeurs. In order to be as discreet as possible, we dressed as civilians and carried a minimum of weapons. We moved about in vehicles rented in Zagreb, Croatia. I was, once again, with my pal, Ted. The bond of trust between us grew stronger every day and we knew we could rely on each other. We began the observation post rounds and chose to meet in one of

the small villages in Backa Palanka, a municipality located in Serbia along the Danube, in the independent province of Voïvodine. The area was populated with over 80% Serbs, and the remaining ethnic groups were Slovaks, Hungarians, and Croats. It was a charming place, typical of the combination of different cultures found in the Balkans. The head of the Canadian contingent asked us to take the opportunity while we were there to feel the pulse of the general population. He wanted to determine the people’s degree of animosity and where the hot spots were that required a higher concentration of observers. We discovered a lovely village with a church, small clean houses, country shops, and inhabitants. Set slightly apart from the village was the only incongruity: a large three-storey hospital, very modern, devoid of unnecessary decorations, and immaculately white. The first floor provided regular medical services. In those times of war, the personnel of that unit were highly solicited. On the second floor was a psychiatric ward and on the third, a maternity ward. The only hostility we witnessed in that part of the world was a man who spat on the ground when another walked by. Once that visit was over, we continued our round of Canadian outposts, climbing the mountains to reach radio transmitting centres. Our mission was almost over when our captain received a message transmitted by the commander of a Canadian post located near Backa Palanka. Although their job did not include the surveillance of villages within that municipality, the observers did, once in a while, look at them simply for the pleasure of it or to fight boredom. Observing country life and its easy, simple routine was a nice change of scenery. This time, however, they noticed there was no more sign of life in the village. We returned to Gorazde, our military base camp in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and quickly pulled on our combat uniforms and bulletproof vests. Our unit was the most qualified for action and, if there

was any mayhem, we could face it. Each section climbed into a Bison armoured vehicle and headed once again for Backa Palanka. The silence that greeted us was eerie. The entrance to the village seemed too empty. Turning a first street, the observer in the turret of the lead vehicle discovered two dead bodies in grotesque positions, visibly killed by gunfire. The captain stopped the two Bisons and we got out, arms in hand, our senses on alert. As we advanced cautiously, we found other dead bodies. We began inspecting the houses one by one. We made our way towards the village center and saw more and more bodies in the streets. The few military personnel we did find were headless. Their heads would often be taken as trophies by the aggressors. Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream was heard. It came from one of our men. We saw him stumble backwards out of the church. He was livid and his jaw was shaking. We penetrated the sanctuary. It defined horror in every sense of the word. People were lying about like puppets, their throats slit, the blood drained from their bodies. This butchery had no name. The poor village people had undoubtedly taken refuge in here, hoping to escape from their executioners. That only made it easier for them. Bodies were piled all through the church… on the pews, in the alleys, on the steps leading to the altar. Men, women, children, the elderly. The bastards had even taken Christ down from His cross and crucified the village priest. We did not utter a word… we were struck mute by the cruelty before our eyes. In an attempt to regain some form of composure, we began looking for clues as to the identity of those responsible for the massacre. All we found were cartridges from AK-47s, a rifle unfortunately used by all belligerents in the former Yugoslavia conflict. Some men threw up as they exited the church. Looking at me, the captain murmured, “Imagine what we’ll find in the hospital…”

We returned to our vehicles in silence and headed for the hospital. The captain kept repeating, “I have a bad feeling, a very bad feeling. I hope I’m wrong…” I cannot forget, even ten years later, our arrival at the hospital. Sitting in the lead vehicle, I could see the building on the outskirts of the village. We accessed it by following a twisting road which led to a roundabout with a small park in the middle. About sixty or so bodies were lined up in front of the main door. The stairs were literally covered in blood – a frightening amount of blood. In the park itself, hospital personnel were tied to chairs and beheaded. It took several minutes before we realized that not a single bullet had been fired. They were all executed with cold weapons. Since it was impossible to kill everyone at once, the poor folks had therefore witnessed their fellow sufferers get their throats slit while waiting their turn. The people tied to chairs were most probably those who had attempted to escape and been caught. Every woman, without exception, had been raped before being slaughtered. They lay there, dismembered, gazing vacantly at the sky. It was a scene of unimaginable barbarity. Wherever we set foot, there was blood… blood as though the earth had disgorged it. I am normally not a nervous person, but the thought of walking into the building made me sweat profusely. I was hot… I was cold, I felt dizzy. I was completely drenched in a matter of seconds. While some of us began collecting the bodies outside, I fell in step with the Captain and, with no other option than to walk in blood, together we climbed the stairs that led to the main door. We didn’t want to, but we had no other choice than to penetrate inside the hospital. Reinforcement would have to be sent in to collect and bury all the bodies. We had to make sure that those who had committed the atrocities had not left any mines or other traps that

could kill the ones with the excruciating task of removing the corpses and giving them a decent burial. When the Captain walked through the doors, he shivered violently. I reacted similarly at the sight before my eyes. Around the circular reception area, there was not one corpse lying on the floor. Each and every body was nailed to the wall – a large nail going through their head. Worse yet, they had sustained no other injury than that nail buried in their skull. We could only conclude that those poor souls had been nailed alive. Blood was everywhere; rivers of blood stained the walls and floors. The smell was unbearable. We estimated that the bloodbath had taken place within the previous 72 hours. The stink exuding from those hundreds of bodies in various states of decay made us vomit repeatedly, one after another. Through it all, we had to remain concentrated and try to detect any traps that could blow up in our faces. But the aggressors had not bothered to arm the place. They had wanted to show, with unspeakable savagery, just what they were capable of… they had exterminated everyone and then left. There comes a time when the brain refuses to acknowledge what the eyes are seeing. When I arrived on the second floor, I was positive I was looking at a long corridor lined with marble or plaster life-sized statues. I eventually had to acknowledge the truth. They were patients from the psychiatric ward who had been taken from their rooms and also nailed to the walls lining the hall. There was still the third floor left. The maternity ward. We exchanged glances numerous times before finally deciding to go up. We had already seen enough, our minds refused to take any more. Yet we had to go. No one would do it for us. I wanted to leave, far away, go home, be with Julie and the children. Forget all that. Erase it from my memories. Believe that it could not, did not, exist. However…

Even the most hardened atheist could not help but recognize the work of the devil in that hospital. When I opened the door that led to that floor, I jumped violently and I think I yelled out in disbelief. A woman was nailed to the wall, her stomach ripped open and her baby, still attached to the umbilical cord, lay on the floor at her feet. That horrible scene was repeated throughout the ward. But the worst scene that awaited us was in the nursery. What we saw there was indescribable and our brains told us not to believe it. Every baby had been cut up with a knife. Not one of them had been spared. No miracle survivor to give us a glimmer of hope. I stood there, rooted to the spot. How could a human being do that? Even the worse scavenger in all of the animal kingdom could never be so cruel. After some time, I realized I was alone with Captain Adam. The men from the squadron who had accompanied us had turned back in the stairs. Sitting on the steps, holding their head in their hands, they wept uncontrollably. Those with children were particularly affected. I was on the verge of losing it myself. The captain pulled me by the sleeve and we went back down. Thirty minutes before, when exiting the church, Captain Adam had still seemed in total control. But like everyone else, he had a degree of tolerance. The sight of the newborns, stabbed to death, had shaken him badly. Who wouldn’t be? Once out of the hospital, he removed his helmet, sat down on a corner of steps that wasn’t soiled with blood, and burst into sobs. We were all at that same level. A few minutes later, he regained his composure and asked me to establish radio liaison with the Canadian High Commander to report what had happened in the village. * Inside the Bison, I shook like a leaf. I managed, with great difficulty, to grab hold of my equipment and find the right frequency. It took me four attempts before I succeeded in transmitting my report. The words did not want to cross my lips. The person I was

communicating with, the radio controller of Goradze base, enquired whether we needed assistance. Captain Adam had made it clear that I ask for a 24-hour delay before sending additional personnel, the time to take down the corpses from the walls. He did not want any others to face this savage butchery. It was bad enough that we were deeply affected – no need to traumatize any others. We started with the church. After taking down the priest from the crucifix, we attempted to place the bodies in a more respectable manner. We then moved on to the hospital to take down those who had been tortured, floor by floor, using crowbars. We did not talk while we worked. The silence was broken only by the sinister sounds of skulls cracking. To this day, I am still incapable of removing a nail from wood. When the personnel from military engineering arrived 24 hours later, we had unfortunately not finished the task. There had been approximately 300 people in the hospital at the time of the attack and, despite our good intentions, we still had not ‘prepared’ the maternity ward. The members of unit B supervised the ‘cleaning’ of the village and church while we stayed at the hospital. The bodies were placed in trucks and transported out of the village to be buried in mass graves. My teammate, Ted, greeted the members of the engineer squadron and formally forbade them to go to the third floor. I was on that floor with a few men and Captain Adam, trying to figure out a way to make the bodies of the disembowelled women less horrific for when they would be picked up. And afterwards, there were the babies… Unfortunately, in non-combatant units like military engineering, there is often some eager beaver who wants, at all costs, to lend assistance and prove that he can take it as well as the combatants. That unit was no exception… a young 24 year-old engineer who was on his first mission out of Canada proved the rule. The

consequences of his temerity would be tragic. Ignoring the ban to go on the third floor and filled with good intentions, he climbed the stairs and opened the door at the same moment that I was trying, with my crowbar, to take down the young mother who had frightened me horribly the previous day. Before I had time to react, he took in the entire heinous scene, turned around, and fled down the stairs. I took after him and called out to Ted to intercept him. The poor man was in a state of shock and, together, we had our hands full trying to calm him down. He would spend the following five days at the infirmary of the Canadian camp in Coralici before being repatriated to Canada where he ended up being fired by the Canadian Armed Forces who did not acknowledge post-traumatic stress syndrome. A few months later, we received news of his apparent suicide. Since the beginning of our training, we were conditioned to concentrate on the mission at hand. We had to take it to the very end, be tough, and not give in to our emotions. We could almost say that during a mission, all feelings and emotions – incompatible with the needs of combat – were forbidden. And we were incessantly conditioned to that. That time, we made an exception. One after another, the guys would isolate themselves from the others to cry, throw up, or hit the walls until their knuckles bled. The giants that surrounded me looked like little lost boys. Normally, we would have returned immediately to our country once that ‘clean-up’ job was finished but the Canadian Commander was rather troubled when he saw us return to camp. He postponed our departure in order to make us see an American psychologist who was specialized in trauma that resulted from combat missions. The psychologist did not get much from us. Right before meeting him, we had handed our post-mission report to a Canadian intelligence officer – a report which concluded that it was impossible to find those guilty of that massacre since they had left no witnesses behind. The officer asked us to give the least amount of details possible to the American psychologist. He feared we would start a wave that we would be unable to control. What kind of wave? I have no idea.

However, we followed his instructions which could only be summed up as ‘mum’s the word’. A few days later, only after our superiors were convinced that we would not talk, we were finally sent home. * Back in Canada, the Chief of Staff wanted to make sure that we would be operational for the next mission. We were provided with the services of one of the best psychiatrists who proceeded to see each one of us individually, asking what we had seen. The massacre at Backa Palanka had left such a deep impression that we all gave an identical account, but for a few minor details. The consequences were simple: we now, more than ever, held a strong conviction that we were doctors and were battling cancer. Hatred had become our motivation and would remain so until the dissolution of our unit. The shock we experienced from the sight of that massacre also disconnected us from the daily reality of the real world. We tended to trivialize danger, and this rendered our unit increasingly efficient. The only fear we had was that of losing one of our teammates. But even that concern was relegated to the back of our minds. From then on, a mission order triggered an intense rush of adrenaline. And we became somewhat addicted to it. The anger was so intense that during our exercises, we had but one thought: to destroy. When our number 1 man broke down a door, it literally flew off its hinges and in less than five seconds, we would destroy everything that moved. When we gave demonstrations to the regular army’s combat soldiers, they were taken aback by our efficiency and, despite their willingness, were incapable of performing as well as us. Hatred is a powerful stimulant. In the past, we had occasionally compared ourselves to the Jedi, but we had, without question, joined the dark side of the Force.

CHAPTER 12 A Faux Pas in Afghanistan

Some time after our return, we were mandated by the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) to perform an infiltration and intelligence mission in the Middle East. That assignment led us straight into Afghanistan. We were to determine just how tight security was at different borders. We landed in Damascus. Procedure was always the same. We were picked up directly on the landing strip by a United Nations bus and brought to UN Headquarters, where we set up quarters in a small house that we affectionately named Beaver House. We then began our metamorphosis in a cache we had at our disposal. There, we removed our military uniforms and kept only three pistols as weapons; one in a shoulder holster, one at the waist, and the third at the ankle. During the preceding weeks, we had received orders to sunbathe. We now had dark complexions and wore beards and long hair. A native helped us put on the djellaba and other paraphernalia needed to blend into the crowds. We would travel incognito in the European cars typically used in this part of the world. It was a rather perilous mission. Our identity could never become known and, if we were exposed and taken for Americans, we would most probably be in for a difficult time, especially in Iran. We carried fake passports. Mine was Syrian and, despite the short Arabic course I was given in Ottawa before leaving, it was best that I not be interrogated. My cover would almost immediately be blown. As for my Anglophone colleagues who were unable to string two words of French together, their Arab was what it was… The worst thing about this mission was that, despite our repeated requests to CSIS, we did

not know the true motive of the assignment. We were to obey, nothing more. * From the reports provided by CSIS, we knew in which areas we were most likely to be searched. There, we would hide our weapons in specially designed caches in our cars and take them out once it was safe. Ironically, in some areas we could carry a stash of AK-47s on the car seat without any problem whatsoever. But it would only take one Occidental weapon in plain sight to spark incredible paranoia. Once we were through Syria without a hitch, we changed our appearance slightly as we neared the Iraq border to look as though we were on a diplomatic mission. Iraq soldiers are not known for their courage or bravery. They like to terrorize the population with the power obtained by their uniform, but when faced with higher ranking individuals who are not easily impressed, they turn into obedient servants. Our cover as arrogant diplomats who gestured sharply instead of speaking worked beautifully. Our Iraqi chauffeur answered the questions while we expressed our impatience with body language. That made the soldiers uneasy and caused them to accelerate the procedure. We went through like a hot knife through butter. Despite the few details obtained from CSIS, the further we advanced, the better we understood the nature of our mission. By compiling different reports, Canadian Intelligence Services had planned a route for agents to take in the future while passing through that country. We were the guinea pigs, testing the reliability of the route and, by the same token, their information. After our return to Canada, a second team would be sent to test the same route at different times of the day.

We pursued our journey without any major difficulties, crossing through Irak, Iran, and finally, one month and 3,000 kilometres later, through the Afghanistan border where we ended up in Kabul. We were exhausted. We removed our disguises and dressed in our civilian clothes. We found refuge in one of the four embassies in the capital – the Chinese Embassy where new orders awaited us. Given the efficiency of Chinese secret services, it would have been surprising had they been unaware of who we were. Like many Occidental countries, Canada had an agreement with China regarding their presence in Afghanistan. As the other embassies represented Muslim countries, China was, for Canada, the lesser of two evils. After two weeks spent waiting in Kabul, we finally obtained our black uniforms and equipment that transited via another route. We then headed towards the border that separated Afghanistan from Tajikistan – a former republic of the Soviet Union. There, we were to verify that the ceasefire agreement between both countries was respected. The UN was to name a new inspector in charge of seeing that the truce between both belligerents was respected and it wanted a full report. We were not familiar with the area’s topography and advanced with caution. We wanted to observe the border while remaining invisible. As we advanced, we unknowingly entered into a rocky funnel that led directly to the border checkpoints… exactly what we wanted to avoid. Although we moved as silently as possible, we were spotted nonetheless. Where did the first shot come from? I have no idea, but in a matter of seconds, we were trapped in a shower of projectiles, mortar shells, and grenades. Gunmen from both sides of the border were having a field day. We took refuge behind some rocks. Our situation was far from ideal. We were unable to precisely determine where the shots came from. Fear overtook us. It was out of the question that we move forward and retreating also seemed

impossible since, whenever we moved, bullets flew around us. Until then, no one was injured. A few minor scratches from rock fragments, but nothing serious. As we prayed that nothing worse would happen, my knee erupted into one huge mass of pain. Stunned, I realized that a bullet had gone right through it. Fear, and the adrenaline that came with it, motivated me to quickly make a makeshift bandage to avoid losing too much blood. We had no choice – we had to wait for nightfall to move. At least we knew that none of the factions would want to leave their hiding place for fear of becoming a target. We abandoned our backpacks in order to crawl until we were out of range. The manœuvre seemed successful but I clearly could not go on like that for very long. The morphine I had injected made the pain bearable, but my knee was in shambles – it looked as though the kneecap was gone. When we eventually found shelter, our captain deployed the antennæ of the satellite radio and launched a distress call. The hours we spent waiting were interminable. Finally, a roar filled the sky and we spotted a Russian aircraft… It was only once inside that we saw it was piloted by Americans. They transported us to an airport, lost in the middle of the desert, where an unidentified plane was waiting. When one of my comrades questioned the pilots, wondering where we were, one of them turned around and, smiling, answered, “In Iran.” Was he joking? I never did find out because, at that very moment, I lost consciousness. We were brought to Canada via Germany. * Our return was surrounded by the utmost controversy. Performed under CSIS mandate, our mission had not been government approved; in addition, we returned with a seriously injured member.

We would wait two years before working again for Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Meanwhile, my knee required an operation. The unit used its discretionary budget, which was limited, to hire the services of the best surgeon specialized in knee reconstruction. The Commander came to me prior to the surgery and explained that I was truly in good hands. * When I awoke, I didn’t feel a thing. I had an IV drip that spilled morphine into my body. It was impossible to see my knee. The dressing was huge. Less than four hours after the surgery, the doctor was by my bed with the Commander at his side. Both were smiling broadly. Quite reassuring. The doctor removed the bandage while explaining what was left of my knee and how he had reconstructed it. Although ‘stoned out of my mind’, I realized, for the first time, just how serious my injury was. I was surprised that the surgeon had been able to patch up my knee joint at all. As he continued his examination, I spoke with the Commander. He wanted me to be operational within six months. “I have an important mission for you, and only your team can do it. You must all be there,” he said. In the state that I was in, I promised him everything he wanted. The doctor bent over me and asked me to hold my breath. Which I did, not knowing what to expect. Without any other warning, he grabbed hold of my leg and, in one quick movement, bent it 90 degrees. I screamed and immediately fainted. I regained consciousness for a few seconds but the nurse increased the dose of morphine and I was out again. I slept for 12 hours, but when I awoke my situation had changed. I was in horrific pain. In spite of the morphine, the pain was

practically unbearable. I was told the doctor had to bend my knee, that it was the only way to ensure the success of the operation. Psychological preparation for the long period of physiotherapy ahead was about to begin. The nurse brought a wheelchair and asked me to go to the treatment room. I was stunned. No one came to assist me. With the utmost difficulty, I managed to sit in the chair and roll into the hallway. Another unpleasant surprise – the darn wheelchair would not turn. The wheels were blocked. I yelled for help but no one came. After waiting for 20 minutes in the hall, I grabbed my crutches and furiously hobbled back to my bed. The nurse eventually arrived in a state of panic, saying I was late for my physiotherapy treatment. It was then that I came to the conclusion that I would never make a good drug addict. Morphine made me incredibly aggressive. I unloaded my anger on the poor nurse who left, running, to find an orderly to take me to the physiotherapy room. There, the therapist talked about the mountain of exercises I was to do over the following months. He told me I would be ready when my leg would effortlessly bend 90 degrees. I told him the doctor had already bent it 12 hours earlier. He didn’t believe me. He made me lay down on a table and proceeded to bend my knee. The pain was still as intense but I did not utter a word. He started slowly and progressively bent my knee to 60 degrees. There was a look of astonishment on his face. He continued bending it until he reached the 90 degrees we had talked about. He couldn’t get over it. “It’s hard for me to believe. It’s virtually almost impossible to bend a knee to this degree less than 24 hours of being operated on. I’ll stop here and we’ll take over this afternoon,” he said, stunned. “No problem! Anyhow, I have nowhere to go this afternoon.” My comment made us laugh and relax. I returned to my room where Julie and the children were waiting. They had been notified by the commander who had told them I had an accident while practicing

sports at the Farm. Julie was now resigned to not ask many questions. How would she react if she learned that the man of her life had actually lost a kneecap at the Tadjikistan border? Always tormented by not being able to tell her anything, by acting as though I could not trust her. Of everything the Army asked of me, I believe that was the hardest. On the other hand, what kind of life would she have if I told her about every horrific thing I saw? Why bring that home? Still under the effect of strong doses of morphine, I was downright unbearable. When my mother learned about my accident, she quickly left Quebec to come see me in Ottawa. I was not even capable of being nice with her. When I went to my physio session, I met some members of my unit who had come to visit me and I sent them away. Julie pushed my wheelchair, constantly apologizing for my behaviour. The physiotherapist was waiting for me armed with a ton of paperwork. He had consulted everything he could find on knee reconstruction. While examining my medical file, he simply could not believe it. “M. Morisset, there was very little left of your knee upon your arrival. Your articulations are all now artificial, your ligaments taken from elsewhere in your leg. You are the worst case I have seen since my arrival here. We really have a lot of work ahead of us.” “No problem. I’m not afraid of work.” “May I ask how this happened?” “I couldn’t answer you honestly, so I’d rather not say a thing. You understand?” “Yes, I understand. I saw, in your file, what unit you work. I won’t ask any more questions. If things go well this afternoon and tomorrow morning, you will be able to leave the hospital and I will be seeing you as an outpatient.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be happy. I still felt a gnawing pain. But I would undoubtedly be better at home than in the hospital. Once I was home, Julie asked to see my wound. With her, I examined it carefully for the first time. It looked as though someone had played with a stapler on my leg. There were staples all around my knee. I could tell by the sceptical look on Julie’s face that she doubted I could have sustained such an injury simply playing sports. Each morning, a vehicle from the unit parked in front of my house to take me to my treatments. The doctor decided to remove the staples after three weeks. I thought it would be like taking out stitches but when the doctor arrived with his cutting pliers, my heart skipped a beat. Finally, it ended up being much more fear than pain. The Commander asked me to begin training at the Farm once again in order to help heal faster. After each physiotherapy session, I was taken to Dwyer Hill to swim and work out. One of the trainers even adapted some equipment so that I could do sit-ups. The feeling of being in the water and swimming without putting any weight on my legs felt wonderful. Each day, I swallowed my dose of amino acids, creatine, and another pill which I have no idea what it contained. This delightful little cocktail allowed me to move on from my 10minute morning session of stationary bike to 1 hour and 30 minutes. I felt alive once again. I began attending the Monday morning ‘prayer’, our weekly meeting. I wanted to become active as quickly as possible. * After five months of inactivity, I was worse than a caged lion, unable to shake off the frenzy that had overtaken me. The Commander understood how I felt and arranged for me to meet with the Intelligence Officer and briefed on my next mission. I was given all the classified information and details. My smile returned as I felt I would soon be once again in the midst of action. To me, that was life.

