War is a Drug, Part six. Qamishlo

Me and the boys before a "business" trip to Qamishlo. Photo Jordan Mactaggart

     We settled back in to Tel Tamir, and did the interminable waiting that is normal in any military. The Tabor was still in shambles. Fights and low moral were common. Finally, a large meeting was held, and both Male and Female Commanders lost their commands. Both were sent for further education. All four of us Westerners made repeated requests to leave the Tabor. Kemal and I spoke to Commander Simko and secured two spots for ourselves. Finally, a new Commander arrived, a young man named Tofun, who was to take this Tabor as his first command. We observed the dynamics change for a few days--lots of guys, including some useful and battle hardened ones, left or were thrown out at this time--and called a Tekmil (meeting) between ourselves and Tofun to see what the situation was. Our main concern was "Will you let us fight? Is it a problem for you if we get injured or die?" We had been operating under the assumption that YPG did not want it's foreign volunteers in harms way. Ciwan, who had done a previous tour in Rojava, constantly confirmed this, as it had been his experience previously. Tofun said there would be no problems getting a fight under his command. At any rate, fears abated, Kemal opted to return to Tabor Simko, and myself, Ciwan and Gerdun opted to stay. Actually, Ciwan still wanted to leave and asked regularly, they just wouldn't let him! Everybody liked having Ciwan around.

     During our long wait, I was given the PKM machine gun (Kurds call it a BXC pronounced: bixie.) and I was pretty pleased. I'd been trying to secure a bixiegi spot since I arrived in Rojava (fear of losing the BXC would later keep me in this Tabor, despite good reasons to leave.) The Tabor received some medical training from the Western Tactical Medical Unit (TMU) and for the most part, soaked it up. Kurds want nothing to do with western style tactics and training, They have their own way of doing things and are ridiculously stubborn about change. They do however, often (not all of them, but enough) see the benefit of new life-saving techniques and equipment. Some filled entire backpacks with medical supplies. 

     We'd heard there was fighting in Qamishlo, and were told to stand by (of course we didn't believe this. We'd been told we were going in ten days or sebe to somewhere for weeks.). This time, the word came down and we hopped in our trucks with our fighting gear and headed out. We had quite a few replacements for the guys and girls that had left--Shervana Nu (new fighters) straight from the academy. Young, full of energy and badly digested ideology, and often dumb as hell. Kids. They chanted Sher! Sher! Sher!(Fight!) as well as other slogans frequently on the truck ride there. I'm still irritated just thinking about it.

     As we neared Qamishlo, we began to encounter lines of vehicles evacuating the city. They held up the two fingered victory sign and yelled "Biji YPG!" as they fled the city. Along the road, many civilians, many young men and women, stood alongside the road, or even took chai and laid on blankets. I've never understood how fighting aged men and women can just leave while their homes are being destroyed. It has always been foreign to me. In the distance, we could hear shooting and explosions.

     We spent the night at a re-purposed mechanic shop, which was large enough to accommodate the Tabor plus some heavy weapons trucks that showed up. We where in visual distance from the airport, and apparently, while us YPG types were being trucked in, the regime had been flying in elite Republican Guard, as well as "foreigners." We spent the night listening to the ongoing fighting in the city center. (At this time, there was also heavy fighting in the Kurdish city of Nusaybin between the Kurds and the Turkish State, just across the Turkish border. Sometimes they would also launch artillery into Qamishlo. We could see the destruction as the Turks used Phosphorus bombs--a banned weapon--on the Urban Guerillas. It made the fighting in Qamishlo pale in comparrison.)

