Danger Close: Coming Under Artillery Fire With The Canadian Forces

Posted in Survivalist by Osborne, August 20, 2010 at 10:03 am | 869 views, 0 comments

This is a story from my time spent as an embedded reporter with the Canadian Forces. I participated in the war games Western Defender and Total Ram of Suffield Alberta back in May 2009. It was hands down the best fun I have ever had with journalism. This story is about the first and only time I came under artillery fire. I am sure there are many others like it, but this one is mine.

The squad of infantrymen has stopped in a defensive ring formation that’s been in use since the roman empire. They space themselves out and drop down, weapons bristling outward so as to be protected from every direction.

This is a platoon sized patrol of forty-five soldiers. They are divided into three sections of eight to eleven men with an extra weapons detachment armed with machine guns, mortars, and rocket launchers.

We are somewhere on the barren plains of Suffield Alberta, where all you can see is grass and clouds for miles and miles. Growing up around Calgary I had thought of my self as someone accustomed to “big sky country.” But out here the overcast clouds fill your vision and leave you exposed.

While our section huddles in the depression between hills known as “dead ground” the weapons team and other two units spread out in a line. They are covered in kit and cadpat from head to toe. Most wear dark glasses and crouch with their weapons at the ready. The patrol has been quiet, but every one is prepared for things to heat up at a moment’s notice.

In the center, a lieutenant lies in the grass, poring over a topographical map and talking hi-tech gibberish into his radio handset. We are to advance west. There is a a hill to the north and a scorched crest just in front of us, both of which seem like valid firing positions for our objective. Elements of the weapons det will set up on the north hill and provide covering fire for the riflemen to crest the ridge.

I was initially assigned to the weapons detachment, but had to move off the firing line when they were issued 84mm rockets for the anti-tank weapon. The Karl Gustav is a hand carried recoilless launcher that requires a two man team to load, aim, and fire. For a civilian like me to be nearby when a Karl G goes off requires a signed letter from the Minister for Defense. So I must observe from a distance of of no less than thirty yards while the soldiers fan out and advance. I travel with a padre and a medic in the command unit, but never too far from the big guns.

Corporal Cameron and Private Miller take off ahead of the platoon, running up the northern hill. Cameron is 5′5 and carries a C6 7.62mm machine gun slung across his shoulders. Its the same machine gun mounted on G wagen reconnaissance cars and in LAV armoured vehicles. Cameron’s diminutive stature and thick round glasses do not make for the blood thirsty heavy gunner one might imagine. Instead he kills time by mocking mission names and cracking fart jokes. Earlier, when we were unloading gear and preparing to step off he turned to me and grinned.

“Get ready for Operation: Total Rim Job, media guy.” He doubled over laughing then. But now he is breathing hard, scaling the steep incline of the hill with over 100 pounds of extra equipment and an adrenaline high that comes from the promise of gunfire. At the peak of the hill both he and Miller throw themselves onto their bellies and crawl into position. Miller is carrying boxes of linked ammunition and sets up to the left of Cameron to feed belts into the C6.

The first shots echo across the landscape. Two hundred meters away, Miller and Cameron are barely visible in the grass of the hilltop. But the fiery red tracers are unmistakable. Men echo the call of “contact” down the line and over the radios. Chewing tobacco is ejected and magazines are checked as the call confirming enemy presence flows through the platoon.

One element advances on the scorched ridgeline, moving at a smooth steady pace with weapons raised. They crest it and are silhouetted for a moment, nine heavily armed men about to attack. Then they drop out of sight and the sound of small arms fire increases ten-fold.

Sergeant Beglaw turns back to face the unit I’m with. His helmet is dotted with scrim, long lengths of vegetation and cloth used for camouflage. This is the guy with a star wars imperial star sewn onto the underneath of his combat vest.

“Alright, lets move up” he shouts and the soldiers leap to their feat. An orchestra of weaponry is warming up on the other side of the hill. The sharp crack of rifle fire, the long back of the C9 light machine guns, and the deep rattle of Cameron’s C6 combine to form a cacophony.

Then, over the snap crackle and pop of the reservists I hear a series of deep booms. A puff of dust and smoke spurts up over the hill. Then another, and another.

Someone says “I didn’t know they had the mortar out already.” The Padre strokes his massive mustache and puts a hand out to stop us.

“That’s too big for a mortar.” Another round lands, close enough that I can feel the impact in the balls of my feet. “I think we should get down.” he says with worry creeping into his voice. A quick discussion reveals that we have not been issued any ammo of the mortar, and its definitely not us causing those explosions on the far side of the hill.

The command unit halts and drops back to that defensive circle. The command comes over the radio: “All units, cease fire and withdraw.”

It’s artillery fire coming down on our objective. When artillery is dropped within 600 meters of a friendly unit its called a “danger close” fire mission. What we’re experiencing are 105mm air burst rounds well within the danger close range. From the frequency of impacts, the Padre estimates three or four guns are firing down where we’re supposed to advance.

They’re not supposed to be here. They are not supposed to be anywhere near us. The platoon had no indirect fire support available, and none requested.

The hawk nosed lieutenant is pressed to the ground, tracing his finger along map lines and cursing into his radio. The Padre nudges me:

“You want a good picture media guy? Get one of him shitting his pants trying to figure out where that arty is coming from.”

So I lie down beside the lieutenant and start trying to focus on his rapidly moving lips. Another shell whistles in and I feel genuine fear for the first time since we left the biv site. Feeling the explosion vibrate in my chest while I trip the shutter makes me whisper aloud to myself “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Needless to say, we were all a little shaken up, and withdraw into some of that “dead ground” for cover. A ceasefire across most of the 2690 square kilometers of CFB Suffield is put in place, and we spend the next four hours lying in the grass waiting to find out what happened.

See, Suffield is cut up into training zones, and various groups are assigned different zones for their live fire training. The artillery units were assigned to the template just below us, but their guns have a lot of reach. They wound up setting up on one border, and firing to their far border in order to actually get a decent range. From what I was told, the wind was grabbing their rounds and pushing them past and over their border, onto our territory. Just some subtle mis-calculations on wind strength, and we’re taking cover instead of attacking.

While we kill time a range officer goes out to inspect the site, and brings back a jagged chunk of shrapnel the width of my hand. It is chilling to think that is what was flying around out there. It will be another four hours before we get to complete our attack.

The Canadian Forces take great pride in their training safety record. Only one person has ever died at CFB Suffield, and that was involving an armoured vehicle accident. Everyone seemed to do the right thing to respond to this hazard.

The photos of the artillery were taken by Darren Colton, who on the other end of this story with the crews. Their cease-fire was immediate and professional as soon as they received the order.