The Commander put me through the same preparation as the other guys in the unit. “As of this afternoon, you will all go to Ottawa’s language institute. After the morning training session, you will meet with the Intelligence Officer who will introduce you to the delightful customs that prevail where you are headed.” The ‘delightful customs’ were, in fact, horrific mass murders. The photos shown to us were appalling. The Commander invited us to meet the coroner for him to explain, in detail, the wounds on the corpses. As though we still needed such a thing after Rwanda and Bosnia. It was, in fact, a desensitization treatment for future missions, to ensure that if we were to witness other scenes like those in Backa Palanka, we would not be as deeply affected. But since the coroner was so busy, the only times we could see him were while he was performing autopsies. Despite our strong determination, we all felt nauseous the first time. However, it was not due to the injuries the corpses had sustained, but rather by the distinct smell of the dissected bodies lying before us. I suppose we do, eventually, get used to everything. All the preparation and thought of leaving for a mission made me gradually forget the pain in my knee. The Commander made me go through the Cooper test once again in order for me to get the green light. I passed with flying colours. My knee worked perfectly well, but I would have to get used to the residual pain. I had only one expectation: action.

CHAPTER 13 Reality Before Fiction

One morning before training, the Commander called us to the conference room. “Men, you will soon be leaving for South America – Columbia, to be precise. You will replace an American team that has just ended a recovery mission that went wrong. The civilians they were to bring back had been slaughtered prior to their arrival. To spare them from psychological problems, you will conduct the next mission. You will be under the command of Captain Adam.” Our objective was to retrieve a female doctor, a priest and two nuns because peace in the region was threatened by the guerrillas of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). We were able to view the debriefing of the team we were replacing. From what they said, it was clear that we were heading into a similar disaster. We could only hope that a small window would allow us to complete our mission. * The explanation we were given was that the civilians’ lives were in danger. Apart from that concern and without having to ask, we were aware that certain humanitarian workers are often the source of a wealth of important information. They are capable of obtaining the pulse of the local population and are unaware of the importance of the information they often do know. If a country wants to continue getting a hold of information, they must repatriate them alive.

After days of jungle mission preparation, we left Canada and headed for an American base in Panama. Our regular two elite marksmen were abroad on another mission and had been replaced by two former infantrymen of the regular army, also elite marksmen. They had recently joined the new JTF2 commandos which were constantly growing. Although they were excellent soldiers, they did not have the experience we did. Upon landing, we prepared our gear and embarked on a Black Hawk helicopter which dropped us off along the shores of a small bay near the village we had been sent to. That was the starting point for our mission. We followed the jungle that emptied into the bay and headed into the jungle towards our destination. In haste, we assembled the members of numerous non-governmental organizations (NGO) we had to evacuate and explained the urgency of the situation. It wasn’t easy; they did not want to abandon the inhabitants of the village, in particular the many sick and injured patients in the medical clinic. The priest and both nuns refused to leave. The female doctor accepted on condition that we bring a number of village people with us. We had no time to negotiate and the captain accepted her request. We had a six or seven hour walk ahead before reaching the landing zone (LZ). There was no nearer clearing where the helicopter could land. Since we never used the same landing zone twice in a row for obvious safety reasons, it was out of the question for us to return to the small bay where we had first landed. We therefore left without having convinced the three religious workers. We trudged through the jungle with great difficulty, attentive to every sound. When we reached the LZ, we called the helicopter which had gone back to the base in Panama to fuel up. It travelled at full speed to return and retrieve us. When the female doctor saw only one helicopter, she quickly understood that there was not enough place for everyone. While the captain pointed out to the village people the route to follow in order

to reach Venezuela, we had to aim our rifles at them to prevent them from rushing towards the helicopter. It was painful. While we forced the screaming woman aboard, the village people tearfully realized that they were being abandoned. The helicopter headed towards Panama the moment it took off. For us, the mission was completed. Despite that, there was a heavy feeling on board and many of us had a bitter taste in our mouths. However, a few minutes later, the pilot spoke to the Captain. “You should take a look below, Captain, we noticed that while coming to get you…” The Captain peered out the window. The village we had left eight hours earlier was in flames. Dozens of bodies littered the ground and we could even distinguish the priest’s body. The doctor cried out in horror and started crying. Captain Adam did not utter a word, but we could tell by the determined look on his face that he was deep in thought. This was the second massacre he had witnessed in just a few months and emotions were beginning to take over his rational thinking. He looked at each one of us without saying a word and then ordered the pilot to make an about-turn and drop us off where he had retrieved us. Some men looked at the captain without flinching, even silently approving, whereas the two new men accompanying us seemed to think it was pure madness. For them, the mission was over and we were to return to the base. The villagers were extremely happy to see us return. They jumped into the doctor’s arms. We asked them to quickly end their emotional outburst; we didn’t have any time to lose if we wanted to reach Venezuela without falling into the hands of those who had just slaughtered the village. We agreed that our marksmen would remain about 200 or 300 metres from us and act as pathfinders – one ahead of us and one behind. The rest of the unit surrounded the villagers.

I turned on the computer in order to receive satellite images of our position. I showed the Captain what I saw: a large-sized troop was not far behind. They must have heard the helicopter. We tried to pick up the pace, but it was difficult to do so because of the children and the elderly. Two hours later, they had caught up with us. We weren’t ready to engage in combat. Our position was vulnerable. The Captain opted for the only possible solution: head deep into the jungle to hide. This turned out to be a good decision; the troop passed by without noticing us and continued due North. It was now night. We decided to remain where we were and sleep. In the morning, after a trying night caused by the humidity and the worms and bugs that tried to take refuge in our clothes, our hair and even our noses, we decided to modify our route and take a North-Northeast direction which would move us away from the enemies that were at our heels. By some misfortune, I lost the satellite signal and stayed in the dark for about six hours. This added to the stress. I had no more image or radio. Some hours later, while crossing a small clearing, gunshots were fired. That’s it, we were found. We organized provisional defense at once, allowing the civilians to find protection in the jungle. While four members of our commando accompanied them, four of us remained behind. We returned heavy fire and then spaced out our shots, firing just what was needed to keep them on the ground. Finally, we left the site, leaving only one well-hidden marksman to continue on his own to keep the enemy force glued to the ground. He joined us later. Our manœuvre gave us a good three-hour lead. The Captain decided we’d had enough with clearings. From now on, we would remain under jungle cover. The civilians were exhausted from the effort and extreme stress. The children, who were experiencing a traumatic event, were problematic. Their crying was easily discernable in the jungle. We asked their parents or guardians to keep them quiet, but how does a

child who doesn’t understand what is happening remain quiet? How would I quiet my children if they were here with me? I thought about it and quickly chased those thoughts away. Captain Adam ordered us to stop and took advantage of the short break to examine the most recent satellite images with me. The captain wondered about two issues: why the troop following us was so determined to find us, and how had it located us when we were moving in different directions. The photos taken at regular intervals showed the contingent that was moving due North had suddenly turned to come straight towards us. We evidently had a problem. The Captain gathered everybody together and suddenly ordered us to take aim at the civilians. He then asked if there was an important person among the village people. The doctor came forward and answered no, asking if we had lost our minds. The Captain pushed her roughly aside and pointed his own gun at one of the villagers. “Since we don’t have an answer to my question, I will shoot some of you until you give me an answer.” While saying that, he cocked his gun. The doctor hung onto his arm, pleading, but he remained impassive. Finally, a civilian moved forward. He admitted to being the son of a Columbian leader and that it was most probably to kill him that the people following us were so determined. The Captain lowered his gun. He had an answer to his first question, but it raised another issue: were we here to help the humanitarian workers or the son of a Columbian leader? However, finding an answer to the second issue was more critical and he ordered us to search each individual. When we started, one of the villagers moved away and fled towards the jungle. Without hesitating, one of the marksmen shot him in the back and he fell over, dead. We searched his belongings and discovered a small transmitter that emitted periodic signals. The enemy camp could easily locate us.

We now needed to react. The Captain put an end to our break and we began walking in a straight line, following the shortest possible route to the Venezuelan border. Everything was going well and, since we could see the border checkpoint, the ordeal seemed almost over. That was when the enemy troop came upon us. Gunfire broke out once again. Bullets flew past us. Many villagers fell, hit by the heavy fire. We returned fire as best we could while still moving towards the border. It was just like at the firing range except that we were now the targets and there was no way out. One of our men collapsed, hit in the legs. We picked him up as we continued to shoot at the enemy. Another fell. He was one of our replacements. The situation had become precarious. At that moment, the Venezuelan soldiers at the border opened fire on our adversaries, giving us the extra help we needed to cross those last few metres. The Americans who oversaw the mission had, in the meantime, sent air support, definitely ending the chase for the madmen on our tails. The clash had inflicted a heavy toll. Many civilians had been killed, some mutilated; plus, we had two severely injured men among the members of our unit. The marksman who was injured and on his first mission would never recover from that experience, nor ever return on the field. He would leave the Armed Forces with a serious case of post-traumatic stress syndrome. Captain Adam was severely blamed for his initiative. That excellent officer’s progression up the military hierarchy came to a sudden stop. The only positive outcome for me was that my knee passed the test and I knew it would hold up. If this account is reminiscent of another story, it is highly possible. The other marksman with us did already write about that mission. One day, when he happened to be in an airplane graveyard in Nevada where he was following in-flight hostage situation training, he met a film crew. The crew was working on the movie Executive Decision, starring Steven Seagal and Kurt Russell, which dealt with an airplane hijacking. He took the opportunity to offer his scenario and that’s how the rights were purchased by a studio. A film was

made. The story was slightly changed. The Canadians became Americans and the action occurs in Africa. The role of Captain Adam is played by Bruce Willis and Monica Bellucci plays the doctor. The movie is entitled Tears of the Sun. * All in all, the Columbian mission lasted only 48 hours but we were as exhausted as though we had spent two weeks in action. And yet, we had to recover fairly rapidly because one week after our return to Canada, we left for East Timor. The Indonesian Government had requested American intervention to restore order. They prepared for disembarkation. Our work consisted in securing a part of the coast so that American Marines would face the least amount of unpleasant surprises possible. Our assigned zone was practically deserted. We only had a small fishing village to watch and the poor villagers were mostly terrorized by our presence. We had major problems with ourGPSequipment and had to perform all the tracking and locating by hand, like in the good old days. When we left two weeks later, we had the feeling that we hadn’t accomplished much. The operation itself would not make history since the Marines did not meet with any resistance. In fact, it was CNN journalists who welcomed the American Marines on the disembarkation beaches. We were told we were returning to Canada and completed the return trip in different stages. At every layover, we were always welcomed by a Hindu wearing a turban, making it difficult to figure out where we were. My comrades, who were aware that geography was not my forte, seriously told me that we were in India, then Pakistan. When we finally were told we had landed in Vancouver, I saw another Hindu who exclaimed, in a terrible accent, “Welcoum in mi counetray!” I was unsure if we were truly in Vancouver or somewhere in India. The guys looked at me and burst out laughing while pointing to the banner that read Canada Customs. I was reassured. I was

indeed back in my country, after passing through Guam and then Hawaii.

CHAPTER 14 Tourism in Bosnia

Julie and the children hardly saw me. Days off and vacation time were rare occurrences. We were always either between missions or in training. Some couples did not make it through that infernal lifestyle. I had been lucky so far, but wondered if it would last. When I was home, I felt as though I disrupted my loved ones’ daily routine. And to make matters worse, we had just barely returned from Timor that we had to leave for the Balkans for a third time. That mission in Bosnia would, however, be conducted in relatively calmer conditions than the two preceding ones. We were bodyguards to a diplomat who had to visit different-IPTF (International Police Task Force) agents. We accompanied him everywhere he needed to go to evaluate the work of policemen from different countries. There were many Canadians, some of who were Quebecers, who felt rather isolated despite having voluntarily signed up for the job. We promised we would return once the diplomat protective accompaniment mission was over. We even asked what each one would like to receive when we passed through again. They mostly asked for food, ranging from the traditional request for peanut butter to cheese spread, cereal, and honey. Some even wished for a good steak or Canadian beer. Simple requests for products that could not be found in Bosnia and that would remind them briefly of home. We jotted down the orders. Our official mission ended in Zagreb, where we brought back the diplomat. We kept the vehicles, an old Cherokee Chief, a Nissan Pathfinder and a Discovery Land Rover. We had to drive five hours to get to the Canadian camp in Coralici. With the Commander’s

permission, we filled the three vehicles with provisions and left, two by two, taking different routes on our way to play Santa Claus. The two last members of our commando unit stayed at Banja Luka, our rallying point, to establish collaboration with British intelligence services. Before leaving, I thought of stopping at the camp’s post office to pick up the mail for the guys who were in the farthest police stations. They would get their mail quicker that way. We promised the IPTF guys we would spend at least one evening at each station. When there happened to be a Francophone among them, we spoke French - something virtually impossible to do in normal circumstances. It felt good. Many of them gave me letters to mail. We bonded with many of the policemen despite the little amount of time spent with them. When we are far from our country and its familiarity, we quickly build a spirit of camaraderie. In fact, when we returned in 1998, we once again went around the different police stations and saw many of the same guys. During our rounds, I met someone from Montreal who was normally part of the Sureté du Québec SWAT[3] team. He welcomed us with some port wine and cooked us a good meal. He declined my offer to go to the restaurant because he did not want to speak anything but French all evening. He had been posted for the past five months and our presence was the first opportunity he had to speak in his mother tongue. Ted, who accompanied me as always, ended up not saying a word, pretending to listen and understand us. The policeman was named René and I would meet him again in 1998 in otherwise more tragic circumstances. In our conversations, we did take the opportunity to glean as much information as possible on the situation in the country. The observations and feelings of those main players who took the pulse of the population on a daily basis were essential. I also learned a great deal about the country’s history that they, themselves, learned from the local population. The older inhabitants had lived through WWII and, as history is known to repeat itself, we benefitted greatly from those personal testimonials.

Our journey took us to Mostar, where two RCMP officers were posted with the IPTF. One was crazy for peanut butter and I had brought him a big jar. He was ecstatic. While there, I couldn’t help but admire the scenery. It was absolutely beautiful – a medieval castle stood proudly in the center of town. Everything was intact. I only hoped that the war would not cause irreparable damages like it did in Sarajevo. That mission did us a world of good. We had been able to do something other than kill. We brought a bit of comfort to our countrymen. Our fellow military colleagues in the regular army always looked at us with curiosity upon seeing our gear: different weapons, no beret, and Oakley sunglasses permanently concealing our eyes. They spent their time asking questions we couldn’t answer. Who are you? From what unit are you? But the attitude of those policemen was different and much appreciated. They did not ask questions; they simply enjoyed our presence among them as well as the treats, however small, that we had brought. 3. Special Weapons and Tactics. A specialized police unit, trained to accomplish dangerous missions in cities. The Sureté du Québec Intervention Group, which incorrectly uses the acronym SW AT, responds to attacks by individuals and critical situations.

CHAPTER 15 Ambush in Rwanda

Once again, our break was short-lived. Barely had we arrived home from the Balkans that we were already packing our bags, heading for Rwanda. Our mission: to protect General Maurice Baril. And yet, that day of November 1996 started out well in the scorching heat of Kigali. Two years after the genocide, it looked as though life had resumed its normal course. The mercury already flirted with the 30 degrees mark and would later soar between 40 and 43 degrees with 85% humidity. Plants and leaves remained perfectly still in the absence of the slightest breeze. The local population attended to their business. Soon, the blazing heat forced them to restrict their activities. In a corner of the city, peacefully grouped around our six Suburban vehicles, we spoke in low voices. The 16 members of Squadron A were there. Our regular marksmen were back, as well as the one who had been injured in Columbia. Our Captain was not with us and the highest ranked man of our group, a Warrant Officer, was in charge of the mission. Under the ægis of the UN and named Operation Assurance, the mission’s mandate was to locate and, if possible, repatriate Rwandese genocide survivors to Zaire. Those survivors were caught between the vicious fighting of the Zaire army and rebel forces. General Baril also wanted to benefit from his stay to take the pulse of the local population and meet the rebel leader, Laurent-Désiré Kabila. We had already travelled part of the route a few days prior to the General’s arrival. We had accompanied a Canadian diplomat on a humanitarian mission and deemed the road to be safe. But in that region, where artificial borders between countries meant little for the indigenous people, every mission possessed a potential for danger.