     In the morning, after some breakfast, We gathered up our gear, as the word was we were moving out. We heard Tofun say "no Americans, and no Women with the first group." Distraught, I sat dejectedly on my ammo bag. And was then told to get in a truck, along with Ciwan and Gerdun, a gun team of two YPJ girls, a few misfits, an older Kurd named Shaheen that always complained that his head wasn't right from years of fighting, and the Bluk Commander (Second in command for the Tabor.). We didn't see this as promising. "Look who we're with. They're just getting us out of the way," we pondered as we drove into the city center. They let us off at the last Asayish checkpoint before the ongoing battle. Attitudes instantly adjusted, we began our advance into the city.
     To cross the open streets, Asayish fired down the dead space and we simply sprinted across (Note: while the Asayish tend to retreat during forward advances, they are absolutely ferocious when defending their homes and will fight to the death. These guys had been fighting for days when we got there.) After crossing several blocks in this manner, we arrived to the line of regime held territory. A small group from our element went in a next door building to see if they could establish a position, but were immediately hit with an RPG. None injured, they quickly came back downstairs.
     A group of civilians cleared out, no shots fired at them from the Regime. As we pondered our next move, a deranged homeless man wondered towards our position from down the street. Who knows how many rounds had missed him on the way there. The Asayish tried to shoo him away, and eventually had to fire at his feet to  get the point across. He shuffled off to safety. At this point, it was decided that we would occupy the top floors of some seven or eight story buildings to our rear, and establish fire superiority, if we could.  Old "my head isn't right" Shaheen, non-disturbed by the situation, passed out cookies.
     To get to the buildings we were going for, we had to run lengthwise down a block of road. The first group went without incident, then it was our turn. In front of me, Ciwan labored, bitched and moaned under the weight of his RPG and bag of rockets. Suffer. After a seven or so story assent in the first building, we posted up by a window. Gerdun was placed on Nobetchi (guard duty) and intermittently poked his head out to see the situation. He drew a lot of fire. We were right in front of a regime checkpoint, and they were constantly breaking cover to run back and forth. This is very different from Daesh, who are sneaky. I briefly got on the BXC and returned fire, before I was led to the next building over, separating me from the other westerners.
     At the doorway, Shaheen told me to go upstairs and call for the Hevals (comrades) who would show me where to go. I went up floor by floor, yelling Heval! But to no success. I finally went to the rooftop, and crouchwalked to the corner to see if I could get a shot at where I thought there was a sniper. As soon as I popped my head up, a swarm of bullets passed by my head. Guess they saw me. Crouching back down to investigate a sand pile as a position, Shaheen yelled at me from the door to come, and took me one flight down to where they had prepared a fortified firing position for me and my BXC. They even laid a blanket out. This was good, as the tops of these buildings, like most large housing structures in Syria, are unfinished bare concrete. I set up my gun and bag and got to work. Single shots for bunkers and firing holes, controlled bursts when they broke cover.
     For a time, I was left alone here. Fortunately for my rear security, I was soon joined by two young Kurds who immediately set to making their own bunkers. One guy mounted a night optic on his AK and then proudly told me he had shot a guy at around a thousand meters. I didn't see anything.
     Meanwhile, on the next door roof, a young YPJ named Arya--whose first fight was this one--had been shot in the chest. The Bluk commander froze up, not knowing what to do. Ciwan and Gerdun stuffed the wound with gauze, and got the Bluk to bring in an armored car to evacuate her. The whole thing is actually captured on Gerdun's GoPro. Maybe the Mormon will share it someday.
     Meanwhile, in my "Murder Nest," I continued to shoot away, going through hundreds of rounds. After several--maybe four--hours of exchanging fire like this, a cease fire was called. The Regime didn't want to lose any more territory, and there was a Tabor poised to take the Airport. They relented. We then waited several days in our position, in case the cease fire was broken or the Regime didn't meet all demands. We mostly pulled guard, ate kebab and smoked. I went to the roof later and looked down at my firing position from the outside--it was absolutely riddled with bullet holes. From small 7.62 rounds to what looked like the Dushka equivalent of fifty cal. It was a good bunker.
     Despite being shot very near the heart, Arya recovered. I got to know her a bit later on, and she was intelligent and the model of good natured Idealism. With enough Aryas, that region might just become something....

Regime building, sporting giant Regime flag, as seen through a firing hole in the neighboring building. We'd been told not to worry about this building as we advanced to our positions. War in the Middle East.....Picture Jordan Mactaggart

Several days later, Hevala Sema, left, laughs at well, anything and everthing, Always. Heval Vagin humours her. Picture Jordan Mactaggart

     We ended up coming back to Qamishlo again as a show of force, but that was the only time we fought there. Given the propensity of conflicts between the Regime and YPG to flare up every few months in Qamishlo and Hasakah, I wonder how it will work out in the now jointly held Aleppo. We'll see,

     After about four days there, we returned to base to continue waiting on the upcoming big operation.

