THE DAY THE EARTH EXPLODED
In an excerpt from his new memoir, Canadian sniper Jody Mitic describes the single step that changed his life,
A 20-year veteran of the Canadian Forces, Jody Mitic lost his legs when he stepped on a landmine in Afghanistan in 2007. He would later compete in The Amazing Race Canada and, last year, was elected a city councillor in Ottawa.
In an excerpt from his new book, Unflinching: The Making of a Canadian Sniper, Mitic tells in detail the story of the explosion that changed his life — and played a pivotal role in his relationship with his future wife, Alannah. In December of 2006, I had a strange experience while standing atop our position at Sperwan Ghar in Afghanistan. I was overwhelmed with a feeling of dread — like something bad was going to happen to me.
On Jan. 11, one week after my 30th birthday, our battle group was sent on a “soft knock” mission to flush out Taliban, which meant arriving out of the blue at an Afghan village. As snipers, we were asked to support the mission. We hoped our appearance would startle the enemy into peaceful surrender.
We were a four-man sniper unit — me, Barry, Kash and Gord. We stepped outside the wire at Strong Point Centre at 3:30 a.m. so we would be in our positions ready to infiltrate the village at the first sign of daylight.
We headed through the thick mud of a large farmer’s field. A few minutes later, we arrived at an opening in a wall leading into the village. This entry seemed like an easy way in. But as any good sniper knows, obvious entry points are often traps.
I was bringing up the rear. Barry — who was always razor-sharp — was up front, scanning the area using night-vision goggles and the infrared laser on his rifle. The coast was clear.
Two small steps led up to the low entry. Barry took them first, then ducked his head and cleared the doorway. He nodded once on the other side — no issues. Gord, Kash and I waited. We were perfectly still. All snipers are good at stillness. Barry gave the signal and Gord, then Kash, went through the opening. It was my turn. They had my back. I took the two steps up and cleared the entry without any problem. I tapped Kash on the shoulder, giving him the all clear. He started to walk and I waited. Another rule of soldiering, tactical spacing — never bunch up.
Once he was about 10 metres ahead, I took my first step forward. My right foot touched the ground, and a massive orange fireball soared across my face. I didn’t hear a sound. For a few seconds, I felt weightless.
The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. My ears, nose and mouth tasted like mud. And that’s when the pain hit, a pain so intense that it overwhelmed my body and my silence. I punched the ground, screaming, “Oh my god! Oh my god!” It was the only time in my life I’d uttered anything religious.
The blast was so powerful it had knocked Kash down, and I saw him in the dirt ahead of me. I couldn’t see Barry or Gord. They had probably done what good snipers are supposed to do upon hearing an explosion: run for cover and prepare for an ambush. Once they realized what had happened, they came running back toward me.
It’s such a small thing, a land mine — about the size of ahockey puck but twice as thick, and full of explosives. It was a freak accident, that step I took. Barry, Gord and Kash had all walked over the same spot but, by chance, they missed the device.
My mates were all around me now. “Sorry, guys, I just f---ed the mission.”
Barry crouched over me. “Don’t worry about it, man,” he said. I tried to look down at my legs, but I couldn’t see the extent of my wounds. The pain was excruciating. I grabbed a tourniquet from my shoulder strap and thrust it into Barry’s hand. “Man, aren’t you going to tourniquet my legs?”
“Sure. Sure I am,” Barry said. He started wrapping them up.
“Barry,” I said. “Just tell me one thing. Are my (genitals) OK?”
“Yeah, man. You’re good.” I reached down with my hand and did a quick inspection and he laughed.
“My job right now is to survive,” I told myself. “If you go into shock, Mitic, you’re f---ing dead.” As Barry dealt with my injuries, Kash kept his eye out for signs of danger. Gord was on the radio doing his best to give our co-ordinates.
As much as I was trying to stay cool and calm, I was concerned about our isolated location. How could a medevac ambulance get through the treacherous terrain? And there wasn’t a helicopter landing zone for miles.
The next hour was the longest of my life. I was in agony and trying my hardest to stay positive. Every time I closed my eyes, it was harder to open them again. If I lost consciousness, it was over.
Barry and Gord were standing over me. “Am I going to make it?” I asked Gord.
“Of course you’re going to make it. Never give up, bro. You know that.”
Awhile later, in the distance I could hear the engine of a LAV and voices coming from the other direction. Soon enough, guys from the recce (reconnaissance) platoon were at our side.
Jamie, a recce medic, quickly assessed my situation. “We need to stop the blood loss. Fast,” he said.
He and one of his men applied tourniquets to my legs. One was wrapped so tight that the handle broke.
“How you holding up, buddy?” Jamie asked. “I’m in f---ing agony, man.” Jamie gave me a shot of morphine. “It’s not working.” “Bro, it takes15 to 20 minutes to kick in.” “Are you f---ing kidding me? Give me another shot right now!”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said Jamie.
“Just give it to me! Because if you don’t and I live through this, I’m going to kick your ass.”
Against his better judgment, Jamie relented. He later confessed he gave me the second dose because he didn’t think I was going to make it out alive. Jamie looked at the lower half of my body. “Jody, one of your feet is gone, but the other one might be OK,” he said.
I heard a female voice bark out, “What’s going on there? Give me an update.” It was a familiar voice, but at that moment I couldn’t place it.
“It’s all good,” the leader of the recce platoon responded. “Our medic has it under control.”
“That’s great,” the voice fired back. “But I’m the medic in charge, so I need an update.”
I couldn’t take it any longer. “Hey, do you think we can stop the arguing and just worry about saving my life?” The pain was still excruciating. Gord was wearing a headlamp. To keep myself focused, I stared at it. I was feeling myself falling away from everything and I just needed to focus on something bright.
A few minutes later, a Badger armoured engineering vehicle showed up with a Bison ambulance. At this point, we had 50 or so troops on the scene. “Wow,” I said. “A lot of people came to my party.” No one laughed.
I was put onto a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance. The lead medic I’d heard earlier popped her head in and said, “All right, so who do we have here?”
And that’s when I saw Alannah — Alannah, my new friend and colleague, the one who watched Family Guy with me to pass the time. Her face fell the second she saw me.
“Oh, Jody!” she gasped. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” “Well, I never expected it either,” I said. As the Bison ambulance drove away, she put an IV into my arm. I could hear heli- copter propellers in the distance. At the end of the 15-minute ambulance ride, Alannah said, “OK, Jody. We’re putting you in the helicopter now and I want to see you again. You hear me?” I was so weak by this point and still in so much pain that the best I could do was nod.
An American medic in the helicopter was hooking my IV line into a saline and pain-med drip. At long last, the pain disappeared. “Thank you,” I said. “Sure, man.” The helicopter trip to Kandahar Airfield took about 20 minutes. As soon as we landed, I was rushed to the base hospital. I called my dad while the doctors prepared for surgery.
“Dad . . . you’re going to hear some stuff about me and get more details later. This is just a quick call to let you know I’m going to be OK.”
“What do you mean? Son, what happened?”
“They got me, Dad. The Taliban. But I’m alive and I’m going into surgery. I’m going to get through this. Don’t worry.” I hung up and called my mom. No answer. She was probably playing cribbage at the Legion. I decided not to leave a message. Instead, I called my friend Jeff. “Jeff, I’m hit. I’m going into surgery. Go to my mom’s house and wait for her. I want the first thing you say to her to be, ‘Jody’s OK.’ Can you do that for me?” He promised he would. I hung up. It was time for surgery.