“War is hell:” a meaningless expression for some, terrifying memories for others
I watch and listened carefully and with a great deal of interest to how defense minister Peter Mackay looked and what he had to say after a rocket-propelled grenade whistled over his head and exploded near the Kandahar base he was visiting.
To me, he looked a little pale and quite shook up as he praised the reaction of those in charge who got him out of harms way very quickly describing their action as cool and professional. I could write and talk about this for hours and hours (and I have along the way with those who have the patience to listen) because I know what it feels like to come under attack in a war zone. I won’t go on forever but want to make a few points in this blog just because I can.
War is hell! But only those who have been there “get it” — to the rest it’s just a phrase. Peter Mackay now “gets it” and so do I.
I went to Saudi Arabia to cover the first Gulf War in 1991. As a 40-year-old reporter/show host, I knew nothing about war other than what I’d heard or read from other who had lived through one. I had a couple of days training before departure at CFB Borden. My decision to go was a business decision and so was Peter Mackay’s. At the time, I was hosting a top-rated radio interview show on CFRB and for several years had pursued the pattern of actually going to the hot spots of the world. Saudi Arabia was very hot indeed - and loud! Almost every day for almost a month.
Within hours of the first coalition strike on Sudam Hussein’s army who had invaded Kuwait, the incoming Iraqi scud missiles began exploding around our base in Saudi. We never actually knew if the explosions we heard and felt in our chest were the result of the missiles hitting the ground or colliding with American patriot missiles taking them out over head before they hit. I can assure you though, the sound is terrifying and stays with me today. I can only describe it as ten times as loud as the loudest crack of thunder you have ever heard letting loose directly over your house, and you feel the concussion from the inside out. The difference between Mackay’s experience and mine is that I didn’t have any Canadian military whisking me out - although the Mulroney Government did make a deal with the Bush administration after about three weeks to get the area evacuated of me and several hundred other Canadians, leaving on American cargo planes.
Mackay’s experience may not make a difference to Canada’s role or future commitment in Afghanistan, but I think it’s useful to the decision-making process to have a defense minister at the cabinet table in Ottawa who has had to dive under the table in the field and who has had to (whether he likes it or not ) stop his heart from entering his throat as a missile or grenade whistles over his head while the men and women in Canadian uniform keep cool and professional.
I’ve surprised myself with this little blurb because I don’t like to talk or think too much about the month I spent in a war zone with anyone other than the nucleus of family and small circle of friends who will listen. It wells up in me only when something triggers it
– like Mackay’s close call, or when a journalist is killed, or when I meet up with a soldier returning from Afghanistan or at this week of the year … at the 11th hour, on the 11th day, of the 11th month.