It was not rare to meet small armed bands, often young 15 or 16 year-old kids, with AK-47s slung over their shoulders, attacking isolated villages or convoys, whether they were humanitarian or not. We were discussing those very issues when the Warrant Officer gave the signal for departure. We climbed into our assigned vehicles and the convoy started moving towards the border. We knew the day would be long and we had to be on guard at all times. But the mutual trust born from our previous missions prevailed among us. To us, the situation was a familiar one and we were well trained. In the lead vehicle and accompanied by Ted, who I had come to know well over the past three years, I scanned the horizon, on the lookout for anything suspicious. We were armed to the teeth, wore helmets, and were strapped into bullet-proof vests. Our unshakeable trust in one another once again gave us the impression of being invincible. Ted and I, however, were aware that we were on the front line and, if there was an ambush, we would have to sacrifice our own lives for the person our mission was to protect. The assault vehicle followed behind us. In it were four men equipped with powerful weapons. The third and fourth Suburbansworked together – one was a decoy and the other carried General Baril. Four soldiers followed in another assault vehicle and the last vehicle of the convoy held two armed soldiers. Having practised it dozens of times at the Farm, we all knew the choreographed moves the vehicles were to execute if attacked. Every movement, every step on the gas pedal was imprinted in our brain. In spite of all these precautions, in spite of our competence, no mission came with a 100 percent guarantee of success. But we did whatever we could to limit any probability of failure. The convoy had been moving for hours and nothing disrupted our progress. General Baril stopped along his route as planned. A small village could be seen as we came around a bend on a road we had taken earlier. During our previous visit, the villagers had welcomed us very well. I immobilized my vehicle and ordered the convoy to do

the same. With our binoculars, Ted and I observed a group gathered in the village. The people seemed quite excited. An agitated group of people is often a sign of danger. If we went through the village and became the target of a few agitated armed individuals, it would be difficult to defend ourselves without causing a massacre, something we wanted to avoid at all costs. Ted looked at me solemnly. “Momo, I don’t like what I see,” he said. Behind us, the Warrant Officer ordered the convoy to take an alternative route to bypass the village. In perfect motion, the convoy changed direction. The six big 4X4s crossed the river to get onto another road. I was worried. We had taken that road only once and I remembered that a few hundred metres of it was the ideal place for an ambush. The caravan threaded its way along a series of curves through dense forest before it opened onto a clearing. My hands tightened on the wheel. We arrived at the dreaded section. It was a swampy prairie about 400 metres long and hundreds of metres wide. The road was filled in and therefore elevated compared to the land surrounding it, setting the trucks up as perfect targets. We had no choice; there was no other road than that one. Suddenly, my foreboding proved to be right. “Ambush! Ambush! Ambush! One man hit!” I yelled into the mike. A bullet went through the windshield, causing it to explode into a blast of pulverized glass, and tore off half of Ted’s face. I instinctively pivoted my vehicle 90 degrees, blocking the road. It would also serve as a shield for me. I opened my door and threw myself onto the ground. A shower of metal rang all around me. The bullets tore off shards of rock that cut my face and arms. As I pressed up against the front wheel of the vehicle, two short but intense jolts of pain told me that my bullet-proof vest had once again saved my life. I did not think anymore, I reacted. Armed with a C-8

assault rifle, a 9-mm MP5 and four 9-mm pistols, with about 500 bullets, I had to face, alone, the enemy and did not yet know how many they were. The sound of gunfire and explosions filled the air with deafening noise. One by one, the enemy bullets transformed the Suburban’sthick metal into a veritable sieve. My mental faculties were focused on one objective only: SURVIVE. My cry of alarm and abrupt turn had stopped the rest of the convoy. In a matter of seconds, the five vehicles moved backwards at full speed, taking cover back under the trees they had just passed. The nightmare went on for me. Luckily, what we had practised hundreds of times came to me automatically: remain as close to the ground as possible, take shelter behind the front wheel using the motor as additional protection, and shoot as precisely as possible. Chaos had erupted behind me. I could hear the conversation of my teammates in my earphones. The four soldiers of the first assault group – my regular battle comrades – wanted to launch into an attack. They were brought back to reason by the Warrant Officer. “Calm down boys. Act like you were taught. Advancing in open territory means only more loss.” “Christ! We can’t leave Denis alone. He won’t last 10 minutes.” “Have faith in Momo. He’s under cover, he has ammunition and he knows how to shoot.” Many of the men hit and kicked the vehicles in anger. They couldn’t accept to just wait like that but they knew they had to obey orders and, above all, protect General Baril. Like me, they had been taught that, in such a situation, the lead vehicle was considered as a sacrifice. Saving a soldier could only be done when the risk of additional loss was minimal. Confronted with the reality of it, they had difficulty accepting the situation. I was on the ground for two minutes and had not stopped shooting. I heard news in my earphones that gave me some hope.

“Momo, this is Chris. I managed to reach the Americans. They have helicopters flying in the area. They’re sending them over.” “Great! When will they arrive?” Chris didn’t answer my question. He tried to calm me by asking what I saw, the number of gunmen, the amount of ammunition I had. “Visual estimate of 10 to 12 aggressors. I took some down but the shots aren’t diminishing. I’m afraid there are more hidden in the woods.” Another thing worried me. My C-8 was my only weapon with enough range to return fire adequately. The MP5 and my pistols were useless past 100 metres; they were only good at making noise and making the enemy think I was not alone. My ammunition reserves were being quickly depleted. I had to take a major risk. Taking advantage of a lull in the enemy fire, I shot up in one quick move and dove into the Suburban through the open door. As quickly as my hands allowed, I grabbed all the magazines from my unfortunate comrade. I left the vehicle just as quickly and crouched onto the ground. My assailants reacted too late. The truck was peppered with dozens of bullets, but in vain. I returned to my privileged position behind the front wheel. I had now been alone for 10 minutes but, with the sun beating down on me, I felt as though I had been under enemy fire for the past hour. My muscles were so tense from stress and effort that every fibre of my being was in pain. The radio conversations echoed in my ears like some indistinct background noise. However, my vision was surprisingly sharp and clear. I knew that I had eliminated quite a few adversaries, but to see some constantly reappear began making me nervous. I wasn’t sure how long I could continue holding up. Whatever the case, my training had taught me to fight until I had no more ammunition left… keeping the last bullet for myself. The gunfire had now lasted 15 minutes. The likelihood that I would get killed in this one had now become quite evident when I

suddenly detected a faraway humming noise. Two US Army attack Apache helicopters and one Blackhawk were heading at full speed towards us. The Apaches flew parallel to one another just out of range from the ground fire. They underwent a first reconnaissance and, after turning 180 degrees, came towards my position. At the second turn, they dove towards the ground and attacked, creating an immense cloud of dust in front of them. Precise strafing started at about ten feet from the ground – a manœuvre performed to make the attacking forces flee. With their weapons pointed to the helicopters, some tried to counter-attack. The pilots then gently lowered their automatic cannons and fired at their assailants. The ones who survived fled, terrified by the incredible power of those weapons. When they were certain that no one was firing back, both pilots stabilized their aircraft and hovered in the air over the road, about 100 metres in front of my bullet riddled truck. Meanwhile, theBlackhawk landed behind me. The members of my unit rushed to my rescue. I clearly felt my nerves tingle throughout my entire body. I heard voices yelling behind me. I wanted to get up but could not make the slightest gesture. Two of my teammates grabbed me under the arms and lifted me onto the American helicopter. With tears in my eyes, feeling haggard and wanting to scream, I saw them return to the truck where they removed Ted’s dead body. After all we had been through, I could not believe that my battle companion had died that way. The members of Squadron A pursued the mission with General Baril, whereas I was repatriated to Canada. I couldn’t remember a thing about the flight home. Exhausted by stress and the sheer violence of the battle, and disconcerted by the loss of my fellow companion, I slept through the entire journey. I was taken to the hospital upon my arrival and examined thoroughly. Amazingly, I had no serious injuries. My bullet-proof vest had taken six AK-47 hits and my body showed nothing more than a

few cuts and scratches. During the post-mission meeting with the American investigators, they declared counting about thirty bodies on the ground, only three of which had been killed by Apache fire. They counted over 2000 bullet holes on the Suburban. It was a miracle that I was still alive. Ted’s body was repatriated on the same flight. Removed with discretion, he was given a small and very intimate funeral. He was not honoured; he did not receive a medal. It was under hushed anonymity that Ted Bedford died ‘for his country’. I tried to swallow my bitterness and not give it any more thought. I had to be ready for my next assignment.

CHAPTER 16 Hostage-Taking in Peru

Training, exercises, and new rappel techniques. We were caught up in the same routine. However, a little three-day upgrading stint with the Americans confirmed what I had been thinking for quite some time: our data and imagery transmission system was outdated. The Commander asked me to start researching equipment in preparation for the purchase of new material. I loved that type of work. I contacted the suppliers of some high-tech tools recommended by the Americans. I soon received equipment which I began testing. Christmas was approaching and I was looking forward to finally spend the holidays with my family. Since there was everything at the Farm to impress my children, we spent lots of time there. We spent our days swimming and playing games of indoor ball-hockey. It was total relaxation. But on the evening of December 31, during dinner, laughter and conversations, I was interrupted by the damn beeping of my pager. The code 99-333 that was displayed meant I was to return to the Farm at once. Darren, my new partner who had replaced Ted, called me saying he would pick me up in five minutes. I apologized to my guests, kissed Julie and the children, got dressed, and stepped out into the biting cold. Darren arrived and after exchanging standard greetings, we rode in silence. Nobody appreciates being disturbed in the middle of New Year’s Eve celebrations but we were aware that missions did not only come by when we wanted them to. At the Farm, we went directly to the ‘prayer room’. Half the men were already there. Thirty minutes later, the Commander entered the

room, accompanied by the Intelligence Officer. “Men, as you have probably already heard from the media, on December 17 the residence of the Ambassador of Japan in Peru was attacked by members of the Tupac Amaru Revolutionary Movement (MRTA). Hundreds of hostages are being held, including the Ambassador of Canada and his family.” We learned that a number of special brigades were already on site. As for us, we tried to see more clearly into the situation with the Intelligence Officer. One thing was certain – team A would be sent to Peru. Our gear was already on its way, by truck, to the Trenton airport. Minutes later, we heard the helicopter that would carry us to the plane in Trenton. The moment the skids touched ground, we ran to it. Our rush of adrenaline counteracted the bitter cold of the night. The helicopter tore off and I looked out at the faraway lights of the city. I imagined the parties in the homes of those who did not belong to a counter-terrorist unit… I pulled myself together. I could not think about that. In Trenton, we moved from the helicopter to a CP-140 Aurora marine surveillance aircraft. Armed with our weapons and gear, we began our journey to Peru. It promised to be a long trip. Like the others, I read the report the Officer had given us on the current situation at the Ambassador’s residence. A few hours later I eventually fell asleep. We landed in Peru under a blazing sun. A minibus was waiting for us. We placed our equipment on board, climbed in and took off. Destination: the centre of the capital city. The streets around the residence had been evacuated. We could have sworn we were in a deserted neighbourhood. The CP was set up less than 200 metres from the house. Once we were all inside, a Peruvian officer filled us in on the latest developments.

Many countries with hostages inside the Ambassador’s residence had delegated a special brigade. We got together and, after much discussion, all agreed on how to proceed… except for the Americans. They wanted to enter immediately, by force. In order to adopt that scenario, we would have to be prepared to accept the loss of hostage lives. The plan proposed by our Captain, and which met with general consent, consisted instead in offering the hostagetakers transportation to the airport. We then planned to assault them on the landing strip. It would thereby be easier to protect the hostages. * After days of negotiations between members of the MRTA and the Peruvian Government, impatience settled in on both sides. To prove their good will, the terrorists freed 170 hostages. Weeks went by and we could feel the situation was about to explode. We were in a state of constant alert and that ongoing tension had begun to weigh us down. Finally, in the middle of April, the negotiators decided to offer what we had agreed on. Suddenly, gunfire broke out. The attack was launched with incredible speed. Everyone headed to the building, taking up their assigned sector. The targets of the small team of eight Canadians consisted in two doors that gave onto the kitchen. One was a large sliding door through which the trucks delivered merchandise; the other, a standard door adjacent to the first. The ‘go’ took us by surprise but we reacted promptly and the entry was conducted smoothly. Guns pointed, we advanced into the rooms. Normally, a ‘clear’ would be heard in our earphones, signifying that a room was secured. We tried to advance as quickly as possible to lend a hand to the other teams. The Captain asked me to verify the huge refrigerator at the other end of the kitchen. I opened the door and we were taken aback by what we saw – two people hanging on big butcher hooks pierced through their backs.

Visibly, they had been dead for quite some time already. We would never know who they were or why they had been tortured like that. We were ordered to continue. The kitchen gave onto the dining room, which led to the ballroom. The first room was deserted and quickly secured. The ballroom, however, was filled with people. Among them, many terrorized children were crying. We needed to prevent them from moving until they were all identified. At that same moment, the Americans emerged from the other side of the room. Whereas, on our side, only the Captain spoke to the people as we held them at gunpoint, the Americans yelled ‘Down! Stay down!’, creating such panic that we had the utmost difficulty controlling them. The assault lasted less than 60 seconds. Hostage identification, on the other hand, lasted for hours. Whereas only one of the hostages died – the victim of a heart attack – every member of the MRTA was either killed or had committed suicide. When our Intelligence Officer joined us, he was baffled. He had no idea who had given the order to attack and proceeded to revise the different incidents with the Captain. They quickly determined that the attack had taken place through the main entrance which was covered by the Americans. They were the only ones who fired any shots. We were never entirely sure of what happened but, since the Americans were the only ones who disagreed with the plan, there would always remain some doubt in our minds. We did not learn anything more during debriefing. It was a brisk meeting. We received the standard congratulations that the Japanese Ambassador first addressed to the American Commander rather than to the Peruvian Officer who had coordinated everything from the very start. We returned to Canada in complete anonymity. Darren was visibly frustrated. Not obtaining explanations on what truly happened

infuriated him. Our talks with him did not help to calm him down. Our British Officer called us to his office. “Men, you will get nothing out of knowing why or how. It would only lead to more frustration. We are not here to philosophize or do politics; we are nothing more than the arms and legs of a mission. We execute, that is all. We have to, at all times, keep our focus on the mission. Period.” Darren was infuriated even further by the media which depicted an incorrect version, saying we had brought administrative, rather than tactical, support to the assault force. That version is still circulated to this day. Not one person mentioned that we had put forth the best strategy which had been approved by every Special Forces unit, with the exception of the Americans. During the days that followed, the two commandos were together for the first time in a long while for exercise training. This allowed us to swap stories and learn what each group did throughout the world. The conclusion was simple: we really led one hell of a crazy life. I remember a certain February14… On Valentine’s Day, I was determined to do something special for Julie. For the first time since our arrival in Ottawa, I had some time to give her. I had reserved the works: the restaurant, the hotel room… Except, once again, my plans were thwarted. In the middle of our romantic dinner, my damned pager rang. I didn’t have a choice; I dropped Julie off at home and sped to the Farm, hoping that it was nothing more than an exercise and I would not end up on the other side of the world for months on end. The captain was waiting for us for a hostage-taking simulation on board an aircraft. They had to choose that specific day, as though there were not enough problems among the couples within our unit. That time, a group of reservists, men and women, were to meet us at the airport. They knew they were to take part in an exercise but

did not know what the scenario would be. The Captain told us to mingle with them and pretend that we, also, were reservists. Team A would be the bad guys; Team B would attack. One of us, Darren, was designated as the hostage up for sacrifice. Meanwhile, we had to make the others believe we were also reservists, excited to take part in a JTF2 training session. It was hard for us not to laugh while listening to those young Rambos who believed they were a threat to us. Some were so selfconfident, they thought they would impress us enough to be selected for the six-day test. Once inside the aircraft, we took off. Theoretically, we were on a Ottawa-Chicago flight which would be hijacked in flight. The flight attendants began their regular service. Darren went to the cockpit to talk with the cabin crew members. The assault would seem very real; he gave them instructions on what, and what not, to do. The moment he returned to his seat and sat down, the rest of Team A, myself included, leapt up. We took out our weapons and the fun began. We yelled in a mixture of Arab, French, and English and were not gentle with the passengers. The reservists began feeling that it seemed much too real. We hijacked the plane and turned back towards Ottawa. Once landed, the plane was sent to the end of the runway. If some still believed it was a game, we decided to make it so they would not have any more doubts. As we had planned, one of our men grabbed Darren by the hair and forced him to the front of the cabin. Only we knew he was wearing a bullet-proof vest. We fired at him and he fell to the ground. We opened the door and threw him out below. He fell into the arms of the assault group. There is no reason to get hurt during an exercise, is there? We succeeded in recreating a realistic hijacking situation. A high level of stress was now well-established. Some girls were crying and others had wet their pants when we ‘executed’ Darren. We asked if anyone else wanted to volunteer. Someone who was not yet entirely

convinced of our little demonstration stood up. I immediately grabbed him by the hair and dragged him to the front. I made him kneel in front of the still open door. I spoke to him in a mixture of French and English, with a hint of an Arabic accent. “You still don’t believe this is a hijacking? Look at the seat beside you.” I pushed my pistol into the seat’s backrest and shot. At such close range, the plastic bullet easily sailed through it. “Now, the choice is yours. Either you shut up and return to your place or I shoot you and dump you out.” The young guy sheepishly returned to his seat without saying a word. We ordered the crew to stop the air conditioning. The negotiations began. The wait was awful for the supposed hostages. They were experiencing a situation that could hardly have been more real. An hour later, the assault was ordered and, to the tremendous relief of the hostages, we were all ‘killed’. They all descended from the plane and we conducted the debriefing in the main hangar. We explained to the reservists that, although it was nothing but a game, our simulations had to be conducted under as realistic conditions as possible. That way, they could understand the dynamics that occur during a hostage-taking situation and what the escalation of fear is. That could help them in a situation of extreme stress. When the other ‘terrorists’ and I introduced ourselves, some started shaking. We immediately went over to them to shake their hands and laugh it off, playing down the seriousness of the situation. We made them realize how privileged they were to have participated in a JTF2 exercise. “It will give you something to talk about with your friends,” concluded the Captain.

While picking up our gear, many of us thought about our ruined Valentine’s Day. And although I could count on Julie’s understanding of the situation, not all of my teammates were so lucky. * At the beginning of May, I flew to Rochester to monitor the development of an imagery transmission program. I wanted to test the new PRC-117 radio. This first version, which would be improved over the years, was simply amazing. I tried to convince the Deputy Minister of Defence that the Armed Forces needed to be equipped with this radio, but he did not care for my analysis. “The system the Army now has is superior to any other. I don’t see any reason to change it,” he declared. Naturally, being nothing more than a non-commissioned officer, I had nothing important to say, but how could the Minister of Defence be so ignorant as to a defence-related matter? Luckily, those in charge of our unit knew better and we received the PRC-117 the moment it appeared on the market. The internal system of that radio provided a 600 to 1 file compression ratio. In comparison, Microsoft had a 3 to 1 ratio. That was the only model that could use HF, VHF and UHF frequencies, thus allowing mobile satellite communication systems. Comfortably seated in the control centre of the Farm in Ottawa, my superiors monitored the entire performance of one of our exercises in the United States; they could even intervene if needed. After the exercise, I sat down with one of the unit’s imagery technicians and a radio technician. I wanted to push the experience further and perform real-time video transmissions. After rewriting the program, we began transmitting the video in highly compressed images. It was fantastic. Our superiors in Ottawa were impressed. From then on, they would be able to follow, from a video display terminal, our missions in real time from almost anywhere in the world.

I called Rochester to inform the company of the test we had just performed. They invited me over and I showed them what we had done. They were elated. From that moment, they knew that the tactical radio market was theirs. They could offer everything a special unit wanted. My Commander was congratulated for the test performed by the men from his small unit. The JTF2, an insignificant unit in the eyes of certain Special Forces, was now on the map. The only thing not mentioned was the names of those behind that technological advance.

