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A secretive unit of international veterans went on its first anti-ISIL mission last fall. Hours later, a Canadian was dead.


WHEATLEY, Ont. — On a recent Saturday, Steve Krsnik made his way to the old manse where Valerie Carder lives with her
dog, beside a family cemetery on Lake Erie, in a part of southwestern Ontario where farms sprout giant wind turbines.

Krsnik was slimmed down after ten months in Syria, the last four as a sniper in a secretive international fighting unit called the 223.

Commanded by a former U.S. Marine from New York known as Servan Amriki, Kurdish for “American Warrior,” the unit’s official name was the Martyr Bagok unit, in honor of Ash “Bagok” Johnston, the first Western volunteer to die in the fight against ISIL. But informally they were just the 223, after February 23, 2015 — the day the Australian was killed.


They were something new in the Syrian conflict: an anti-ISIL combat unit made up entirely of elite international volunteers, hand-picked by Servan. “All Western and very professional,” British fighter Jac Holmes said in an interview.

Krsnik and Carder’s son, John Robert Gallagher, were both in the 223. Both were also veterans of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. But only one of them made it home alive, which was why Krsnik had to visit Carder, to tell her how her son had died.

When a motorcade brought Gallagher’s body home last November, hundreds lined overpasses along Highway 401. Premier Kathleen Wynne and Toronto Mayor John Tory sent condolence letters. “John was a good Canadian boy,” Don Cherry wrote to Gallagher’s mother.

But the circumstances of his death remained murky. The letter his mother received from the General Command of the People’s Protection Units, under which the 223 fights, said only that “we lost our brave companion” in a “suicide attack” during “the fearless march toward the posts of the terrorist.”

Six months later, however, documents and eyewitness accounts detailing what happened that night in northeastern Syria, as well as interviews with former members of the little-known 223 unit, suggest his death was much more complicated than his family was led to believe.

“I always questioned, why was John put in that position?” A few weeks before visiting Carder, Krsnik sat in a coffee shop at a shopping mall in St. Catharines, Ont. He had grown up in the city, knowing he would one day be in the military.

At nearby Holy Cross Secondary School, Krsnik shared the hallways with Kuwaiti-Canadian brothers named Mohamed and Abdul Rahman Jabarah. In 1999, Krsnik joined the Canadian reserves and the Jabarahs joined al-Qaida.

By the time Krsnik was deployed to Kandahar in 2006, the Jabarahs had already flamed out. Mohamed is now imprisoned for life in Colorado for plotting to bomb Western embassies in Singapore under the direction of the 9/11 mastermind, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Abdul Rahman was killed by Saudi security forces after staging terrorist attacks in the country.

Krsnik returned to Afghanistan in 2009 for another nine months, then surprised everyone by leaving the military for a woman he had fallen for. He worked construction in Alberta and returned to Ontario to apprentice as an electrician.

But adjusting to non-military life was a struggle. Adrenaline sports like skydiving and motorcycles couldn’t replace the thrill of Afghanistan. “You miss it,” he said. “You miss it so much.” The October 2014 attacks in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu and Ottawa upset him deeply. Terrorists had killed two unarmed soldiers on Canadian soil.

At the same time, he had been reading about Syria and was troubled by the West’s lack of military assistance. A PPCLI veteran who had fought with the Kurdish People’s Protection Units, or YPG, helped Krsnik get in touch with a recruiter, and he told his family he was leaving.

“He kind of left out exactly what he was going to be doing,” his sister Anita said. But she had read about the Western veterans flocking to Syria and she suspected he would be joining them. Anita called him selfish for upsetting their mother. He replied that it was what he was trained to do. “Who else is going to do this?”

Last May, he flew to Sulaymaniyah in northern Iraq and crossed into Syria’s Kurdish-controlled region, called Rojava. After two weeks at the YPG training academy, he got his hands on a sniper rifle and was sent to the frontline at Sarrin.

“He has a great reputation as a sniper,” said British fighter Steve Kerr, who entered Syria with Krsnik and trained with him. “I have the greatest respect for him because of that.” Kerr said he heard that Krsnik had 39 confirmed kills. Krsnik’s own count is 37.

Six months into his tour, Krsnik was on the frontline when he was told someone wanted to see him. He pulled back to a safe area and waited with a dozen other Westerners. Servan Amriki eventually arrived, looking clean cut with short hair, a moustache and a YPG uniform.

