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.