CHAPTER 17 One Bullet – Many Dead

March 1998. We were performing a manœuvre at Fort Benning, Georgia, with the Rangers, SEALs, and Delta Force. During a break, the Captain announced that we were returning to Bosnia once again. There would be five of us ‘veterans’. We completed our training session by testing a new ambush strategy in an urban zone. The objective was to surprise the enemy at a location and time least expected. If we succeeded in our shots never coming from the front, we would force them to make a difficult choice. They could either retreat towards the urban zone where the greatest number of us awaited and were well under cover, or run to the neighbouring forest which would place them in the open for a few hundred metres. We had no doubts that the more complex a simulation combining an urban situation with a rural one – retreat to the woods – was, the higher the risk of errors would be. At the beginning of the exercise, the Rangers – a reconnaissance unit – advanced, scrutinizing the grounds. But our positions were perfect and they did not succeed in locating us. We knew that Delta Force, a tightly-knit outfit that works well together at protecting their targets, would follow the Rangers, and the SEALS, who are highly specialized in urban or rural warfare, would close the rear. They were 60, we were 16. Our only advantage: the element of surprise. All the participants wore bullet-proof training vests equipped with an impact alarm and GPS. Our superiors could follow in real-time the exercise on a large chart. We let the Rangers go by. We only opened fire when they formed a fan to cover the most ground possible. We threw three training

grenades in the centre of their position. The soldiers that were the most vulnerable lay down immediately. We peppered them from three sides and they didn’t know which direction to fire back. Before the Americans could fire back even once, the chart in the observation post indicated that 33 of their men had been ‘killed’. After 10 seconds of gunshots, there were only 10 left and things did not look good for them. The referee showed up and stopped the fight. Sixty seconds had passed since the first explosion. Sixteen little Canadian soldiers had just defeated the elite forces of the US Army. The high ranking Americans looked miserable. They watched the entire exercise once again and could only admire the perfection of the ambush. In the meantime, we had joined our British instructor who, before knowing the final outcome of the simulated battle, was already gloating. “My men are the best in every combat aspect. They foresee the unpredictable and never under-estimate the capacity of the enemy. They are specialists and are the best prepared, whatever the mission.” An American Colonel approached him and conceded that the Canadians had performed without fault. Captain Baird, however, did not congratulate us. To him, it was perfectly natural that we had won. * A helicopter brought us back to camp. We picked up our gear and headed to a hangar where a Hercules cargo-plane awaited. We embarked and the colossal aircraft rumbled to life to bring us back to Canada. The journey home went without a hitch. Like my comrades, I had learned to take advantage of every available moment to regain my strength and energy, and I slept until we landed. We transferred our

belongings to the waiting vehicles that took us back to the Farm. I learned that I would be in Bosnia for only two weeks, time to ensure the transition of the new team in place for matters regarding computers and communications. The other team members would be there for four months. I did not think about the reasons for my short stay. Instead, I rejoiced at the thought of finally spending some time during the summer with my family. Upon arrival, we immediately headed to the ‘prayer room’ where the Commander was waiting, looking forward to hearing about the exercise we had just taken part in. Captain Allen summed up the exercise and his pride could be easily seen. However, the Commander announced that he was deployed and the next missions would be our last with him. I put up my hand. “Why are you saying ‘the last missions’? I thought there was only the one in Bosnia up ahead,” I asked. “I was expecting that question. A reconnaissance request in Afghanistan was made. It is an expedition of only a few days. You are all leaving in two days for Kabul. From there, you will be escorted into the mountains where you will retrieve maximum information on the Taliban’s movements. You will be in teams of two, in different locations throughout the Bagar Valley. We know it is a strategic location for the traffic of opium. Estimates calculate that no fewer than 3,000 metric tonnes of drugs are concerned. You will be gone for five days. To be honest, I did not care. I only looked forward to being with Julie and the children. I was happy and excited to tell them that we would spend the summer together. Just the thought of spending two days at home before leaving was enough for me. Little did I know that my happiness would be short-lived and that, a few days from then, I would experience an event that would turn my life upside down.

Accustomed to my frequent departures at a few hours’ notice, Julie simply told me to be careful and that she loved me. I joined the guys at the Farm. Our gear was already in the trucks. A last short briefing and we headed for the airport. The flight was interminable. After 23 hours in the plane, we landed in Kabul. It was night and the temperature was about 20 degrees Celsius. We were shown to a hangar where we unpacked and prepared. British helicopters were waiting. Since we planned on resupplying in 48 hours, we could lighten the load of our backpacks. I carefully checked the communications and computer equipment and the cameras. A teammate took care of my weapons. Less than two hours after our arrival, we took off in the direction of our targets. At night time, the mountainous topography prevented us from seeing far ahead. We had been flying for two hours and the sun would soon rise. The signal was given. The helicopter descended rapidly and landed for a few seconds, just enough time for my teammate, Darren, and I to jump off. It left at once for the next position. We adopted a defensive formation while I verified our position on the GPS. We were two kilometres from our target. The sun was on the horizon. We had to move quickly. We entered Bagar Valley and located a small village about 500 metres ahead. The observation post assigned to us was nearby. Three minutes later, we had become invisible. A large camouflage net was put up over our position, preventing any dust from swirling about us and revealing our presence. I quickly set up the cameras, radio and our antennæ. Our weapons were next and only the barrels could potentially be visible through the fabric. I made myself comfortable and told Darren he could nap while I stood guard. He quickly fell asleep. With my eye pressed to the scope of my gun, I began inspecting our surroundings. All was calm, the wind was very light, even the sand did not move.

The temperature rose steadily. A quick glance at the GPS thermometer indicated 48°C. A veritable oven. Fortunately, we carried water reservoirs, that we called camel packs, on our backs. They contained four litres of fresh water which cooled us down and kept us hydrated. I remained immobile due to the heat but also because our position was located on a path used by the villagers to get to a well. They walked by no more than 10 metres from our cache. Still using the eyeglass of my gun, I kept watch. The locals went about their business, the children played, everything seemed normal. Morning went by without any incident until about 11 o’clock. A Land Rover with six men on board suddenly erupted in the middle of the village. The passengers descended from the vehicle, armed with AK-47s and pistols. I woke Darren and described what I saw. He looked through the telescopic sight of his C-8. Judging from their Pathan dress, we came to the conclusion that they were Talibans. We heard shouts and about fifty villagers were mercilessly pushed and gathered in an empty lot, outside the village. Five men forced the inhabitants to kneel before the sixth, who appeared to be their leader. What could they possibly want from those poor villagers? They tied their hands behind their backs – men and women, children and the elderly. I clearly heard the Talibans’ shouts. They appeared to be looking for someone or something but the only answers they received were more crying and whimpering. The man we had identified as the leader grabbed the closest man by the hair and dragged him before the others. He placed his gun in his shoulder strap and took out a long knife from a sheath on his belt. The blade glinted in the sun. He yanked the unfortunate villager’s hair, lifting his head. Suddenly, the blade was plunged into the man’s throat. Darren and I both shuddered at the scene and struggled not to cry out. The executioner fiercely persevered. Much too clearly, I witnessed the chainsaw movement of the blade. He was separating the man’s head from his body. The victim’s body was shaken by

grotesque spasms which weakened in intensity until the Taliban leader exhibited the head he had just torn off. That gesture was accompanied by insane laughter. The poor man’s body collapsed limply. The bearded sadist dropped his knife and tossed the head at the feet of a woman who was screaming in terror. His armed accomplices laughed out loud. Just by the sound of Darren’s breathing, I could feel the rage within him. The leader started shouting once again, interrogating, and brutally hitting his hostages in the face. Not getting any answers, he grabbed a young 9 or 10 year-old boy by the hair and dragged him in front of the group of terrified villagers. He picked up his bloody knife, now covered in sand, and placed the tip of the blade on the child’s throat. I quickly wiped the sweat that was pouring down my forehead. It was not only the heat that made me sweat so profusely. I had a young daughter the same age; I could not think about what was most probably going to happen. What did this kid do to deserve such a horrendous fate? Darren turned to me, wondering what we should do. He noticed that my finger was firmly pressed against the trigger and that my scope was not in wide angle vision anymore, but in firing position. I had the Taliban leader’s head as my target. “Breathe,” whispered Darren. I didn’t know if that piece of advice was given so that my shot would be perfect or to prevent me from shooting. Darren contacted HQ for instructions. But when he spoke to me again, I could not hear him anymore. At the same moment that the Taliban leader lifted his knife, I pressed the trigger. I could almost follow the bullet trajectory. I saw the face with the sadistic smile, and then saw the bullet penetrate his right eye. The back of his head exploded. The gun shot echoed

throughout the neighbouring mountains. Still in some kind of slow motion, I saw the man’s body fall to the ground. I moved my scope. I could now see the child’s face, his eyes filled with wild terror. Rooted to the spot, the armed men became agitated again. I wanted to shoot those bastards but it was too late. They started spraying the villagers with their AK-47s. Bodies fell to the ground, one after the other. Darren yelled in my ears. I looked at him, stunned. What had I just done? Had I acted with my emotions or with my head? Was I responsible for that bloodbath? I replaced my eyeglass in vision mode and surveyed the disaster. The Talibans climbed into their vehicle and sped away while the villagers who had been hiding came out of their huts. I heard nothing but crying and screams of horror. They searched through the dead corpses, hoping to find survivors. Women writhed in pain before the children’s bodies. The kid I had wanted to save was among them. Darren and I spent the afternoon in a state of despondency, in stone-walled silence. Our radio communications were short and brief. When night came, we got out of our shelter and advanced cautiously towards the village. When we arrived at the area where the massacre had taken place, we saw sandals, pieces of clothing, cartridges, but mostly large black puddles of dried blood. The hamlet seemed abandoned. We inspected some huts. Windowless, they were made of sand and dried earth. An opening, from which hung some fabric, served as the door. No running water, no electricity. Everything breathed a state of extreme destitution. The living conditions of those poor people were straight from the Middle Ages and the war took what little they did have. Twenty minutes later, we realized that the village was entirely deserted. Not a soul remained. The survivors had taken the bodies to probably bury them in the mountains. Back in our cache, we were informed that the time of our extraction had been pre-empted. Apparently, I had not been the only one to fire and our positions were compromised. We had three hours

to wait. I suggested to Darren that we take the GPS and our night vision goggles to mark the extraction site. It was done rapidly and we returned under the camo net. There were two hours remaining before departure. The killing haunted me. I had to talk about it. Had my decision to shoot been the right one? The impossibility to answer this question wreaked havoc within me. Although Darren tried his best to reassure me, nothing helped. Would my superiors understand? How would I be judged? But mostly, how could I ever forgive myself? I had been unable to save the child and was probably responsible for the ensuing massacre. 23:59. We were at the extraction site and could hear the helicopter. It all happened quickly. In a matter of seconds, we were on board and the copter transported us to the plane that would take us home. I was not feeling well. For the first time, I was unable to sleep after a mission. Like a never-ending loop, I constantly reviewed and dwelled upon the images of that day. * In Ottawa, like usual, there were no formalities. Our gear was transferred into trucks; we climbed into the big, black Suburbans. Direction: the Farm. It was time to debrief and Darren described what had happened. The Commander asked me questions but no sound came from me. I wanted to talk but everything remained deep within me. Could he read the desperation in my eyes? The Commander ended the debriefing and suggested we spend the night there. At about 6 am, Captain Baird, our British instructor, came to my room. His ability to choose the right words led me to talk. I told him what had happened, just as I had experienced it. It was very hard. I knew that mistakes were not favourably looked upon.

“I made many victims with just one bullet,” I concluded. “We are all victims, Momo. In a stinking war like this one, there comes a time when we run the risk of losing our very soul. If we count on others to fight evil in our place, then we give place to evil. If we do not oppose evil, then we become evil. If we are not part of the solution, we are part of the problem; it’s as simple as that. You took a stand, that’s all.” In those few words, he enlightened me to the essential purpose of the counter-terrorism brigade. Our unit was one solution in fighting evil in the world. There were others, but, for him, ours was the best. As he continued talking, I dressed and we headed towards the main building. The Commander and Intelligence Officer were in the conference room. Before they could question me, I told them my story. The Commander came towards me and said he would have done the same. The Intelligence Officer had viewed what we had filmed and it churned his stomach. All in all, the mission had no greater results than proving that the Talibans were nothing more than a band of bloodthirsty savages. Two hours later I was home, surrounded by Julie and the children. I desperately wanted to talk to my wife, to explain what I had just gone through. It was so hard to get back to normal life. But I had to; I had to act as though what I had just experienced was nothing more than fiction. It was vital for my own mental stability and for the good of my family.

CHAPTER 18 ‘I Don’t like Frogs’

I spent the week as though in a dream. A dream where the nightmare was not far away. As though biding its time. I went bike riding with my kids and ate meals with them. I went out to the restaurant with Julie and friends. But my wife could tell something had changed. I was anxious, constantly watching over the children so nothing would happen to them. My happiness was nothing more than a façade and she saw through it. She would later confide in me that every time I went on a mission, she would tell her friends that, each time, a different man would return home. Once the week was over, I had to pick up the reins once again. I had to prepare for my mission in Bosnia – from what the mission orders stated, it was nothing out of the ordinary. The mission consisted in identifying and eliminating sources of intimidation prior to elections that were to be held in Bosnia. There were small changes. I was not leaving with my usual group. With the exception of Darren and me, the unit sent was formed entirely of new men. It would feel different not to be with our regular team. The Warrant Officer in charge of the mission had only completed two years of training with JTF2. But since we were going to work with regular forces, rank would be important. At the end of intelligence services briefing, the WO asked us to stay. He described in detail to each of my teammates what their assignment was. I was last. When he spoke to me, I understood why my mission was so short compared to that of my teammates. What he told me left me speechless.

“Your mission is simple. You will coordinate communications and computer information with the forces that are in place. Afterwards, you will return to Canada. I can’t stand Frogs!” I was not surprised… I was disappointed. Such racism was common in the Canadian Forces. Once again, I had to prove that the Frenchwere as capable as the English. I thought that I had proven it before, but there was always some idiot who would put it all back into question. * During training, prior to the mission, Baird could tell I was not quite myself. He thought it was the effects of the shock I experienced during my last Afghan mission that still haunted me. He took me aside to discuss it. The more I got to know him, the more I knew I could trust that man. I told him how I felt. Once I got it off my chest, he smiled and said I should have faith in myself, that my former actions had no language. “Momo, the Warrant Officer is nothing more than a rookie; he does not know the field, this is his first real mission. He’s working with his own fears. But remember who you are. A full-fledged member of this elite unit, a machine. Don’t ever forget that. When you will have proven to him how stupid his thinking is, he will have learned more than from any speech I could give him at this very moment.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and wished me luck. Our two weeks of preparation and exercises were over; it was time to leave. A flight from Trenton, Ontario, to Zagreb, Croatia, awaited us. The atmosphere during the flight was glacial, so completely different from other missions with my regular team. Darren was the only person who spoke to me. He and I were the only ones to have participated in real operations. The others did not know us and had

all tacitly adopted the same position as the Warrant Officer towards me. Upon our arrival in Croatia, the personnel on the ground led us to a line of rented civilian vehicles. As I had expected, the least comfortable was assigned to me. We had to travel two hours to reach Velika Kladusa – which we named VK – the logistics base in Bosnia. Once again, I was aware of the very special position our unit held among Canadian Forces. We caused a small stir at every control post. We all wore our green uniforms which were worn with no rank insignia. The only visible elements on our uniform were a Canadian flag and the US Rangers insignia. We were heavily armed. Each man carried two pistols, a Sig-228 and a Sig-229, a MP5 and a new C-8, heavily modified, that looked borrowed from a Star Wars episode. We eventually arrived at the Canadian camp. Our stay was to be short. The Warrant Officer met with the Commander of the Canadian contingent who directed us to our base camp, in Coralici, with the combat group. We hit the road again and took up camp at Coralici. I immediately began installing the communications room with a secured line, fax, computer, paper, and photo printer. Meanwhile, the WO assigned the rooms. He had the privilege of having a private room and the others were paired in twos. For that reason, I ended up alone. Not bothered by the turn of events, now that my set-up was finished, I prepared a room for myself in our weapons and equipment depot. We live in what us soldiers call sea containers. Very few rooms have windows. The warehouse I slept was windowless but, in order to preserve the material, it was air conditioned. I would be the only one to not be bothered from the blazing heat during my stay. The next morning, I started the mission to which I had been assigned. I went to meet the members of the communications section. Surprise! I found two people I knew well – Captain Ivy and Sergeant Richard. Sergeant Richard had wanted to be admitted into our unit and had tried, unsuccessfully, to pass the six-day test. Our

meeting was very friendly and I was immediately introduced to the other members of the section. I was then presented to the message reception team and, finally, the intelligence team. I quickly obtained the required codes so I could become connected to their network, thereby avoiding the long and tedious usual administrative formalities. It went so well that I quickly finished everything. I had some free time and used it to tour the camp and its different sections. I started with the medical section. When I spoke to the doctor on site about my reconstructed knee, I ended up with my pants down in front of a dozen people attentively examining the results. Once dressed, I continued my rounds, greeting the engineers, the mine clearing section, transportation and, without question, the kitchen. The day passed without my realizing it. I had dinner and went to work out. My unit was already there and, after about thirty minutes, the Warrant Officer and new guys stared at me, stunned. They wondered how I was already so well known. In fact, most people coming into the gym either greeted me or stopped for a quick conversation. My afternoon rounds had been fruitful. Sergeant Richard invited me to the stationary bikes with him and I readily accepted. He toured the camp with me and I noticed some intriguing details. I would have to return and investigate. The next morning, I borrowed a vehicle and left camp. I stopped before what had caught my attention the previous evening: two radio antennæ –VHF and HF – used for long distance communication. I would later discover the same antennæ near VK camp and just about everywhere in the region. Continuing my rounds, I noticed that a small coffee shop, located less than 500 metres from the Coralici camp entrance had more satellite antennæ on its rooftop than a television station. In addition, the antennæ were positioned so as to not be visible from the road normally taken by vehicles exiting the camp. I returned to the camp to consult the intelligence patrol reports. Over the past few months, no incident had been reported.

The following day, our unit went to VK for our first report to the contingent Commander. The Warrant Officer pretended I did not exist and I couldn’t care less. It bothered him that I talked with everyone. In addition, upon entering the briefing room, I recognized the official photographer who happened to be the brother of a very good friend of mine. We bonded immediately and the questions flew. He asked me about JTF2 and I asked what he knew about the terrain. The meeting started. The Warrant Officer did not count me in his operational unit since I was to leave shortly, but I was nonetheless invited to speak. My observations met with stunned silence. I had been there less than 48 hours and had already discovered weaknesses that nobody had yet detected. Since I was the communications specialist and was the only one to know about antennæ, the Commander invited me to pursue my investigation. He also asked me where I was in my regular work. I replied that everything was up and running. The Commander turned to the Warrant Officer and asked him what he had done for the past two days. He opened his mouth like a fish, not making a sound. Returning to Coralici camp, the Warrant Officer was sullen whereas Darren and I were all smiles. We passed right by the camp. We received orders by radio to go to Bihac and meet the JCOs – Americans who occupied observation posts there. After introductions and a hearty BBQ, the Americans and us talked about a variety of subjects. I became bored by the conversation and slipped out to tour the command post. I took the liberty to visit the grounds. The JCOs were lodged in downtown Bihac, in a very comfortable three-storey house. There were five rooms in which twelve people could comfortably sleep, a large kitchen, and a vast living room that also served as a dining area. Each storey had a balcony and the main floor had a large deck. The garage had been converted into a gymnasium. During my stay, whenever we happened to be in the vicinity, we would stop to take advantage of that well-equipped gym.