Servan said he was a former U.S. Marine, and he was recruiting for an all-Western fighting unit. Previously, Western volunteers had been embedded with Kurdish YPG units, which had proven frustrating because of language, cultural and tactical differences.

The American had written a report on how to make better use of the Westerners who were arriving in Syria to help defeat ISIL. The report had made its way to the YPG command, which Krsnik said had asked Servan to form an all-Western “tabor,” Kurdish for group.

“He gave us the low down on what he was doing and how things were going to be better,” said Krsnik, who liked what he heard.

“I had hope in his promises,” Ksrnik said. “We all wanted to be in this group because of the sales pitch. He made it sound perfect — tons of weapons, ammo and training as well as range time and vehicles.”

Over coffee, they talked out the details and Servan told Krsnik he wanted him on his team. Those that made the cut were told they would be moved to a new location, where they would undergo a “physical selection program and training,” Krsnik said. “He was back in 10 days and told us to pack our things if we are still interested.”

Through an intermediary, Servan declined to answer questions. But in a BBC News video he said he had come to Syria in late 2014 after seeing photos of ISIL atrocities, in particular a 9-year-old boy nailed to a cross. “I need to fight ISIS,” he said. “If it takes someone’s life, even if it takes my life, so be it. This is a worthy cause.”

Around the third week of October, Krsnik arrived at the 223 base. He would not disclose its exact location for security reasons but said it was central, so the unit would be close to the YPG command and could quickly deploy to wherever it was needed.

As soon as he got there, Krsnik thought he heard another Canadian voice. He approached Gallagher, who said he was from Windsor, and they shook hands. “He was a nice guy,” Krsnik said. “My first impression of him was he was a hippie liberal that supports the military in general but believes that world peace is possible. He had very strong will and he loved to debate everything.”

Gallagher had obtained a master’s degree in political science at York University after leaving the military in 2005. Feeling restless, he had arrived in Iraq in April 2015. In an essay he posted on his Facebook page, he argued that theocratic tyrannies like the one ISIL was trying to impose had to be crushed so that jihadists would “join the modern world.”

“John was an idealist and believed in the cause of fighting ISIL,” said Tony Giddings, a British fire team leader who served with Gallagher in the 223 and has since returned home to the United Kingdom. “I liked him as he was keen to fight.”

The 223 followed a strict code of conduct: everyone was required to shave daily, cut their hair short, follow orders and not mention the unit publicly, said Krsnik, who recalled that a fighter had been kicked out for posting a photo of the 223 online. They had to agree to a contract that committed them to at least four months with the team.

“I’m now with a new unit of international volunteers,” Gallagher wrote to his mother in an Oct. 23 Facebook message. The squad was made up of veterans of ten armies, he said. “Only a couple Americans so the craziness is under wraps,” he added. “This has the chance to be a big improvement.”

A series of videos recorded around that time show Gallagher and the 223 outside a walled town, speaking English with a mix of accents as they test fire a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. They cheer when it hits the target. “Perfect shot, man,” one of them says.

The camaraderie of the unit is evident in the video. They were all there for the same reason and they were eager to fight. There were personality clashes “but they got ironed out,” Krsnik said. “We all felt like we belonged,” he said, describing the 223 as “the best collection of soldiers in Rojava, hands down.”

For their inaugural team photo, the 223 lined up in two rows in front of a mud-caked building, displaying their impressive arsenal of military assault rifles and heavy machine guns. Wearing sunglasses, Servan kneeled in front with a smile on his face and an M-16 in his gloved hands.

“The unit is a good one,” Gallagher told his mother on Oct. 30. “Right now we’re not worried about the regime, we’ve all sort of teamed up for a little while (to) wipe out ISIS once and for all. Should be fun. My team is really on the ball,” he wrote.

“I’m not worried.”

The 223 got its first assignment four days later. A Kurdish commander named Herval Farhat needed help clearing ISIL fighters from a cluster of houses southeast of Al Hasakah. Servan assembled a six-man team consisting of himself, a U.S. machine-gunner, an Israeli RPG gunner, a Croatian team leader and a Kurd named Sipan who was embedded with the unit. Gallagher was the point man.

Krsnik went ahead with his sniper rifle to provide cover for the advancing group. When he saw two ISIL fighters planting explosives near the main house where the extremists were sheltered, he relayed the information to Servan by radio, he said.

