Thanks to GGBoy, here is a excellent article on Shorty.
National Post
Friday, October 3, 2003
By Chris Wattie
Column: Death in Kabul
National Post
Sergeant Robert Alan Short was among the first Canadian
soldiers I met in Afghanistan when I arrived in August as an
embedded reporter with the Canadian army in Kabul.
Sgt. Short -- "Shorty" to his many friends in the battle group's
Parachute Company -- was the non-commissioned officer in charge of
the main gate into Camp Julien, the Canadian base in the capital, on
the evening when I showed up in a taxi, dusty and jet-lagged,
outside the barbed wire and concrete fence.
His short, stocky form loomed out of the twilight, bristling with
weaponry and ammunition, and he demanded to know who I was and what
I was doing at the base.
"A reporter, eh?" he said, peering at me curiously. "What the heck
did you wanna come here for?"
He watched and joked with me as his soldiers put me through the
thorough search that everyone underwent before entering the camp,
then he waved me over to the bare wooden bench and patch of gravel
that served as the gate's waiting area.
Sgt. Short squatted down next to me in the ensuing hour it took for
the battle group's public affairs officer to arrive and escort me
into the camp. We talked about everything from the sights of Kabul
to his beloved Toronto Maple Leafs.
When he learned that not only was I an Edmonton Oilers fan, but I
was also spending more than a month with the 1,900 Canadian soldiers
who had arrived in Afghanistan a few days earlier, he just shook his
head sadly. "You've got to renegotiate your contract buddy," he
said, waving me into the camp with a cheerful expression that was
impossible to miss even under his camouflage-covered helmet.
Over the next five weeks, he would bump into me almost every day,
usually sneaking up from behind in the long lineups for supper to
slap me on the back with a startlingly loud: "How's it goin' buddy?"
While he was proud of the wings on his uniform that marked him as
an elite paratrooper and of the men in the section he commanded,
Sgt. Short was far from the stereotype of the gung-ho airborne
soldier.
He was, in fact, one of those people who seem to pop up in every
workplace or group, someone whom everyone likes -- irrepressibly
cheerful and always friendly, even to journalists, not always the
most popular of people among paratroopers.
In the mess, the lineups for the base canteen or the officer's and
NCO's club, we would invariably talk about hockey -- he had an
unshakeable faith in the Leafs' chances of winning the Stanley Cup.
We'd usually discuss Afghanistan's ever-present dust and heat, the
quality of army food and occasionally the Canadians' mission in
Kabul.
Once, we touched on the subject of the dangers facing the troops
out on patrol, dangers Sgt. Short shrugged off stoically. "You take
all the precautions ... but sometimes there's nothing you can do
about it. When your number's up, your number's up."
When I told him that my eight-year-old son had switched his
fascination from airplanes to soldiers once he learned I would be
staying with the Canadian army, Sgt. Short's eyes lit up. "Gotta nip
that air force thing in the bud!" he declared, and gave me his spare
Royal Canadian Regiment cap badge as a souvenir for my son.
I insisted on a fair trade and we settled on one National Post
T-shirt and a beer for the silver and gold regimental star.
I delivered the shirt to him the next day, but Sgt. Short was too
busy over the next few weeks to take me up on my offer of a beer.
The sergeants in the Canadian battle group are the backbone of the
mission, leading their sections of eight to 10 men on almost daily
patrols into the restive and often dangerous streets of Kabul or on
sentry or gate duty in the main camp.
Five weeks later, when it was time for me to return home, Sgt.
Short was one of the last soldiers in Camp Julien to wish me a safe
trip and laughingly remind me of the still outstanding debt, which
he said I could pay off when -- not if -- I returned to the Canadian
camp.
Less than two weeks later, he was dead, killed while doing his job
in the same no-nonsense and thoroughly professional way he had been
doing it for several months before.
It would be presumptuous to say I lost a friend when an explosion
tore through Sgt. Short's Iltis vehicle, killing him and Corporal
Robbie Beerenfenger, and injuring three other soldiers in the
patrol. But I do wish I had gotten the chance to spend more time
with Sgt. Short, and I will always regret not being able to sit him
down over that promised beer and tell him what a privilege and
pleasure it was to know him, however briefly.