On the fourth day, we travelled once again towards Velika Kladusa. Along the way, I turned on my radio and scanner. I knew that satellite antennæ used very high frequencies and therefore I chose that frequency when passing by the coffee shop. The team called me paranoid but I was convinced that my suspicions were well founded. Those antennæ were not there by pure coincidence. In effect, seconds later, my scanner picked up data transmission. No one in the Canadian camps used that frequency. Once arrived at VK, I stayed in the vehicle to continue sweeping the waves. I caught a distinct communication in Serbian. It was simple and I could understand it. Someone had just signalled our arrival at VK. And yet, no one was supposed to know who we were or be aware of our displacements. During the Commander’s briefing, I kept silent to the satisfaction of the Warrant Officer. I had an idea. The moment the meeting ended, I took off. I headed for the transport section. I had learned that my brother-in-law had recently been affected there. I asked for him and, two minutes later, was in his office. It was the first time he ever saw me dressed and equipped with my JTF2 gear. He was extremely impressed by my modified weapon. We talked about everything and nothing. I peered out his office window, scrutinizing the garage where a number of civilian vehicles were stored. I asked him what the procedure was to obtain one. I had my eye on a Land Rover Discovery that was practically new. “Forget it, you’ll never get the go-ahead for that vehicle; only officers can use it.” “Get it ready; I’ll return with whatever authorizations you need.” “Don’t try and impress me – you won’t get it.” After I divulged my suspicions to the Commander and Intelligence Officer and shared the contents of the message intercepted earlier, I obtained all the paperwork needed to pursue my inquiry. I went to find Darren who did not have to be talked into accompanying me. We stepped into civilian clothes and picked up

the material we needed in the military Jeep. Minutes later, we arrived at the garage where I presented the paperwork to my stunned brother-in-law. “How did you do it?” he asked. “Military secret,” I replied. I asked him if there was another way out of the camp. He showed me a small gate that closed off the rear and was never used. I started the Land Rover and we went to take a little ride. Contrary to what was in the reports I had read, there was a lot of activity in town. Groups of men moved from one place of business to another. We decided to stop at the terrace of a small coffee shop at the bottom of a street to follow their goings on. Elections were approaching and it was rather peculiar that reports always mentioned that things were quiet. When a group of men eventually came into the coffee shop, we discreetly listened through the open windows. Although Serbian was not my mother tongue, I had learned enough of the language in Ottawa to understand that the conversations inside were far from civil. They seemed more like threats. A certain group had to win, or else… By following the comings and goings of the other groups, it was easy for us to see that a regime of fear was being implemented prior to the elections. Suddenly, in a matter of seconds, all activity ceased. What was happening? Less than 10 minutes later, Darren and I saw the Canadian patrol come out. The people had clearly been warned. But by who? I called the Commander on a secured line and reported our findings. He asked what course of action I thought should be taken. I suggested sending the patrol into town while jamming the UHF frequencies I had listened to earlier. Although dangerous, that method was often very efficient. The patrol arrived soon after to the surprise of the intimidators who, that time, were caught. After

interrogation, the patrol was capable of determining the extent of the intimidation taking place throughout the city. It was undoubtedly the same elsewhere. I had some time remaining before returning to Canada. I had the full collaboration of the Commander of the Canadian contingent and could therefore continue working with Darren without having the Warrant Officer in the way. I decided to give my full attention to two matters: the coffee shop near camp and the disturbing amount of VHF and HF antennæ in Bosnia. I managed to position a vehicle with a hidden photographer near the coffee shop. While he clicked away with his telescopic lens at every person entering and leaving the bistro, I managed to slip onto the rooftop at dusk to take a closer look at the satellite antennæ crowding the building. The identification numbers and type of antennæ confirmed just how efficient the material was. They were IMARSAT antennæ, widely used in data transmission. They also transmitted voices very clearly. Darren and I decided to investigate the coffee shop more closely. Upon our first visit, Darren noticed the tattoo of a rose surrounded by weapons on the forearm of the man we suspected to be the owner. That was the symbol of a well-known Al-Qæda affiliated group. A close analysis of the photos revealed that the mafia in the region all gravitated around that man. With the Commander’s authorization, I decided to stir things up and see what would come of it. Only someone specialized in the field would detect my tampering and be able to repair it. As expected, a wave of panic overtook the coffee shop. My Warrant Officer now acknowledged the pertinence of my suspicions. As a precaution, we also jammed the communications which could still come from the coffee shop. That gave us time to send for an Electronic Warfare Specialist from Ottawa who spoke SerbianCroatian fluently and would take over for me. One problem resolved.

However, the problem of the-VHF and HF antennæ still remained. What could they very well be used for? With Darren, I tried to locate as many as possible. Then, using a wave sweeper, we listened to the conversations. It did not take long to figure out that the communications transmitted by the antennæ all came from the same organization that controlled the coffee shop. I communicated that information at once to the Intelligence Officer. A team from Kingston specialized in electronic surveillance came to our rescue. By intercepting and translating the conversations, we quickly exposed a vast plot to distort the elections. Theoretically, my last day of work was to be July 4, 1998. I was to leave the day after. The American JCOs invited us to celebrate with them. The occasion was two-fold: their national holiday and their departure. They would be replaced by the British. In one corner, some members of JTF2were having a conversation. Darren winked at me. The Warrant Officer came to me and started a conversation. He handed me a beer and asked if I would accept finishing the mission with them. I stared at him. “I thought you didn’t like Francophones,” I threw at him. “Everyone’s allowed to make mistakes! Come on Momo, I’m sorry for what I said before,” he replied. My Captain had been right. If someone’s wrong about something, long speeches are worthless; demonstrations alone can overcome prejudice. During those days, lobbying in Canada spoke louder than reason, and changes took place at the head of our unit. Commander McMahan and Chief Warrant Officer Pat Holmgren had just been named. They had a job to do: put some order back into JTF2 which, according to some officers and Canadian Headquarters, was quite carried away. Management by those office militaries would have disastrous consequences on the unit itself – which would never

again be what it had once been – as well as for its members – and me in particular – who would be many to pay dearly for the narrow vision of those men. Holmgren had some big boots to fill. His predecessor, Chief Warrant Officer Williamson, had been a father to us, always ready to come to our defense. When nominated, he had even asked to do the six-days. He wasn’t obliged to. He grunted and sweat his way through, but he made it to the end. For that alone, he earned our respect and admiration.

CHAPTER 19 ‘We’re Delivering Mail!’

Things were relatively calm at the Canadian camp. With my investigation over, I was bored stiff. I obtained permission for Darren and me to tour the different Canadian IPTFs we had visited during our last stay in Bosnia. When talking with some of the men by radio before leaving, I was devastated to realize to what extent those policemen, who came from all over Canada, received such little support from their own country. Mail took weeks to get to them. As for supplies and the basic material required to adequately fulfill their mission, it was best left unsaid. I therefore paid a visit to our own kitchen and, once again, filled the Land Rover with products that Canadians are used to having on a daily basis. The simple fact of being deprived of them can sometimes cause them to feel very far from their homeland: peanut butter, boxes of cereal, and other similar items. I called the photographer in Velika Kladusa who readily accepted to accompany us. After we left, I made a quick detour through Banja Luka to pick up the mail and some books for the police officers. We then drove to Zogn, a Canadian camp where we spent the night. The following day, we headed towards Tuzla, where our ‘milk run’ began. We stopped in every little hamlet where police officers were located. We were welcomed like royalty everywhere we went. But if we wanted to meet up with as many police officers as possible, we could not stay long in each location. Our route took us through Bosnia where we went through many small cities such as Doboj, Bijeljina, and Zenica. Upon our arrival at the Canadian camp of Drvar, we met with a tense situation. The local population was awaiting new housing to

replace those destroyed by the conflict. Although some had been built, they had been offered to the military. That created resentment from the people. Riots broke out. In order to reach the Canadian police officers, we were told to leave the Land Rover at camp and use a Bison instead. The eight-wheel armoured vehicle was extremely fast and equipped with aGPMG machine gun mounted on the roof. We were six inside the vehicle. Our trio had been joined by a driver, machine gunner, and a sergeant who had all volunteered to accompany us. From the top of a hill, as we approached the post occupied by two Canadian police officers, we noticed a column of smoke and heard sustained gunfire. Darren turned to me with a smile and a wink, and loaded his C-8. “I think we’re going to have some fun.” “Obelix, you really did fall into a cauldron of magic potion when you were little…,” I said, referring to the fictional comic book character who loves to beat up Romans. We adjusted our gear and added additional metal plates into our bullet-proof vests. We dissimulated three pistols in our pockets with six magazines and again six additional magazines. The helmets followed and then the radio. We were ready for action. The scene before us was cause for concern. The column of smoke came from the police station which was on fire. In front of it, about twenty men, using mostly small calibre, were firing nonstop. On the other side, hidden in a gutter, another group also pelted the police station with bullets. It was undeniable that the police officers were in an unenviable position. I asked the Sergeant to open the hydraulic rear door and position the vehicle in front of the police station to act as a shield. The gunner would force all the assailants to lay down by peppering them generously. Once the Bison was in position, Darren and I got out,

firing. Darren knocked down the door while I covered him. Inside, we scanned the main room. Nobody. We called out. No answer. I pointed to a small office at the back of the room. Opening the door, we spot the two policemen, terrorized, hidden behind a desk. We reassured them and quickly explained the procedure to get them out of there. They were to remain between us and the vehicle and run as quickly as they could to the armoured truck. “We’re coming out,” I notified the Sergeant. The gunner increased the cadence and his GPMG spat out bullets at one hell of a rate. Kneeling in the door frame, I shot at everything I saw while Darren ran to the armoured truck with both policemen on his heels. During that time, the photographer was busy clicking away during the dangerous rescue. When the policemen were safe inside the vehicle, Darren covered me while I joined him. Seeing their prey escape, the assailants tried their best to add at least one person to their hunting list. Bullets whistled past Darren and me. We caught a few on our vests. I dove behind my teammate and yelled at the Sergeant to close the door. We could return to camp. Both policemen were busy catching their breath and asked where we had come from. “We’re delivering mail!” I replied. My joke made everyone laugh and relaxed the tense atmosphere. I recognized one of the men. It was René, the guy I had befriended the last time I was there. He was extremely pleased to see me and, like his friend, kept thanking us profusely. Darren and I removed our vests. I had some bad bruises on my back. Without my bullet-proof vest, I would not have made it. Same for Darren. When we arrived at camp, we met the officer in charge and described the latest events. Since it was late, we requested permission to sleep there. A good meal and a hot shower would do

us a world of good. When I got out of the shower, one of the police officers looked at the bruises on my back and scars on my body. “It must hurt, the bullet impacts…,” he stated. “When it happens, yes, but seeing you alive takes away the pain,” I responded. I joined Darren who was already in bed, a huge smile pasted on his face. He was swimming in happiness. “We did the work of an entire infantry section, just the two of us. I’m glad to work with you, buddy.” The photographer arrived at that moment, excited about the photographs he had taken during the mission. They were impressive. Both police officers, upon seeing their station in flames and riddled with bullets, saw just how close they had almost lost their lives. Before falling asleep, I decided to call Julie. The sound of her voice soothed me. She talked about the problems at home, saying how hard it was when I was not there. I told her I loved her. When I hung up, the miracle had worked its magic once again. I was calm; I went to bed and slept like a baby. At breakfast the next morning, Darren and I decided to pursue our route. There was no reason to stay any longer. The two police officers, still shaken, hugged us, thanking us and promising to send a detailed report about their rescue to authorities. For us, the only thing that mattered was that they were safe and sound. How maddening it must be for them to come here, far from their country, to help the population and the thanks they received were people trying to kill them. The rest of our journey was calm. We were bored after the adrenaline rush of the day before. While Darren drove, I kept an eye on the surroundings. Suddenly, something caught my attention. A

group of dump trucks were parked along a mountain side. However, no construction work had been signalled in the area. I noted the location on the map; I would notify the JCOs. But a surprise awaited us in Bihac. The Americans were gone and a British-SAS unit had taken their place. Being also members of an elite unit, contact between us was easy. It was as though we were part of the family. Introductions quickly gave way to work and I went to meet the SAS Captain at the CP to inform him of what I had seen earlier during the day. He took it down, marking the location of the trucks on the map. His men would go look at it the next day. We continued our journey in the direction of the Canadian base of Coralici. Before we had time to unpack our bags, we were called to VK for a debriefing of the Drvar incident. We quickly printed some photos and went to see the Commander. Not having had time to write anything down, I ad-libbed, describing the event as it had happened. I had not yet seen all the photos. I became aware of them as I presented them one by one and recognized how striking some were. The Commander was impressed by the photos depicting the police station consumed in flames with multiple small clouds of smoke on the walls, a sign of the bullet impacts, but the last ones disturbed him. They were photos of Darren and me, backing up while shooting. The bullet impacts on the ground and wall near me were clearly visible. But the last photo where I turned my back to our assailants to plunge into the Bison spoke volumes. We could see the bullets ricochet off my bullet-proof vest. I stopped talking and bent over my gear bag. I took out my vest and looked at it closely. I showed it to the assistance. The impacts were clearly visible. Darren also exhibited his. Same thing. The Commander looked as us with pride and ended the meeting. That evening, I went to work out at the gym and realized that the photos had gone around camp. A number of soldiers came to me, asking if I was one of the ‘nuts’ on the pictures.

The population around Drvar would finally resolve the housing crisis in its own way – by setting everything on fire. In times of war, emotions win over reason more often than not.

CHAPTER 20 Death at our Fingertips

The days that followed were much quieter. They were filled with exercises, shooting practice, and meetings regarding safety. One morning, a British JCO came to my door to talk about the trucks near the mountain. “We observed them from afar and their actions are intriguing. The entire zone is one huge mine field; we can’t get closer. As observers, we can’t do anything more. Do you think you could go over there? If you find anything, you could write up a report and then we could step in.” I spoke with the Warrant Officer and he gave me the O.K. In addition to Darren, he assigned another member of the team. It was a poisoned gift because the designated soldier, Randy, did not like Francophones either. If asked why, he didn’t know, that’s just how it was. But I didn’t feel like speaking with him about it. If he provoked me, I would know how to put him in his place. I went to see the engineers, and asked to be accompanied by a mine-clearing expert. One of the men there was a reservist who had also tried out for the JTF2 selection test. He volunteered to come with us. At dawn, Darren, Randy, the mine-clearing engineer, and I left camp on the Land Rover which had practically become my service vehicle. On the way, we discussed the procedure to follow during the investigation. With binoculars, we began by observing the sector for a good hour. Large upturned patches of soil could be seen. That intrigued me more and more. I wanted to take a closer look. There

was no sign of activity but I had a bad feeling. I recognized that feeling and knew that it meant nothing good. We decided to advance cautiously on the long dirt road that led to the location the trucks had been seen. On each side of the road were large fields that had been cleared, but where the grass had grown back again, followed by a 50-metre strip of forest, and then another cleared field. It was as though someone wanted to hide something behind the trees and clearly wanted others to know that the land in front of it was mined. Elsewhere, signs planted all over the area warned passers-by of the danger of dying for those who trespassed on the area. We finally stopped the vehicle. Darren and Randy took their firearms and positioned themselves so as to see from afar any eventual guests. We decided to limit our radio conversations to a strict minimum. The engineer picked up his mine-clearing gear. I warned him that whatever we found, even dead bodies, he had to give me space to perform my own observations. He showed me he had understood and we cautiously advanced into the minefield. Our progression was a slow one. We found nothing more than tire tracks on the first 20 metres. At 50 metres, the engineer detected the first mines. He noted the position. We advanced even more slowly. Suddenly, I saw a military boot and part of a leg. I was unable to see the rest of the body because of the high grass. I asked the mine clearer to survey a circle around him so that I could go first. I informed him that soldiers killed in former Yugoslavia almost always had their heads cut off. Having already experienced the unpleasantness of such a sight, I wanted to spare him the experience. I therefore went first and craned my neck, but was unable to see everything. I warned Darren of our find and asked him, from that moment on, to not lose sight of me. Since I couldn’t see the entire body, I was obliged to let the mine clearer go first for him to perform his detection work. Deeply concentrated, he picked up his mine detector once again and moved forward. The body was surrounded by mines but we managed to

approach it. The engineer patiently passed the device along the body’s leg, hip, trunk, and then shoulders. At that point, he gave a violent start. Despite my warning, he had just then realized that the body had no head. He lost it. Dropping his equipment, he took off and began running through the mine field. Without thinking, I ran after him and jumped him, sending him to the ground. I ordered him to stop moving, that our lives were in danger. I spoke slowly to calm him down, all the while looking around us. Because of the tall grass, I was unable to determine our position. I notified Darren and Randy. Darren followed the marked path and retrieved the mine clearing equipment. He scanned the surrounding area. He had no idea where we were but discerned the path of bent grass created from our run. He advanced with extreme caution towards us. He was no mine clearer and did not want to make any mistakes. At every ‘beep’, he marked the location with a small pennant and continued his slow progression. It was long, terribly long. I had been lying on the mine clearer for three hours and managed to calm him. He was not speaking or moving anymore. Although he must have been crushed by my weight, he did not complain. Over the 10 metres separating him from us, Darren detected about fifteen mines. It was a miracle we were still alive. When he told me, I felt anger overtake me and had to take deep breaths so as not to let that feeling overwhelm me and cloud my thinking. My greatest fear at the time was the possibility of us lying directly on top of a mine. Mines worked with pressure, launching about one metre into the air before detonating, causing terrible damage within a 20 metre radius. I asked Darren to carefully verify all around us before making the slightest move. He detected a mine at the end of the engineer’s elbow. We had to move it. Darren skilfully unearthed it with his knife. He lifted it out and deposited it further away. Everyone held their breath. Once again, our time was not yet up.

We had been lying there for four hours. I could finally move. I warned the mine clearer twice, rather than just once, to not even bat an eyelash. With great difficulty, I managed to pull my stiff and numb body up. Darren and I wanted to make sure that the mine clearer had nothing underneath him before he could get up. Shit! We found a mine under his knee and it was triggered. The only way to prevent it from exploding was to maintain constant pressure on it. Very carefully, we began clearing it. I slipped my fingers under the engineer’s knee to maintain pressure on the trigger mechanism. I grabbed the mine and removed it from the ground while Darren took out a roll of Duck Tape. He began wrapping the mine. The hardest part was about to come. I removed my fingers while Darren trapped the trigger mechanism under the adhesive tape. We were both pouring sweat. We had not noticed that Randy had joined us. If it blew up, there would be four dead. I lifted the engineer from the ground. He was crying and shaking like a leaf. Randy took him by the shoulders and led him to the vehicle. He placed a blanket over him. Exhausted, the poor guy fell asleep immediately. However, our job was not done. I realized that we were about three metres from one of the sections that had intrigued me earlier where the earth had been turned over. It was before the strip of woods, rather than behind it, and the ground seemed freshly disturbed. Darren and I secured a large area, unfolded our shovels, and began to dig. Less than ten minutes later, I hit something. We removed as much earth as we could. I finished the job by hand. As I unearthed what was, without a doubt, a human body, I dug from the legs up. When I got to the face, I felt shocked. Darren also shivered horribly upon seeing what I had uncovered. The man’s eyes and mouth were wide open. It was horrific; he had been buried alive. We had uncovered a mass grave. I grabbed my satellite phone and called the JCOs, informing them of our finding. They reached us in less than an hour. Judging by the size of the areas where the earth had been visibly turned over, there were many bodies. Lots of

bodies. The JCOs asked us to leave. It was now up to the United Nations to take charge. Over the days that followed, they would remove over 800 bodies from that mass grave. Back at camp, I escorted the engineer to the infirmary. He had suffering a nervous shock and was still shivering. I explained in detail to the doctor and nurses the day’s events, mentioning the decapitated body, but keeping silent about the mass grave. The doctor decided to administer a sedative to him. I dropped into a chair in the waiting room, unable to take another step. The exhaustion I felt was moral and physical. The doctor joined me. “What you accomplished today was heroic, but you and your colleagues could have died,” he said. The only thing that came to mind then was something I had heard during training in the United States. “Death does not frighten those who have the courage to face life,” I retorted mechanically. Perplexed, the doctor looked at me, not saying a word. “Doc, I couldn’t leave a man who was under my responsibility go to his death without doing anything. It’s a human life, it’s important,” I explained. It was almost 8 PM when I eventually got out of my chair to take a shower. I caught up with Randy and Darren and, together, we went to the cafeteria. We ate in silence. We were spent and no one wanted to comment on the day. Some time later, the doctor and a few nurses joined us at the table. The doctor asked what could have gone on in the engineer’s head to make him take off and run in a mine field. I had learned a lot about fear during my training. “Our mine clearer was very concentrated on his work; one mistake could cost him his life. He had created a bubble, cutting off

the outside world. He was scared, but we always need a bit of fear to stay alert, to function efficiently in a dangerous situation. However, too much fear paralyses and transforms to terror. Terror then leads to panic. The brain sends only one message: RUN! That’s what must have happened, Doc. The engineer was too concentrated on doing his job. When he saw a body without the head it should have had, it created some type of chain reaction and, in a fraction of a second, he fell into panic mode,” I explained. We left the kitchen, which had fallen silent. I was flanked by Darren and Randy. I looked like a dwarf between those two giants. Then, something unexpected happened. Randy took me by the neck and declared, “I was really wrong, Momo. I’m sorry. The example here, is you. No matter what the mission is, I will always be proud to be with you.” It was quite the turnaround. I then remembered a phrase our British Officer would say to remind us of our unit’s leitmotif, FACTA NON VERBA… all I had to do was interchange it for a well-known saying: preach by example. I had trouble falling asleep. I didn’t want to over analyze the situation but I constantly saw myself holding the mine in my hands. I lived dangerously, but that was not the real problem. The real problem was the accumulation of disgusting horrors that mankind does to other men. That could not be forgotten. Even if we didn’t want to think about it, that we told ourselves we would still function and we had to get used to it, it still remained in a corner of your head and grew, grew like a cancer of the soul.