Giddings stayed at the rear waiting to be called forward. He later said he thought it was a mistake to divide the unit up like that. “We should have all gone together,” he said in an interview. But only a few fighters were needed for the operation and Servan was eager for the 223 to prove itself.

The half-dozen 223 fighters set out on foot after dark.

“These were mostly clusters of mud huts, essentially moderately-sized villages,” said the machine gunner, who went by Tex because he was from Texas. “We were slipping constantly because of the mud,” he said in interviews. “I remember John slipped and fell so hard his feet went in the air and we all laughed so hard.”

The 223 team reached a farmhouse and watched an American C-130 gunship pound ISIL for 30 minutes. They began to move again shortly before midnight, pushing along the left side of the village while Farhat’s team of four Kurdish fighters took the right flank.

They stopped behind a building and Tex heard a noise between the trees and the house where Krsnik had seen the ISIL fighters. He informed Servan and fired off two bursts from his PKM machine gun. “I told John to throw a grenade into the shadow. I covered him as he prepped and threw the grenade,” the machine gunner said. “It was a good throw.” But the RG34 grenade lets off a pop like a firecracker when it is engaged so it gave away Gallagher’s position. The ISIL fighters would know exactly where he was.

Tex and his PKM were positioned to the right of the team. The Kurd, Sipan, had the left side covered and Gallagher was lying at the corner of the building, about five metres to Tex’s left. To Gallagher’s left, there were “a few small corridors and avenues of approach with a lot of cover.”

Three or four minutes went by in silence and then Tex saw something odd. Gallagher was on his feet. He was shouldering his rifle and seemed to be talking to someone. “In my mind,” the machine gunner said, “I’m asking myself, ‘What the hell is he doing?’”

Servan saw it too. Gallagher was talking to an ISIL fighter wearing a suicide vest. He gave the order to shoot and the gunfire began. Gallagher spun back, hit by a bullet fired by the ISIL fighter. “As this was happening John screamed something that I will never forget and still can’t understand,” Tex said in an interview. “He yelled, ‘I’m sorry.’”

Servan rushed to Gallagher. The ISIL fighter had been shot and lay a metre away but he was still alive. Apparently so he would not be captured or identified, the extremist held a grenade to his own head and blew it off. Although he was wearing a suicide vest packed with hundreds of ball bearings, it was never detonated. “John saved our lives that day,” said Tex, “because if he wasn’t there that guy would have blown us all up.”

The shrapnel from the ISIL grenade hit Servan but he was still able to drag Gallagher back about 30 metres. “I could hear John gasping for air,” Tex said. “I could see they were trying to find his wounds. I let off a couple of rounds at some movement and asked the commander to get on my machine gun so I could go and treat John.

“I got the commander’s M-16 and went over to John and began trying to work on him. I could see a single gunshot wound to the hip. He wasn’t even bleeding anymore by this time. I checked his pulse. It was weak but it was still there.”

Tex stuffed gauze into the wound and wrapped it tight. Twenty minutes later a Humvee belonging to another unit arrived and they loaded Gallagher inside. “He was not moving or making any sound and did not appear to me to be conscious,” Jim Matthews, the gunner in the Humvee said.

They drove across the fields to a Red Cross ambulance. Tirej, the RPG gunner, rode in the back with Gallagher. It took about 20 minutes to reach the ambulance but the Canadian was already gone. All the medics could do was cover him with a thin yellow sheet.

From his position, Krsnik could tell someone had been hit. He heard the gunfire and the code word for a casualty. But he didn’t know until he left his position in the morning that it was Gallagher. Krsnik had the same question as everyone else: Why did Gallagher stand instead of shooting?

“I’m unable to speculate as to why that was,” Matthews wrote in a recent email to Gallagher’s mother. “But perhaps it does him credit, if he was reluctant to open fire in the absence of certainty. Too many people shoot first and ask questions later. And while that approach may have saved his life it appears that John was not of that nature.”

An autopsy performed on Nov. 8 at the hospital in Al-Malikiyah found that Gallagher had a 9mm bullet entrance wound in his lower right abdomen. The bullet had passed through him but struck an artery and he died of blood loss, it said.