    

War is a Drug, part Five: Berm Life, Heval!

The Mormon holding down the Berm. (Photo of Freeman Stevenson taken by Jake Klipsch on Freeman Stevenson's Go Pro. There, that was accurate, no?)

     We departed with Tabor Sippan, with the intention of taking territory. We mass gaggled in a village, with a Tabor of Asayish, Rojava's internal security force (YPGs job is to take territory, Asayish's is to hold it.). As a kol boarded a BMP (overstuffed--as it sped away, one YPJ named Hevala Akin fell out of the back!) and took off, we received rocket fire--probably meant for the BMP--that landed near a building behind us. The Asayish, as taking fire in an offense is not their job, quickly fled--towards the building that took fire. The gaggle rapidly dissipated to positions of cover, and a Duska heavy machine gun truck eventually returned fire as rockets and airbursts were incoming. As night fell, we boarded our trucks and moved forward--Daesh rocketeers having fled.
     We occupied a small settlement, probably owned by one family, for the night. It was typical of this region, mud huts for the folks, mud huts for the goats. The next day, Tabor Simko rolled through, ready to make an advance, and Shervan Kanada, thinking this would be a better opportunity for a fight, grabbed his gear and hopped on one of their trucks as it left. The remaining four then re-located to another Gund (Kurdish for Village. "Gundi" is villager or peasant--sometimes descriptive but can be perjorative, like calling someone an un-educated redneck in America.), and occupying a building, courtesy of the Gundis. We sensed something was wrong with the Tabor at this time, as Sippan, the Male commander, and Semma, the female commander had an argument (over what, we never quite figured out, but it involved the Shaheed (martyrdom) of some of the Tabors members in Shadadi.) that involved Sippan racking a round in his rifle, and another YPG soldier firing rounds in the dirt to diffuse the situation. We sat at this Gund for nine or ten days, guarding, and being told that nothing was going on.
     We were finally on the move, going to take some additional Gunds, when we found out just how busy YPG had been as we sat with our problem tabor. The front had been extended for many kilometers, and many defensive earth berms had been erected along the it. We had to drive for two dusty hours to arrive at our final destination. We took the Gunds without incident, and the Gundis welcomed us--telling where mines were located and were Daesh had been. We were then told the operation was complete, and we would be moving out. After a good dinner of meat and nan bread, pizza style, we boarded our Toyota Hyluxes and moved out. To defend a Berm in the middle of the desert, which caused so much unhappiness to one of our Kurdish Comrades, that we had to comment on his suffering. And our Suffering. From here on out, our little clique was the "Suffer" crew--everything suffered.
     The next morning, I was on guard duty, around nine o'clock, observing the front. I saw to my twelve the distinctive smoke trails of katusha fire, about two and some kilometers away. Not knowing the Kurdish for incoming, "hatin," I called out the only word that I knew all understood: Rocket! and got down behind the berm, looking forward. I saw impact several hundred meters out, saying "well, they can't hit shit!" just as the additional three rockets walked forward, one landing directly infront of us, and one passing over our heads with its signature "woowoowoowoo." Expecting more, I said "Fuck this, I'm returning fire!" and hopped on the BXC (PKM machine gun.). I was dissuaded from  this course of action by my comrades, as the Dushka occupying our position obliged to return fire, and it was a 'bit' long for a LMG shot. Might have been a bit excited.
     The day before this, the Dushka had been hammering away at what we thought was nothing. When asked about it the Dushkagis (A 'gi' is a way of saying that an individual is the operator of an object or action.) replied that they were shooting the Katusha battery. Guess we should have listened to them, because this was a daily ritual. Nine o'clock or so, Katushas. I learned to enjoy it pretty quickly, as noone seemed to get hurt (this is obviously not always the case), and it provided just enough excitement to be worth the otherwise monotonous existence.

Myself, holding an impacted Katusha rocket. Many, like this one, seemed to be improvised, as it was made of threaded pipe.

     In general, this was one of the best times I had in my time with YPG. We had a good clique of westerners, Kurds that Ciwan dubbed "The Island of Misfit Toys," but that we came to like for the most part, and incoming rockets. Daily. After a few weeks of this, and with the arriving spring heat, we packed up and returned to Tel Tamer.