CHAPTER 21 ‘Eliminate the Spy’

In the morning, the entire unit was sitting in the cafeteria. The Warrant Officer informed us that we were convened by the contingent CO. Swallowing our last bite, we went to our vehicles and sped to HQ. An Intelligence Officer was in the conference room. He was not smiling, and for good reason. The news he gave us gave cause for concern. “Men, some top secret NATO documents have been stolen from the Zagreb message center. The information in these documents is vital for our troops stationed in Europe. Many missions could be compromised due this theft.” “What exactly do you want from us?” asked the Warrant Officer. “That you do exactly what you were trained to do,” was his reply. It was clear. The officer informed us that they had a suspect who was in the leave center in Budapest, Hungary. It was a resort reserved for soldiers and personnel from the Armed Forces bases. In addition to retrieving the documents and removing the suspect from circulation, it was important that we find out who the documents were intended for. Since we were the most experienced, Darren and I were designated for the mission. The rest of the team would join us and cover us during retrieval, if there were any problems. With the image of the suspect in our minds, Darren and I left for Hungary. On site, I rented a small truck that would be used for our displacements and as a discreet observation site. Darren was assigned directly to the leave center, whereas I took a nearby hotel room. Darren rapidly established contact with the suspect who was far from discreet. He went through alcohol and prostitutes at an

alarming rate. Undoubtedly because Darren looked somewhat like a delinquent, our suspect was quick to trust him. While they both left to drink in the local bars, I slipped into the man’s room and bugged it with a miniature camera. When my work was done, I noticed an envelope wedged between a suitcase and a dresser. On it, in plain sight, were the words: NATO TOP SECRET. Talk about a rookie’s mistake! Back in my hotel room, I used a secure phone line to inform the Warrant Officer that his suspicions were confirmed: the suspect was our man. He asked me to return and take pictures of the documents which would then have to be validated. I returned to the room with a camera and took advantage of the situation to print out a report from the room’s fax machine. That way, I received confirmation that it had not been used for days. The documents had undoubtedly not yet been sent out. During the night, I received a message from the Warrant Officer. The documents had been validated and we were given the green light. The rest of the unit joined us. Our suspect was officially a spy. We had to find out who his contact was, eliminate those charming people, and retrieve the documents. Naturally, our mission was secret and it was essential to not be seen. That day, Darren informed me that the would-be spy had told him he was not going out that evening. For a party-goer of his calibre, that was not normal. Could the exchange be happening sometime soon? I parked the truck in a strategic location where I could ensure visual surveillance of the operation site. My computer provided me with images of the room. Our spy seemed to be waiting for someone. Meanwhile, the other members of the unit had arrived. The guys had rented two small vans and parked not far from where I was. The wait went on. I then saw an older, dark skinned man enter the leave center. Moments later, he appeared on the screen – images sent from the camera in the room. I left my shelter and joined Darren in his own room. We were about to go knock on the spy’s door when

the phone rang. As incredible as it may seem, it was our party animal, inviting Darren to his room. “I’ve got a friend with me,” answered Darren. That didn’t bother our spy in the least. He invited both of us. Darren hung up and looked at me, dumbstruck. What did that invitation mean? An excess of self-confidence, bravado, amateurism? I personally opted for all three. I installed two tiny radios on Darren and me for the rest of the team to follow the action and intervene if something went wrong. Equipped with silencers on the pistols concealed at our hips, we knocked on the suspect’s door. Smiling, he opened at once and invited us in, introducing us to his Iraqi guest. It was easy to tell that this visitor was cultivated simply from his demeanour and dress. Darren and I had difficulty hiding our astonishment when we noticed the envelope lying conspicuously on the knees of the Iraqi man. It was useless to prolong the wait. I pointed to the envelope and asked, point blank, “It says Top Secret NATO. What are you doing with those documents?” The Iraqi stood up without saying a word and Darren detected a gun in its holster under the man’s jacket. We immediately reached for our pistols and shot six times. Two bullets to the body and one to the head for each man. The rest of the team joined us and the Warrant Officer picked up the documents. Darren returned to his room and I went back to retrieve my things from the van. The bodies were removed and the room cleaned. Apart from a short article in a local newspaper mentioning his disappearance, the spy was never heard from again. The only thing that remained for NATO investigators to resolve was the reason the Iraqis were interested in those documents.

As for me, there would always remain a doubt… did the Iraqi want to explain something or was he about to kill us? And why did that guy ask us to come to his room? Those questions will never be answered.

CHAPTER 22 A Boat Ride on the Una River

The following day, after working out and eating a hearty breakfast, we were asked to attend a meeting with the Head Officer of Velika Kladusa. Some Americans, some French from the Special Forces, and the British JCOs also attended. We were assigned a new mission. According to information obtained by Intelligence Services, the Una River was supposedly mined. We were to confirm or refute that information, by performing a visual verification of the river. “Momo, you will organize a rafting expedition on the river. Our friends here will provide the necessary men. With 16 pairs of eyes, you will, without a doubt, manage to get a good idea of what’s going on there,” the Officer said to me. I left for Bihac in civilian clothes, accompanied by Darren and Randy. We reserved two boats at a rafting company for the following Friday. When asked by the man in charge if we were in good shape, I pointed to Darren and Randy and joked that there were the smallest of the group. Once the formalities over with, I took the entire group to a restaurant I knew. Since they were unable to decipher the menu, I suggested they order zagreb schnitzel and a local beer. That dish was so big that I had never been able to finish it all. During the meal, Darren commented on how quiet and calm it was. No traffic, no music… the only sound we could hear was the nearby flowing river. My thoughts travelled elsewhere. I wanted Julie by my side to enjoy this little haven of peace with. It was hard to believe that a war was raging nearby.

On the way back, we took a narrow winding road that brought us up a mountain to a beautiful tiny village we had noticed nestled at the top. We played the perfect tourists. We discovered and visited a medieval castle. The view from the ramparts was breathtaking. I tried to imagine myself as the Lord who lived there, one thousand years before. I enjoyed thinking I could have been him. My eyes followed the river snaking through the magnificent valley. We still had time to kill before our expedition on Friday. We took advantage of that lull to practice firing exercises. A few thousand bullets per day. Some soldiers and police officers joined us. It was an opportunity for them to try our modified MP5s. Every one of them was amazed at how light and precise our weapons were. In fact, the MP5s had only gone through minor modifications but looked as though major work had been done to make them lighter. The trigger had been filed down and the scope was smaller, providing a better sight of the target and a quicker shot. During a break, an officer sung the praises of his 9 mm Browning. I placed a Glock and a Sig Sauer – our service pistols – in his hands. He did not sing the praises of his handgun anymore after having tried mine. The day prior to our expedition, our unit went to Bihac, where we were welcomed by the British JCOs. A BBQ party was organized. We talked a lot with those observers. Was the river truly mined? Many doubted it. On Friday, at about six in the morning, our other team members arrived. Two huge American Marines, apparently in great shape, a Frenchman from the Foreign Legion and, finally, five SAS British men. The troop was complete. When we arrived at the rafting facility, the guides were taken aback. They had never before seen a group of monsters like us on the river. It came as no surprise that the mandatory helmets and life vests were much too small for some of us and we had a good laugh when we saw what we looked like.

I located, on a map, the part of the river we were to inspect and showed the guides the location from where I wanted us to leave. We climbed into the semi-trailers that pulled both rafts and, an hour later, we were overlooking a 20-metre waterfall. That was our starting point. Contemplating the waterfall, I wondered out loud how deep it could possibly be. “There’s only one way to find out,” Darren replied. Before I could make a move, four pairs of hands grabbed hold of me. I fought hard but, before long and despite my efforts, I found myself flying through the air and plunged into the swirling, bubbling waters. I gulped down some water but my life vest brought me up to the surface where I managed to drag myself onto a rock. There, I waited for the rest of the team. Astounded, the two guides were not sure they wanted to accompany a group of crazy nuts such as us but the guys had already grabbed hold of the rafts and taken them to the foot of the falls. Laughing, they asked me if it was deep, and I laughed along. * We had been on the water for 15 minutes. The guides were worried because the water flow was stronger than usual. And yet, compared to Canadian rivers, that little stream was pretty quiet. Maybe too quiet. Looking for signs of mines, we attentively scanned the shores and the river bed, which was visible through the clear water. I dove every once in a while to verify the bottom of the river more closely, searching for the bloody mines. One of the Brits thought that things were much too quiet and decided to jump into our raft and throw us all into the water. A rowdy brawl ensued and there was a fierce exchange of blows under the worried eyes of the two guides. Helmets broke. Life vests, and even the front of a raft, were ripped open. With the exception of both guides, everyone was laughing uproariously. We eventually calmed down and returned to our respective rafts. That was when we realized the French guy was

missing. We looked everywhere but he could not be found. The guides were convinced he had been carried away by the current. We began paddling. One kilometre later, we also started to worry. A railway bridge crossed the river where we were. Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, our missing soldier hurled himself from the 10 metre bridge, yelling, and landed directly between our two rafts. It was his idea of a joke. We were approaching Bihac and had all calmed down. Our guides, however, seemed totally discouraged. To help lighten the mood, I started talking to one of them. I reassured him that the Army would pay for the damage. As we talked, he ended up telling me how he had experienced the war. “I am ashamed of my country. We have returned to barbarism. During every war this region has had, the tradition has been to cut off the heads of our adversaries and hang them from the bridge, like trophies. But I did not think that such a thing could be done today, in the twentieth century,” he explained. Since we were nearing the end of our trip and had not yet detected any mines, I decided to make one last dive. A shiver went through me. Near the Bihac bridge, what I had thought were rocks at the bottom of the river were, in fact, human skulls. Hundreds of skulls. I now understood what the guide had been talking about. I resurfaced and returned to the raft. We never again heard of the supposed mines in the Una River. A few months later, though, I learned from a UN report that the river contained dozens of contaminants. It was not quite the ideal spot to go swimming… We decided to go back to the-JCOs’ little haven. After a day like the one we had just had, there was nothing better than a good BBQ and some beer. The stories and laughter flowed non-stop. Just like every time we were in each other’s company, the spirit of camaraderie that reigned among elite soldiers comforted us into believing that the life we led was truly worth it.

CHAPTER 23 Liquidation of a SOB

I travelled a lot during the following weeks. My mission was to plan the visit of a Canadian VIP in Zagreb, and I tried to oversee everything. I had to organize Army supervision and support from the local police for displacements. I travelled numerous times from Zagreb to Sarajevo, Sarajevo to Banja Luka, then to VK, and back to Zagreb. Planning was complex since each dignitary had their own personal requests and particular habits. There was no problem for the hotel, though. They dignitaries were lodged at the Intercontinental, a luxury five-star hotel in the middle of the downtown area. Once everything was set up, I was given four days off with my teammates. Our functions were much too different from other soldiers to be able to discuss work with them. Everything having to do with our missions was classified confidential. When we had some time off, we don’t want to be among other soldiers. We wanted some peace. The only way to obtain that was to get off the beaten track. One of the hotel directors from Intercontinental suggested going to Bol, on the island of Brac in the Adriatic Sea. On the morning of our departure, I was with Darren and Randy. We were inseparable by then. No one could join our trio. Everyone wanted to know where we were going but we kept it secret. The moment we got into the car and headed for Split, I felt as though a ton of pressure had been lifted from my shoulders. We did not realize at the time how stressful our lives were. The constant tension, insane work pace, and the rare time off we did have were

destroying us mentally. But, convinced that we were invincible, we were not yet aware of it. Hours later, the conversation turned to the World Soccer Cup. It would soon be the finals between France and Croatia. We did not talk about work and I felt myself relax completely. I loved it. We parked the car in Split and hopped onto the ferry that took us to the little haven of peace that awaited us. It was great to be in a place where we could move about, incognito. No judging, only a friendly welcome. Everything was included there so we left our passports and money in the room safe. We found paradise at the beach. The long strip of sand curved into the water, forming a peninsula. Vacationers were sunbathing. Most women were topless, a normal tradition in Europe. In addition, one part of the beach was reserved for nudists. Like my friends, I let go. I forgot the missions, the danger, the horror, and plunged easily into that life of leisure. The meals were varied and plentiful, the ocean, warm and the sand, soft. That calm and tranquility, however, had a perverse effect. I thought about my loved ones. I watched the families around me and realized to what extent I missed Julie and my children. I desperately wanted to share everything with them. I realized that time lost would never be found again. My son would become a man, and my daughters, lovely young women. And I was missing it all. I was becoming too emotional. I had to turn on my stomach so that Darren and Randy wouldn’t see me cry. Why was I doing this job? It wasn’t a life. I should have been with my family at that very moment. Instead, I was on there, between two missions where death was our daily bread, on a beach on the other side of the world, looking at a pair of breasts that were not my wife’s. Darren tore me away from my thoughts. He knew me well. “You miss them, buddy?” he asked.

I pulled myself up and nodded yes. The circle tightened and Darren and Randy helped me overcome my grief. Right then and there, those two guys were my family. * When we returned, the warrant Officer informed us that we were to go to Gospic, in Croatia. A Canadian repeater station was located there and, less than 300 metres away, a Croatian station had been reactivated. We had to make sure there were no conflicts between the Canadians and Croatians. We left the next morning. Gospic was the highest mountain in Croatia. The road was sinuous and climbing the mountain was long and dangerous. The Canadian station was underground, in an old network of tunnels dug into the mountain. If it were not for the antennæ, a bird’s eye view would reveal nothing. At the end of the road, an armoured door opened on a small garage that could hold four vehicles. A Canadian Officer welcomed us and we climbed a long flight of stairs. The men were very well set up, they had every commodity they needed. The only thing missing was being able to see the sun. After the main living area, a long tunnel led to the other side of the mountain, to an old abandoned manor where the Croatians were. Since the road that climbed the mountain was in Bosnian territory, they travelled by helicopter. We went to meet them. During our conversation, we were told that the manor was somewhat of an eagle’s nest for the country before the war started. The Croatians showed us around. The view was splendid. On one side lay Croatia and, on the other, Bosnia. In the end, cohabitation between the Canadians and Croatians would go smoothly and our role would consist in establishing a joint emergency evacuation plan. On the road back, Darren, Randy and I stopped to say hello to the JCOs. Their commander, a SAS Officer based in Sarajevo, was visiting. He was planning the elimination of a war criminal, a PIFWIC – person indicted for war crimes – as we called them.With the

assassin living near Bihac, he asked for the collaboration of members from the-JCO and SAS. However, the Commander knew very well that their observation status did not allow them to perform field operations. With a sigh, the Commander turned to us. I knew what he was thinking. Without our collaboration, he did not have enough men to carry out the mission. I contacted our Warrant Officer who arrived at Bihac within the hour. Sitting at the table, we listened to the Commander explain the situation. Every Thursday, the criminal and his two bodyguards would go fishing on the Una River. Always the same place, same time. Our teams would have to be already on site before the man arrived. Our contribution would be as follows: two marksmen in support on the other side of the river and two men in the river to eliminate the bodyguards. The other team, composed of four SAS members, would take care of the PIFWIC. The Warrant Officer accepted to lend support for this operation. Darren and I were designated, as were our two elite marksmen. The assault would take place in 48 hours. It was a short deadline. The night before the operation, we were all in place. We would take our definitive positions 30 minutes prior to impact. We inspected our weapons and gear to make sure everything was impeccable. The day broke. It was a cold, yet sunny morning. I felt strangely calm. The evening before, I had seen the ‘hit list’ of the bastard we were to eliminate. Why did such dirty scum exist? Seemingly normal citizens, often married family men, who turned into monsters capable of the worst atrocities. What sordid pleasure did they get from mass murders and torture? I had no answer. I did know one thing for certain: his death would be a good riddance. I went into the river, followed by Darren. We hid in the reeds that lined the banks. We received new information in our earphones: a last-minute hitch – there were four bodyguards. That did not change

a thing, though, because seconds later, we received confirmation that the mission would still be carried through. The sound of a motor. The car arrived and parked. Two bodyguards got out and came very near the water. They looked around but did not detect a thing. They signalled to the remaining passengers that all was fine. The others joined them. The countdown had begun. “Stand by, stand by… Go! Go! Go!” We emerged from the river. We could read the astonishment on the faces of the bodyguards. For them, it was already too late; the other team appeared and we all fired in unison. None of our targets had time to make the slightest move. They were all dead before understanding what had happened. I was quite astonished to realize that the SAS had been hidden only feet from their victims and that, nobody, not even myself, had detected them before they revealed themselves. A helicopter arrived less than 20 seconds later. We quickly boarded it, picked up the two waiting marksmen, and took off for Coralici. The British Officer on board the copter contacted Sarajevo. “Mission accomplished, target confirmed and eliminated,” he stated. I had no qualms over what we had just accomplished. If the same thing could be done on a regular basis to those who, through various stratagems, drive the weak towards hate and crime, the planet would be a better place. At camp, we were given a short debriefing. It was all over and we went to bed, making up for the lack of sleep from the previous night. At about 2 PM, I was called to the CP. My VIP was going to arrive the following Monday and I had to go to Zagreb at once. What a chore! I was given a Ford Scorpio, packed in my luggage and gear, and took off. I had reserved the entire seventeenth floor of the hotel

for the occasion. I set up my computer in a room directly opposite the elevator. I then secured the entire floor: I looked for mikes and hidden cameras, installed motion sensors and IR detectors… nothing was spared. That evening, worn out, I went down to the hotel bar and saw an ad for an upcoming Rolling Stones concert in Zagreb. I placed the ad in my pocket. It would be nice to be able to go. All day, Monday, our VIP was busy with protocol visits. He met with the Canadian Ambassador, the Armed Forces Commanding Officer, and so on. Everything went very smoothly and the day ended with dinner at the restaurant. The following four days, I was confined to the hotel while the official caravan travelled throughout the country. It was a trip without any hurdles. A good part of the delegation stayed with me at the hotel and, being very sociable by nature, I spoke with everyone. They knew I was part of JTF2 and all wanted to see my weapons and the GPS system that allowed me to follow the VIP everywhere he went. I talked about the upcoming Rolling Stones concert and they all wanted to go. The JCOs, the interpreters, unit members, and so on. With tickets being sold directly at the hotel, I went down to the lobby to purchase them. While there, I also negotiated a deal on the rooms since we were holding onto them for an entire month. Small savings for Canadian tax payers. * The week before the concert, the JCOs were on leave and decided to go to Zagreb. With the VIP abroad, the rooms were free and I suggested they join me. Most of them had never been to Zagreb. I therefore acted as their guide. The older ones looked for coffee shops to relax and watch the girls go by, whereas the younger guys wanted to know in which popular nightclubs the girls hung out. On the day of the concert, the others joined us. Since we all knew each other, I felt as though a big family reunion was taking place. Actually, it was exactly that. They were my brothers, my second

family. In any case, I managed to accommodate every one of them on the seventeenth floor. No one would have to bother looking for a place to sleep once the concert was over. The concert site was gigantic. Three hundred thousand tickets were sold. The atmosphere was electric, promising to deliver a memorable evening. I was surprised to not smell any pot, an odour usually associated to such gatherings. I quickly learned that beer was the order of the day there. Bars were set up here and there and rows of vending machines provided the crowd with brew. People came out of bars with platters overflowing with 48 beers and rarely made it to their friends with a full platter. It was even better than the Oktoberfest in Germany. The concert was a success… the Stones are the Stones. The evening ended in the city’s night clubs. The younger guys went wild. It was always surprising to see how quickly the horrors of war seemed forgotten. That evening, to my great surprise and entire satisfaction, the Warrant Officer took me aside to tell me I was given a week’s vacation with my wife. I only had to choose the spot. I called Julie at once and gave her the news. We were like kids planning a prank. “What would you like to do? Where do you want to go?” We toyed with a number of places. We were tempted by Venice, but finally settled on Paris. We would meet in France. The only hitch, though, was that Julie’s passport had expired. She contacted the Passport Office but panic eventually set in; she would not be able to get it in time. I took matters into my own hands and called my Commander in Ottawa to explain our situation. “Don’t worry, Denis. I’ll take care of it personally,” he said.