“I cannot blame anything or any one person,” said Tex, who has since left Syria and returned to the U.S. In combat, the unexpected can always happen. “We go in knowing very well that it could cost us our lives.”

Following Gallagher’s death, Krsnik said he began to question the 223 unit’s leadership. He also started looking into the commander. His research revealed that Servan was a 42-year-old New York orthodontist named Dr. Peter Theodorou.

According to New York corporate and court records, Theodorou launched a series of orthodontics clinics between 2003 and 2007. He was also once involved in a garage called Dr. Steven’s Auto Repair & Clinic, court documents show.

Theodorou was “Manhattan’s leading orthodontist and former Marine,” according to a philanthropic magazine called Black Tie. That article featured him at a fundraiser he and his brother hosted for their non-profit group Marine Assist, which provides dental work and plastic surgery to wounded veterans. In 2006 The New York Post listed Theodorou as one of the “25 sexiest New Yorkers.”

Two people close to him during those years confirmed his identity after viewing a video of Servan. Neither was surprised to learn he had joined the fight in Syria. Theodorou had enlisted in the Marines not long after leaving dental school, they said. He had served in Kosovo and Iraq.

Fighters in Syria said the 223 remains active. The father of a Briton killed in the fighting posted a Facebook message from Servan in February, publicly announcing that he had named the group after Johnston. “I am commanding that unit and we have done well in the past two operations.”

Speaking in fluent Kurdish, Servan said in a video recorded last year that he was from New York City and that the American people “love freedom a lot.” Switching to English, he praised the YPG as a small but fierce and effective fighting force.

“This is my new family,” he said.

—

After a falling out with Servan, Krsnik arrived back in Toronto in early March. RCMP officers spent more than two hours interviewing him at Pearson airport, he said. A Canadian Security Intelligence Service officer later contacted him and they met at a Tim Hortons.

He said he was open about what he had done and he had no regrets. Like the Jabarah brothers, the ISIL fighters he saw through the scope of his sniper rifle were on the wrong side. “Those people chose their path and I chose mine,” he said. “I have a pretty clear conscience about it.” His sister Anita said the family was proud. “Do I think he did the right thing? Absolutely,” she said.

Reflecting on the 223’s disastrous first operation, Krsnik didn’t blame Gallagher, but said he had been out of the military for a decade and had never taken part in a gun battle. “I don’t think he was ready to be put into that situation, to be thrown right into the firefight.”

Giddings also took issue with the way the operation was conducted. He said taking only half the unit to clear the village went against a commitment they had made to always fight as a group. Asked what went wrong, he responded: “Basically, I would say eagerness to fight. Working with a tabor of Kurds who we never worked alongside, lack of language skills. Leadership was poor.”

He agreed that Gallagher should have shot the suicide bomber who approached him instead of trying to speak to him. “I think John shouldn’t have gone that evening, personally, but that is retrospective,” he said. “John was a good soldier but his command of basic Kurdish was poor and he found it hard distinguishing between Kurdish and Arabic. I believe he shouldn’t have been at that firefight.”

In Carder’s living room, the cards that school children sent her on Remembrance Day were bundled in a box on the floor beside the piano, with the condolence letters from politicians and strangers. Out the window the lake glimmered under the bright spring sun.

The parents of other volunteer fighters killed in the conflict have written to her, she said, as well as those who served with her son. She said had a long visit with Krsnik and that others from the 223 wanted to come see her. “I find it really touching that they want to pay their respects to their fallen comrade’s mother,” she said. “It seems like part of an old fashioned code of honor.”

Sitting at her computer, she called up the Facebook messages her son sent from Syria, updating her on what he was doing, telling her not to worry, that no news was good news and if anything happened, she would hear from someone.

“Well guess what,” she said, “we did.”

http://news.nationalpost.com/news/canada/the-223-a-secretive-unit-of-international-veterans-went-on-its-first-mission-against-isil-last-november-hours-later-a-canadian-was-dead

Anyone on the island may be interested in supporting this worthy cause. All geared to raise awareness of PTSD.
http://www.woundedwarriorrunbc.com/

"Veterans Affairs Minister Kent Hehr was one of the people who came to the Ottawa ceremony and laid a candle with the name and picture of a military member or veteran who had died by suicide."

Much appreciated your Honour, it is real and it follows you day in and day out, it is a little voice that repeats some times loud and clear and sometime far in the distance.