That Friday, a courier delivered a package to our home. In it were Julie’s passport, plane ticket, and a credit card, as well as information regarding the transfer to the hotel and the room number. There was nothing missing. It’s always nice to circumvent bureaucracy. It was the best trip of my life. I was with Julie and nothing else mattered. We didn’t talk about work or even the small problems at home. All that was put aside. And Paris had so much to offer. We walked during the day, visited whatever caught our attention, and ate whenever we felt like it. Julie discovered a small restaurant directly in front of the Louvre. She ordered lasagna the very first day and found it so good that she wanted to return there every day. When the waiter would see us arrive, he would be all smiles, welcoming us warmly with his usual greeting: “And so, ma petite dame, some more lasagna for you today?” I still picture myself, joyfully singing ‘Je m’en vais voir les p’tites femmes de Pigalle…’ in the cab on our way to the Moulin Rouge. And the driver, laughing so hard, kept saying, “Ça alors, those Canadians…” It did me a world of good. We walked the entire length of the Champs Élysées, strolled through the Jardin du Luxembourg, and climbed the Eiffel Tower. Each day was better than the last. * The week ended and I knew that our separation would be painful. We left on different flights. Julie returned to Canada; I left for Bosnia. Although I truly liked my team, I did not feel like joining them whatsoever. I couldn’t stop crying like a baby; it was a sign that things were not going that well for me. I only had one month left there and I felt like it was going to last an eternity.

CHAPTER 24 Rescue in Mostar

Back in Bosnia, as though trying to forget that amazing vacation, I threw myself into my work. Everything was happening very quickly. The week was once again busy with a VIP escort mission. Elections were approaching, tension was omnipresent. Despite efforts to curb schemes to rig the elections, intimidation attempts were rampant. They were not even subtle. Military patrols had their hands full. There was not much time left before returning to our country. Determined to enjoy a rare moment of relaxation, Darren, Randy, and I decided to go to Mostar. Mostar is a charming city located less than 60 kilometres from the Adriatic Sea. Canadian IPTF police officers were recently assigned there and we decided to pay them a courtesy visit. We took advantage of a group of light armoured British vehicles on their way from Split to Dubrovnik, to escort us. One of them would make a small detour to drop us off in Mostar. The police officers had warned us by phone that the situation in the city was very tense. Like in many Bosnian cities during these times of war, business and politics were controlled by the Mujahideen, a group of Muslims who have many extremists among them. As for the mayor of Mostar, he maintained good relations with neighbouring communities, including some on Croatian territory, something which did not please the Mujahideen. We put those issues aside because the only thing that mattered to us was visiting our police colleagues. Riding in the armoured truck, we finally arrived at the police station at the end of the day. We had barely gotten out of the truck when an alarm sounded. Seeing that the call came from the mayor’s residence, the Bosnian police

officer assigned to the call centre hastily contacted him. The mayor shouted in the phone, yelling that his house was being shot at. I listened in on the conversation – things seemed rather serious. Darren looked at Randy and me, with that special smile he reserved for such occasions. We knew then that we were going to get involved in something that was none of our business. Our courtesy visit had turned into a rescue mission. We returned to the armoured truck and put on our bullet-proof vests and other gear. We studied a plan of the city, performed some radio tests, and succeeded in convincing the driver of the armoured vehicle to drive us to the mayor’s residence. On site, the situation did not look good at all. The shots were sustained and the local policemen, frozen with fear, refused to get out of the safety of their cars. Darren got out of the armoured truck and took position as a marksman. The vehicle took off and stopped metres from the main entrance of the house. Randy and I ran out and broke down the door to penetrate within. Meanwhile, Darren had already located two gunners. As for us, we went around the rooms and found the mayor and his wife hidden in the library. The magistrate rapidly outlined the situation. He believed there were four snipers around his house. We forwarded that information to Darren. When I asked the mayor why the snipers were there, he said he had no idea. His city had been one of those least affected by the war and he was a peaceful man, a quiet politician who did not want to harm anyone. However, he believed that recent demands by Muslims could explain the attempt at intimidation. They wanted control over villages south of Mostar, something he refused. Before trying to sort out those matters, we had to get him out of there. The assailants certainly had no idea they were going to deal with us when they planned their attack. They had relied on the inaction of the local police who were admirably playing the role of idle observers. Even with reinforcement, they persistently refused to

move and remained hidden behind their cars. Randy stayed with the mayor and his wife while I searched for the best way out of there. It would not be easy. Due to a small stone wall which surrounded the house, we had 15 metres to cross before finding refuge in the armoured vehicle. I wanted to be certain of the number of snipers. I asked the driver to drive his vehicle around the house, keeping the side door open. Once he started driving, Darren confirmed movement by the gunners and managed to locate them all. Randy grabbed the mayor, exited through the front door, and crouched behind the low wall. When the armoured truck rolled by, he pushed the mayor inside. Only one sniper had time to react and Randy received a few projectiles on his bullet-proof vest. When the vehicle rolled by a second time, I knew that the gunners would not be fooled again. I ran, but the mayor’s wife slowed me down. Bullets pounded my vest. It hurt something fierce. I covered the poor terrorized woman as best I could. Darren took action and shot non-stop to force the assailants to drop to the ground. The strategy worked and I was able to enter the vehicle with my protégée. We picked Darren up and returned to the police station. * Our Canadian police officers, who were not in service when we had arrived, had been notified and were anxiously awaiting our return. When we arrived we were led to the conference room. While a police Sergeant spoke with the mayor and his wife, we described the events while removing our gear. The women began to cry loudly. We all stopped talking to look at her. Her distress was caused by the sight of the bullet impacts on our vests. We all looked at the vests and the back pain I had almost forgotten about immediately returned with heightened intensity. The mayor thanked us. He promised that a letter would be sent to Canada to highlight our bravery. His wife hugged each one of us. I

was moved. “Sir, the letter is not important; what is, is that both of you are still alive. It is not the first time we save people since we have arrived here. To see you safe and alive is our greatest reward,” I said to the mayor. We slept in Mostar that night. Our Canadian friends were thrilled. Sometime later, we learned that the mayor did indeed send a letter to the Canadian Government and that a copy was sent to the unit. His wife even wrote a book about the event. But rather than congratulate us, we were blamed for having taken ‘needless’ risks. In other words, we were reproached for having interfered to save civilians and, by the same token, led to believe that we were taking sides.

CHAPTER 25 Milosevic is a Liar

Only two more weeks before I would leave. I counted the days. However, there was still work to do and there were many last-minute unforeseen incidents. I accompanied my unit to Sarajevo for a meeting with Special Forces already in Bosnia. As always, I first stopped at the Canadian camp for some conversation with my military colleagues. There I met a Master Warrant Officer. He told me he was positioned at the Canadian Embassy in the Netherlands and was looking for a person who could take care of communications and security. I told him I was the ideal person he was looking for. He offered me the job, knowing full well I was not immediately available and that it would take some time. I had always dreamt of a similar posting to end my career in the Canadian Armed Forces. I would be with my family and it would be an extraordinary life experience for us all. I asked the MWO to pull a few strings on his side and I would take the necessary steps on mine. I thanked him and left, feeling light-hearted. My future was taking shape. If everything went well, I could leave this crazy life and spend time with my loved ones while putting the skills and knowledge acquired during my time with the counter-terrorist unit into practice. Of course, at the time I was unaware that things did not always go as we wanted them to. A meeting with my unit was held with members of the SAS and Delta Force. It focused on Kosovo. During the fall of 1998, President Milosevic stated that his troops were out of the territory, but the United Nations had doubts, serious doubts. A decision was taken. Men needed to be sent on site to verify the Serbian President’s word.

A four-man commando would be parachuted near Pristina Airport. They would take photographs to either confirm or deny Milosevic’s statement. The mission was a short one – 72 hours at the most. The only hitch was that neither the SAS nor Delta Force had an available communications expert. For that reason, they asked my Warrant Officer that I be affected to the commando for the mission. My legs were restless at first; I was extremely nervous. I did not know the other members of the team – two Brits and an American. I did, however, have to trust them just as they had to trust me. It was a vital condition to the success of any mission. We were put to the test in the plane when each man had to verify the other’s parachute. We were to perform a combat jump, less than 300 metres from the ground. It was therefore crucial that the parachutes work properly. We would jump at about five kilometres from our target and, after rapid deployment, would cautiously progress towards it. We used a civilian plane; its flight plan had been approved. There was nothing to be worried about until the jump. After flying for 40 minutes, the red light came on. Less than five minutes before the jump. My heart was beating wildly. The green light illuminated the cockpit; I hooked my release cable onto the line. I was the third to jump. I watched the two guys in front of me jump into the open and threw myself out the door at my turn. I could swear the jump was performed at 200 feet at the very most. I barely had time to drop my gear that I had already touched ground. Our weapon was the only thing that never left us. I unhooked the parachute and rolled it into a ball to hide it. I immediately took out my night vision goggles and GPS. Perfect; I was less than 100 metres from our rally point. It was completely calm. I picked up my gear and started moving. Although perfectly aware that there were four of us moving about on the ground, I did not detect the slightest noise.

Once together, we started walking towards our target. We had five kilometres to cover before dawn. The forest was not very dense, which helped. It took less than two hours before the tarmac was in sight. No discernible movement. After examining the area, we concluded that the best location to set up the camera was in front of the main hangar, directly along the longest landing strip. While my partners kept watch, I took out my material. I set up the radio – a PRC-117 designed for satellite transmission on UHF frequencies – and performed a quick test. Everything worked wonderfully. I then tested the imaging material. Same thing – no problems. Now, for the more difficult part. I had to crawl to the runway to set up the camera and its tripod. I dragged a one hundred metre cable with me which would connect the camera to my computer which was, in turn, connected to the satellite radio. All that equipment would transmit very high quality photographs. As I headed towards the runway, the guys fanned out to protect me. We communicated using short range radios, lessening the chances of being detected. I was now in position. I started by installing the tripod solidly with 12-inch nails driven into each leg. The camera’s self-propelled base was firmly mounted to the tripod and I ended with the camera itself. As I was screwing the cable in, I saw a patrol come directly towards my position. The vehicle was racing along, as though the soldiers had detected me. My teammates, on high alert, could clearly see three armed men in the Jeep. They each selected a target. I didn’t move, praying that the camera would not give off any reflections. They sped right up to me and drove past my position without as much as a glance. Phew! I made some last adjustments and returned to my little computer. I performed my first satellite imagery test. The signal would be received by the Farm, in Ottawa, before being re-transmitted to the UN. It worked perfectly. Once activity started at the airport, I took some fifty or so photos. Had President Milosevic claimed that his troops had left Kosovo? I already had proof that he was lying. *

At about nine o’clock, local time, I was in communication with a UN member. He asked for a description of the situation. “I can see numerous Hind helicopters, MIG fighters and many troops. I am sending you the photos I took earlier.” Once he had the images on his screen, my correspondent made a special request. “Could you send me real-time transmission images?” he enquired. “Yes, Sir. My equipment can do that. But by requesting that, you are placing us in danger. You are giving away our position.” “I know it is risky but I need it direct or else Milosevic will claim that the photos were taken days before and we won’t be able to sway him.” “Very well, Sir.” I immediately passed on the news to my teammates. We changed our defensive position, making it tighter. We had to be ready for rapid withdrawal. It was now time for the confrontation with Milosevic. As my correspondent had expected, the President claimed that the photos were old and he had since removed his troops. While he spoke, I began performing real-time transmission. When Milosevic saw a Jeep driving on the runway, he stopped talking. I made the camera pivot and perform a 180 degree sweep of the area. He then understood that we were on site. Moments later, I could tell they were preparing for battle. Men were running about and jumping into the vehicles parked near the hangar. They began to deploy along the runway. It was time for us to get out of there. I removed the cable from the camera, which would have to be abandoned. I picked up the radio and my back pack and ordered immediate withdrawal. We had to get a bit of a lead. The extraction site was three kilometres away. It was now a race against time.

We ran the first two kilometres and stopped to rest. We adopted a defensive position while I communicated with the control station. It was much too early for the extraction. The copter would not be there for another two hours. We had to remain hidden and only travel the last kilometre separating us from the extraction site at the latest possible moment. The helicopters from Milosevic’s troops were already buzzing above us. Fifteen minutes later, we heard the first shouts. Then a shot. We were all glued to our earphones. Had we been detected? It was almost impossible; their voices were too far away. They were soon 300 metres from us. We spread out to cover the most ground possible. The clattering of their weapons sounded like a huge mass coming onto us. My heartbeat quickened. I had to remain calm. Wait to see them before firing. One of the Brits verified that we had our silencers screwed properly onto our MP5s. That way, the enemy troops would not know where the shots came from. I still kept my big C-8 within reach. They were now 50 metres from us. We could see them clearly. We opened fire. As expected, they could not determine where the shots came from and they fired back in every direction. Our rapid and accurate gunfire made them back off. To our surprise, we could even advance upon them. It was as though this was the first time they were exposed to gunshots. The explanation would come moments later. The American saw a body on the ground; the dead soldier was a kid… 14 years old, 15 at the most. I became enraged. Who were these bastards who sent children to be killed? If it was to defend their land, as they claimed, of what good was it if there were no younger generations to take over? We withdrew and reached our extraction site. The enemy troops continued their progression. They were so noisy that we knew what their position was at all times. We arrived at a clearing. Shit! We had arrived much too early at the site. There was still forty minutes

before the helicopter arrived. We let our gear drop to the ground, determined to welcome the group approaching our position. In order to secure a terrain advantage, we advanced towards them. Despite the precautions we took, we were as surprised as they were when, minutes later, we ended up almost face to face. Our experience played to our advantage. We opened fire and, before they could react, five of them were eliminated. Taking advantage of the confusion that reigned among them, we continued advancing and shooting. We soon saw only three of them left. Forgetting all caution, we continued advancing. Upon going around a rock, a soldier I had not seen jumped me. I threw him off but he got up and ran to me, knife in hand. I made him fall over a second time but he managed to turn over and dig his knife into my right calf. With one quick movement, I flatted his nose with the palm of my hand, grabbed hold of his head and, with an ominous cracking sound, broke his neck with a quick twist. I let him drop to the ground. Both Brits came to me, asking if I was all right. I signalled that I was, but when I started walking I felt the knife in my leg. I removed it and my boot instantly filled with blood. I looked through my gear in search of a bandage which I quickly applied to my wound. The helicopter finally showed up. In order to extract us quickly, it stayed in flight and sent down cables to which we attached ourselves to. In less than a minute, we were airborne, 10 metres below the helicopter. We remained that way for twenty minutes until the pilot found a safe place to land and take us on board. My leg was hurting something fierce. The nurse aboard the copter applied a more adequate bandage. Forty minutes later, we landed at camp. I couldn’t take any more; I went to bed, totally spent. The next morning, I went to see the doctor. He told me it was too late for stitches – the wound had already started to heal. I would have to endure the pain for another few days. Anyhow, my mission in Bosnia was over. I had only one more task left – that of welcoming the relief team.

The new team had arrived in Zagreb. None of the members had experienced combat situations. The rookies seemed to think they were there on vacation. I did not try to disillusion them. They would figure out the truth soon enough. After loading the weapons and luggage into the different vehicles, I sat down with Carl, my replacement, into the only truck that displayed the NATO logo. The column made its way towards the Canadian camp. I tried to be one of the last to leave – a habit I had picked up since being in Rwanda. It was a form of protection. When attacked, the lead vehicles were the ones most often hit. I spoke with Carl, outlining his mission. We had almost reached the city’s exit when we were stopped by Croatian police officers. Why us? I had no idea. They had let the others go by. The only thing that differentiated us from the other vehicles was the NATO sign painted on the truck’s door. The police officers, a man and a woman, advanced towards us. Carl descended from the truck, leaving his weapon on his seat. I opened my door and climbed out. I had my MP5 slung across my shoulder and my pistols in their holsters. The woman immediately took aim and ordered me to hand over my weapon. I signalled her to calm down and, searching in one of my pockets, took out a plastic coated card on which was written in many languages - hers included - a text stating that I had the right to carry weapons. It also clearly specified the consequences incurred if someone persisted in taking them away from me. She took the card and read it quickly. It did not change a thing for her; she stubbornly insisted that I hand over my MP5. I slipped it from my shoulder holster and handed her my weapon. At the exact moment she let down her guard and took it, I took out my pistol and pointed it to her head. My rules of engagement were clear. She had read them but decided to ignore them. Before her colleague could react, I had already taken out a second pistol and pointed it at him. Carl was discouraged. He told me to calm down. The situation was extremely tense. The police woman began to cry. The last vehicle

joined us. My Warrant Officer climbed out hastily. He understood what was going on. “They didn’t read your card?” he asked. “Yes, but they wanted to play cowboys,” I replied. Darren, who followed the Warrant Officer, did not take any chances and disarmed both police officers. A combination of adrenaline and stress made it impossible for me to react normally. I kept my gun aimed at the police woman, six inches from her face. My Warrant Officer yelled at me to lower my weapon. The police woman was still crying as she stood in a puddle of urine. I eventually lowered my weapon. A captain of the Croatian police force, with who I had already worked, arrived at that very moment. He got out of his car, greeted me, and asked me what was going on. I explained what had happened, emphasizing the overzealous behaviour of the police officers who did not take the time to listen to me. Both police officers, convinced that their superior would take their side, were surprised to see him speak in such a friendly manner with me. He told us to continue on our way. “I’ll take care of everything,” he said. “You can go.” We drove in silence for a while before Carl broke the silence. “I’ll never be able to do what you just did,” he said. “You’re new. Don’t worry, it’ll come,” I replied. The remainder of the trip was much calmer. At the Canadian camp, I threw myself into administrative duties; there were reports, briefings, and presentations to do. I finished all the paperwork in record time. It was time for the unit to get on the plane that would take us home… away from all of that crap.

I was, however, unaware that some bad news awaited us in our country, where the mayor of Mostar incident was used to settle a score between the Canadian Chief of Staff and its most prestigious unit.

CHAPTER 26 Loss of the Aura

The return from Bosnia would mark the most critical phase in my career with the JTF2. I was given a few weeks off but found it difficult to relax. Julie did not recognize me anymore. What was real and what wasn’t? It was impossible for there to be two realities. One did not fit with the other. I tried my best to think about other things, but I could not. I began experiencing recurrent nightmares. I could see the look of terror in the eyes of the young boy in Afghanistan, the patients nailed to the hospital walls, the babies stabbed to death, the expressions of the men I had killed at the very moment they understood they were dying. Going back to work was almost a relief. I had less time to think. The first morning, in the ‘prayer room’, we were all happy to see one another. Except for two people: Pat Holmgren, the new Chief Warrant Officer, and Lieutenant-Colonel McMahon. Our new leaders – career-oriented, anti-French, and pencil-pushers who had never been on the field – were there for an audit and, subsequently, to clean up. They were sent by the Canadian Chief of Staff who wanted to ‘straighten out’ the unit, as though we had not done our job. As though we had not done enough for our country. We were criticized for a number of things. First of all, while the Canadian Army was affected by budgetary constraints, our budget had never been cut. Worse yet, it had increased; as though it was our fault that the world was crazier than before. But what bothered those bureaucrats the most was our overall attitude. Nothing bugs by-the-book incompetents more than people who place efficiency above all else. We had adapted our uniform to our needs – wearing

long hair and some even sporting beards – and basic discipline was the least of our worries. On the field, skills were all that mattered. We had even committed lese majesty when exchanging ranks during certain missions. That way, we made sure that the most qualified person could lead a specific mission. We were so different that no one from the Military High Command was capable of determining exactly who made up our unit. Our file was thick. However, while overseas, I had been pleased to find out that Holmgren had been named. He was from the same profession I was and I thought it would be a good thing. I could not have been more wrong! He was a hypocrite of the worst kind. He did not work for or with us; the only thing that mattered was his career and how he looked in the Commander’s eyes. He was beside himself with pleasure every time he caught one of us at fault. To him, the veterans – of which he was not a part – were detrimental to the unit. He claimed that the unit needed fresh blood. Our Captain was furious. He told Holmgren that the veterans were the unit. Nothing doing. Holmgren was set on breaking us and taking us out of circulation. I admit that we did try to get on his bad side from the start. We became quickly aware of his despicable personality and decided to show him our contempt during his Inaugural Parade. We travelled to Ottawa, bought some skirts, and wore them at the parade. He lost it and lashed out at us in front of everyone. He brought it up again during the cocktail that followed the event. He admonished us on our questionable appearance, our long hair, and uniforms with the insignias in all the wrong places. Naturally, the fact that some of us passed gas when he went by did not go unnoticed. “I will break you. Rest assured that you will never win against me,” he ended. As though that were not enough, we ridiculed him during a demonstration we gave some days later for the Vancouver Police. I

got the ball rolling when I interrupted him while he was describing our PRC-117 radio to dignitaries. “Where did you learn all those details about this radio?” I asked. “In the other units I served in, naturally,” he answered. “Sir, there are only 40 such radios in all the Canadian Forces and they all belong to our unit.” He looked at me, stone-faced, turned on his heel and joined one of our marksmen. There again, he started talking about something he knew nothing about and was harshly called incompetent and a liar. At that point, everyone was very uncomfortable and the presentation came to an abrupt end. The next day marked the culminating point of our demonstration: attack manœuvres that involved a helicopter. It was not our first time there; I knew what I had to do. I handed over my communication plan to the Warrant Officer and gave a copy to the Commander. The Warrant Officer took me aside and told me that he wanted a repeater station at the top of the mountain. “Sir, we have tried it before and it does not work. The station has to be in the helicopter.” “I am the expert in communications here and you will do as I say,” he replied. It goes without say that the radio exchange was lousy during the exercise. I was criticized by the Commander at the briefing. “Sir, you received a copy of my operation plan and it was perfect,” I replied. “Unfortunately, somebody decided to change it against my advice.” “Really? And who is that person?” “Warrant Officer Holmgren, Sir.”

Had the Warrant Officer been able to kill me right then and there, I think he would have. He did not take kindly to being treated as incompetent. He tried to impose his discipline and multiplied his efforts. But nothing worked. He wanted us to meet in the gym every Monday before ‘prayers’. Everyone was to arrive running and in uniform for inspection. Darren rebelled against the idea from the start. “Hey! We’ve never had inspection, here,” he yelled. Holmgren stood before Darren. He let him have it for a good five minutes. With almost two feet difference in height, he looked like a little runt barking at a Great Dane. But Darren’s smile never wavered. The good news: we would not have any more inspections. By some strange coincidence, there were never any bullet-proof vests left for the Warrant Officer during our exercises. We peppered him without restraint. He would return, in a sorry state, to his office and drop into his chair which we had previously disassembled and put back together, omitting the screws. Perhaps in an effort to earn our respect, he decided to prove that he was as good as we were. One morning he burst into the firing range. Looking directly at Captain Allen, he claimed that anyone could excel at firing with our weapons. Our Captain put him to the challenge. “Measure yourself against any man here,” he invited. Because of his low esteem for me and obvious belief that I was the worst of the group because of my expertise in communications, I was the one he chose. We were 25 metres from the target and each had a Sig Sauer 226 pistol. He bet that he fire a closer shot group than me. I accepted the bet and watched him shoot. He wasn’t bad, but he was far from having had the training we had. It took him five minutes to shoot 10 bullets. Afterwards, he turned to me, looking triumphant.

“Try and beat that!” he exclaimed. I shot my 10 bullets in 15 seconds and he started laughing. As the targets swung towards us on the cables, he became more and more nervous. His bullets were all over the target. Mine were grouped within a five-inch circle. He was gone in an instant. Obviously, we could not expect to get away with messing with somebody like him. We felt the brunt of his fierce counter-attack. The Mostar incident is the straw that broke the camel’s back. That was exactly what he was waiting for. When he received the letter from the mayor of Mostar praising our courage, Warrant Officer Holmgren quickly got rid of it and Darren, Randy, and I were blamed, instead, for our initiative. Incidents implicating members from the other commando were added to ours and the Canadian Army feared it would lose control of us. Holmgren the support of the new commander and began playing his cards. One morning, I went to my office as usual. I was in for an unpleasant surprise. My office was turned upside down and two teletypists were settled in. When I asked what they were doing there, they answered that, following the orders of CWO Holmgren, I was no longer allowed to do computer work. The two idiots who were replacing me – Warrant Officer Young and an alcoholic Corporal whose name I forget – were arrogant and incompetent, but mostly, good friends with Holmgren. I had a very hard time accepting that decision and said so to my Regimental Officer whose job was to transmit orders to soldiers and see to the moral of the troops. His role was somewhat like that of an assistant hockey coach. His recommendation was to do nothing and let time do its thing. As expected, computer problems began piling up. The two new guys did not know our system which, by then, crashed repeatedly. Some people from the administrative offices came to me directly for help. I systematically refused any request for assistance from my two clowns. They were hired; let them do the job.

I was soon called to the Chief Warrant Officer’s office. In a honeyed tone of voice, he asked me to have a seat. I expected him to rub my nose in my refusal to support the two new colleagues in their work. I was ready for that. But his next words disconcerted me. “So, you asked to leave JTF2?” “Sir, I don’t know what you are talking about.” I was surprised and quickly tried to figure out where that information came from. Still smiling, he mentioned that he had had a conversation with the Master Warrant Officer from Sarajevo with whom I had shown interest for Europe. So that’s where it came from. I began a long conversation with him. I had never asked to leave JTF2 but would, in fact, be interested in ending my career in Europe. Those were the very words he wanted to hear from me so he could deal the final blow. “You can count on me, Morisset; you will be transferred, but not to Europe, and I will see to it personally,” he said smugly. Before I could open my mouth, he changed his tone of voice and started yelling at me about the computers. If things were not working properly, it was my fault. Warrant Office Young had even reported to him that, rather than do my job, I was working evenings on the personal computers of some of the guys. That was a blatant lie. I was so enraged that I left Holmgren’s office without saying a word. I headed straight to my former office. Seeing me come in, WO Young jumped out of his chair. He seemed to melt before me. I looked him in the eyes and pointed my finger at him. “The gym in five minutes,” I ordered. I turned around and left. He contacted Holmgren who told him not to go. The CWO seemed unaware of our unit’s code of honour. We did not fight outside of the ring and no one ever refused an invitation. It would be a sign of cowardice. When there was something to

resolve and you were called to the ring, you had to show. It was the first step in resolving a conflict. Minutes later, I was alone in the ring, jumping around. Some guys gathered around and asked who I was waiting for. I told them and four of them went to get him. Young resisted but the guys left him with no other choice and dragged him over. At the gym, he was given two minutes to change and get ready. Although he was taller and bigger than me, he was shaking like a leaf. He wanted to talk. “In the ring, we fight. We don’t talk,” I shot back. It may have been my first duel but it was not my first fight. Like in my previous fights, I let my opponent give the first shot. It gave him confidence. Darren asked me what I was doing. I smiled at him and turned to my opponent. The real fight began. Punches flew. Young was in pain and backed away. When he protected his stomach, I would pummel his head, and vice-versa. The Chief Warrant Officer burst into the room and stopped the fight. When he saw his protégé on the ground, his face bleeding, he exploded. “From now on, these fights are forbidden. We are not animals! I don’t want to see you fighting again!” The Regimental Officer stepped in. “It’s better to fight here than anywhere in the building. This rule is here to stay,” he claimed. The CWO promised that the rules would change. Meanwhile, he suggested that I leave the unit since I had become dangerous. Dream on. I was not going to leave. That same afternoon, we were all called to a meeting. The entire unit was present. Lieutenant Colonel McMahan, our CO (Chief Officer), and Chief Warrant Officer Holmgren presented the new rules. The officers and the veterans disagreed with the CO. The new

members were the only ones willing to comply with the rules. During the Chief Warrant Officer’s speech, the veterans all rose and left the room. At that moment, the bond that united all the members of the unit was broken. A rift was created between the new men and the veterans. It was the outcome of the existing war with Holmgren and it dawned on us that we were losing. That evening, Holmgren left work and climbed into his car. At the Farm, we all left our keys on the sun visor. The CWO had not noticed that his were already in the ignition. When he lowered the sun visor to retrieve his keys, a piece of paper floated down. When he unfolded it, he read: BOOM! Then he noticed his keys in the ignition. He didn’t start the car. Instead, he hurried out of his car and headed straight for the Lieutenant-Colonel’s office.

CHAPTER 27 Stepping Down from the Podium

The clean-up started. The other radio operator and I were the first to pay. Coincidentally, we were both French. I learned that my family and I were transferred to Kingston. I would be an instructor at the School of Communications. Without even consulting me, everything was organized with my Career Counsellor. The news shocked me. I refused to go and waste away as an instructor in a school. I tried, in vain, to overturn the decision. Every door I knocked at was closed to me. I did, though, unexpectedly succeed to avoid being transferred. Our former Commander and two CSIS members called me to the National Defense Headquarters. They explained that Intelligence Services had been working on an investigation project over the past months. It was risky, as in any investigation. I was also told that if something went wrong with the mission or if my identity was revealed, the very existence of the mission would be denied… “What is the mission exactly?” I asked. “Simple. We want to make sure that Government communication networks are tight, but that they are also only used for the needs of the country. We are thinking mostly about computers and the Internet.” For a split second, I wondered if I wasn’t in a Mission Impossible movie. But their serious demeanour erased all doubts. They were insistent; they wanted to be certain I fully understood the dangers involved in accepting the mission. I had seen other and far worse missions. Compared to playing bodyguards in Congo, monitoring communications in Canada seemed so much less of a risk. No…

after all I had been through, nothing scared me. In addition, the offer was accompanied by a bonus. If I accepted the job, I would not have to go to Kingston. I could stay in Ottawa and, once the mission over with, transferred to Valcartier. I naturally accepted the mission which did not seem all that bad. I was unaware I was making the biggest mistake of my life. With all the details in hand, I integrated the Ottawa Headquarters Communications Unit. Julie and the children were happy – we were not moving to Kingston and would soon be back in Quebec. At work, everything went smoothly and, at first, no one suspected anything whatsoever. One thing did attract their attention: I was assigned directly to communications monitoring – a complex job that was not normally given to a new arrival. I was also given a very high COSMIC security rating that gave me access to the Federal Government’s encrypted communications. In fact, everything went through my office. The person in charge of training me thought I was quite a fast learner… What must have undoubtedly added to the mystery of my presence among those paunchy office workers was my exceptional physical form. I biked a good ten kilometres to work every day and worked out at the gym every evening. That did not quite match the more sedentary lifestyle of the personnel in place. I was trained to work fast. Daily tasks were therefore quickly dealt with. That allowed me to give my employees some time off on a regular basis, something they truly appreciated. That left the field open for me to glean information, my style. I slipped a virus in the system and let it do its job… But, little by little, since I started my new job, personal problems and work issues related to the investigation increased significantly. For the first time, I found myself working alone and had no one around me I could count on. I missed the team tremendously. There were also the effects of post-traumatic stress syndrome which, unbeknownst to me, were deviously poisoning me, clouding my free

will and judgment. Without warning, naturally. In addition, working above all established rules and regulations, in the very heart of stateassigned missions, had rendered me reckless, careless, and inconsistent. A few months later, when I compiled the findings of my investigation, I was proud of the results. I also had proof that some federal employees used the Internet to access pornography. But it was strongly suggested that I forget that entire investigation and everything I had uncovered… I protested, rebelled against their decision, but to no avail. Headstrong and determined, I stubbornly persisted… until I was severely reprimanded before higher authorities. It came as no surprise when I was immediately transferred to Valcartier. With all the hustle and bustle of moving, Julie and the children did not notice just how upset I was. In just a matter of weeks, I had gone from elite soldier to pariah. I sat in my living room, thinking for hours on end. Things became unclear, cloudy. I still had to report to my new unit. I arrived at headquarters in uniform with all my medals sewn on. The Hazardous Skill Badge, a medal for dangerous missions that only soldiers from the counterterrorism units wear, was highly visible. And although I was extremely proud of my medals, the reaction on base could not have been more different. Most soldiers receive Corn Flake medals – medals which are systematically handed out. True decorations are, rightly so or not, often seen as ways to obtain preferential treatment and certain privileges. They are therefore not looked upon kindly. There, like in many other places, dumbing down prevailed. It did not take long before I was approached by a Master Warrant Officer. “Do not come back here with those medals,” he ordered. “I have the right to wear them, I earned them,” I replied. “Don’t wear them again… for your own good.”

After all that had happened lately, I wanted to avoid any trouble. I finished the administrative paperwork and reported to my new Warrant Officer, without my hardware. “Are you in shape?” he asked. I was taken by surprise by that first question. “Yes, but not as good as before,” I replied. “Great. You will represent the unit at the triathlon. A 400-metre swim in Saint-Joseph Lake, followed by a 28-kilometre bike ride and a 5-kilometre run.” “No problem, Sir. I would do that before training in Ottawa.” On the day of the event, I arrived with the other contestants. No one seemed to notice the discreet JTF2 logo on my t-shirt. Lost in the crowd of swimmers, I managed to distance myself from the others and was the first one out of the water. I hopped on my bike and fled to Valcartier. When I arrived at the 28-km mark, there was no one in sight. I placed my bike in the stand near the starting point and, without even bothering to catch my breath, immediately started running. I crossed the finish line less than 30 minutes later. No one was there. It was deserted. With a shrug, I headed for the showers. I returned 20 minutes later, in time to see the crowd favourite cross the finish line, confident he had won. And to think that I was far from being in the shape I was in thebest years of JTF2. When I told the organisers I had finished the event 20 minutes earlier and had even taken the time to shower, no one believed me. My words put a damper on the festivities. They thought of every excuse imaginable to not recognize my time, but I had won it. A few months earlier, I would have fought like mad for justice. Not anymore. I couldn’t care less. * My psychological problems became more and more obvious. I would go from episodes of depression to sudden fits of anger. I had

nightmares every night. I would sometimes wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. One night I grabbed Julie by the throat and started strangling her. She has since been afraid of sleeping with me. I also experienced flashbacks anytime, anywhere… a loss of consciousness that lasted one to two minutes where I re-lived tragic events from previous years. The flashbacks came complete with images, sounds and even smells. I would return to reality, completely exhausted. I did not know what was happening to me but did know that I needed help, and fast. The Army has always been ready to give full honours to their soldiers who return home in boxes. But those who return from a mission with injuries or, worse yet, mental health issues, only get administrative hassles. When I decided to talk about my problems, all I received was contempt. To the Canadian Armed Forces who did not, at the time, acknowledge post-traumatic stress syndrome, I was weak. My condition was not evaluated. The most they gave me was two weeks’ rest. ‘Everything will fall into place,’ I was told. Instead, things got worse. I did not feel like working anymore.

CHAPTER 28 “We Thought We Were Invincible”

I therefore took the necessary steps to receive the veterans’ pension I was entitled to. As I expected, I encountered refusal and administrative hassles. During that time, I was lucky to meet a psychologist specialized in post-traumatic stress. His name is Clément Bastien. He needed no more than one meeting to determine that I had all the symptoms of PTSD. Although I was far from being the first soldier he had evaluated, he was taken aback by the amount of traumatic events our unit had experienced. As a specialist in psychological evaluation, he was one of the rare people to have access to my military file. He saw I was not lying, nor was I exaggerating. During a previous meeting, after listening to me talk about a specific event, he leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. After several seconds of silence, he said, “M. Morisset, I have a problem.” “What is it?” I replied. “I cannot repeat everything I have just heard,” he stated. “Why not?” I asked. “You verified it. You know it’s the truth.” “That is not the problem. If I repeat everything you have just told me, the entire credibility of my work in post-trauma evaluation will be challenged,” He explained. “The Army will then base its assessment on your case. What you experienced is worse than anything I have heard in my entire career. I obtained compensation for soldiers who experienced events at least ten times less traumatic. And yet, a single event is enough to set off PTSD. But if we plead your case

with this, no soldier will ever be able to obtain another penny in the future.” “You’re not telling me to drop everything, are you?” “No! Not at all! That is out of the question. Except, we have to select the events that are less tragic and not mention the others. Believe me, even with that, you are sure to win.” Clément Bastien was right. Because of his excellent appeal to the Army officials, all the terms in my request were granted. However, someone was still pulling strings in Ottawa and a revision of my case was requested. Luckily, the losers in administration requested a revision of my case by none other than… Claude Bastien! He was not about to discredit his own work. He performed a second evaluation and a final decision was rendered, finally granting me my much needed pension. While we were celebrating our victory in his office, he asked if I intended to begin therapy to help treat my PTSD. I answered that after everything I had been through, I needed some time. “Don’t wait too long,” he insisted. “Post-traumatic stress is a very serious and extremely painful medical and mental health issue. That is something you are already well aware of. The more you wait to be treated, the heavier and more irreversible the damage will be.” “I don’t take your warning lightly,” I assured him. “Good. But I’m curious. Ever since we’ve met, I have so many questions running through my head.” “What would you like to know?” “I would like to understand what happened,” he explained. “You should have received your pension a long time ago, without the help of an expert witness like me. Your file, which is classified top secret, is filled with stunning feats. You have more medals and citations of bravery than all the soldiers who have been here before you. You are one of the rare Canadians to have been a Rangers instructor in the United States. You performed missions that were downright

suicidal. So why does the Army show such little goodwill in this case? Why so many obstacles on your path?” “I have an idea, but I would have to tell you the story of my unit since the very beginning. Let’s just say that the Army began to fear us. Even though it had created us, the first counter-terrorism unit in the Canadian Armed Forces. We were programmed to be war machines. But, in the end, we made the mistake of believing we were invincible and the military officials did everything in their power to get rid of us. Perhaps we also knew too much about lots of stuff.” When I left the psychologist’s office, I took a long walk to think things over. I was ready and wanted to live a quiet, peaceful life but was constantly walking on eggshells. To this day, I am at war with my interior demons and try to become grounded in reality, but there is an emptiness that will not leave me. A feeling of uselessness. I am also reluctant to expose, in detail, certain sad and unfortunate events regarding my life and to attempt, in vain, to explain the unexplainable and, most importantly, justify the unjustifiable. I take responsibility. On the other hand, it cannot be a coincidence if a child pornography Federal law was enacted in July 2002. A law that makes it illegal to communicate with a child over the Internet with the intent of committing a sexual offense…

ANNEX Abbreviations and Acronyms

AK-47

Assault rifle also called Kalashnikov

CNN

Cable News Network

CO

Chief Officer

COSMIC

Security classification

CP

Command Post

CSIS

Canadian Security Intelligence Service

CWO

Chief Warrant Officer

DHEA

Dehydroepiandrosterone - hormone

ERT

Emergency Response Team

FARC

Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia

GPMG

General Purpose Machine Gun

GPS

Global Positioning System

HF

High Frequency

HQ

Headquarters

HUITS

High Frequency Unit Information and Transmission System

IMARSAT

Mobile Satellite Communications System

IPTF

International Police Training Force

IR

Infrared

JCO

Joint Contingent of Observer

JTF2

Joint Task Force 2

LZ

Landing Zone

MAN

Metropolitan Area Network

MIG

Soviet Fighter Jet

MOE

Man of Entry

MRTA

Tupac Aruma Revolutionary Movement

NATO

North Atlantic Treaty Organization

NGO

Non-Governmental Organization

UNPROFOR United Nations Protection Force PRC-117

Radio Communications

PTSD

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

RAF

Rwanda Armed Forces

RCMP

Royal Canadian Mounted Police

SAS

Special Air Service

SASS

Supervisor for Assistance in Safety and Security

SEAL

Sea-Air-Land

SQ

Sûreté du Québec

SWAT

Special Weapons and Tactics

UHF

Ultra High Frequency

UNAMIR

United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda

UNO

United Nations Organization

VHF

Very High Frequency

VIP

Very Important Person

VK

Veluka Kladusa – military base in Bosnia

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1. Recruit School CHAPTER 2. Six-Day Purge CHAPTER 3. Hell in Rwanda CHAPTER 4. “The Men are not Ready” CHAPTER 5. Canadian Rangers CHAPTER 6. The Unit’s Official Debut CHAPTER 7. Hold-up in Ottawa CHAPTER 8. Failures in Montreal CHAPTER 9. An Eye for an Eye CHAPTER 10. Open Season in Former Yugoslavia CHAPTER 11. The Mark of the Devil CHAPTER 12. A Faux Pas in Afghanistan CHAPTER 13. Reality Before Fiction CHAPTER 14. Tourism in Bosnia CHAPTER 15. Ambush in Rwanda CHAPTER 16. Hostage-Taking in Peru CHAPTER 17. One Bullet – Many Dead CHAPTER 18. ‘I Don’t like Frogs’ CHAPTER 19. ‘We’re Delivering Mail!’ CHAPTER 20. Death at our Fingertips CHAPTER 21. ‘Eliminate the Spy’ CHAPTER 22. A Boat Ride on the Una River CHAPTER 23. Liquidation of a SOB

CHAPTER 24. Rescue in Mostar CHAPTER 25. Milosevic is a Liar CHAPTER 26. Loss of the Aura CHAPTER 27. Stepping Down from the Podium CHAPTER 28. “We Thought We Were Invincible” ANNEX. Abbreviations and Acronyms