Military veterans and their supporters held vigils across four provinces on Sunday to support military families who have lost someone to suicide, and talk about ways to put an end to it.

The non-profit group Honouring our Canadian Soldiers (HOCS) organized ceremonies at Royal Canadian Legions in Thunder Bay, Waterloo, Que., Oromocto, N.B., and Debert, N.S., on Sunday, along with another at the National Military Cemetery in Ottawa.

One of the organizers of the event in Ottawa said they want to show families of soldiers who have died by suicide and military members struggling with mental health that they're not forgotten and not alone.

"[Families] are going through such a hard thing with their lives, such a hurt in their heart that none of us can imagine, really," said Sherry Duplessis, a veteran and volunteer with HOCS.

"It's hard enough to lose [a family member] in battle, but to lose them after the battle… and to lose them when they're back here, when they think they're safe, that's really hard on them."

Duplessis said a big way to help people struggling with post-traumatic stress disorder and other mental health issues is to not be afraid to talk about suicide and the help that's available.

"We need to say the word 'suicide.' We need to tell not only soldiers, but we're talking about firefighters and police and EMS, 'You guys are all going through a hard, hard job, but it's OK to talk about it,'" she said.

"'It's OK to find somebody to help you out and it's OK to remain here on Earth because we can help you.' Everyone can help if we all get together on this."

Duplessis said the group's goal is to keep adding vigils until every province has one and, eventually, to make enough progress to transform the vigils into events that talk about the help people are getting, not the people who are dying.

Minister says action coming soon

Veterans Affairs Minister Kent Hehr was one of the people who came to the Ottawa ceremony and laid a candle with the name and picture of a military member or veteran who had died by suicide.

Beechwood Cemetery Soldier Suicide Candle
Candles with the name and picture of military personnel or veterans who have died by suicide sit on a table at Ottawa's Beechwood Cemetery. (Andrew Foote/CBC)

He said governments have been slow to move on mental health issues in general, but he and Defence Minister Harjit Sajjan have "a bunch of initiatives" in the works to support soldiers and veterans.

"We have a secretariat right now looking into a host of the initiatives we're doing and where we're not doing as well as we can," he said.

"We'll wait for some of those reports to come in, but we want to get this right, not get it rushed, and we want to lay a groundwork for years to come."

Hehr mentioned a new military centre for excellence focused on mental health, which was brought up in Prime Minister Justin Trudeau's mandate letter to him.

That letter also mentioned a suicide prevention strategy for Canadian Armed Forces personnel and veterans as one of both his and Sajjan's top priorities.

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ottawa/military-suicide-stigma-vigil-1.3457987

Ill and injured Canadian soldiers recently travelled to the world's coldest continent to summit its highest mountain.

Eight Canadian soldiers who had been injured in battle went on an expedition to Antarctica to summit Mount Vinson Massif, the highest peak in the continent and therefore one of the world's so-called Seven Summits, to raise funds for Canadian veterans and their families. The team arrived from Punta Arenas, Chile, last month after spending two weeks in the massive ice belt.

The True Patriot Love Foundation is a national charity dedicated to supporting and honouring members of the Canadian Armed Forces, veterans and their families. The True Patriot Love Scotiabank expedition was also made up of 15 Canadian business leaders and five team specialists.

The purpose of the trip was to shine a light on the issues members of the Canadian Forces face, such as transitioning from military to civilian life.

"Right off the bat -- especially military that have actually been deployed to, say, for example, Afghanistan -- to go into an office environment then to start working a nine-to-five job, it's like night and day," says Amy Simmonds, a spokeswoman for TPL. "A lot of them come back from service with physical and mental injuries and then they have to start living their lives normally, which is really hard to do considering what they've been through."

The soldiers on the journey to Antarctica were also partnered with 15 Canadian business leaders -- individuals meant to serve as mentors to the veterans.

"I think that's an important piece to remember. ... Partnering them with a group of highly successful individuals who are ready to extend their hand and to help these men and women transition, it's really important. . . . That mentorship, we hope, not only happens on the mountain but continues after," Simmonds said.

The Antarctica team has raised more than $2 million for Canadian veterans and their families. Twenty of the team of 26 reached the summit, making it the largest summit group in the history of Vinson Massif. Here are the stories of two of the soldiers, both of whom are stationed at Petawawa.

Thomas White: 'I was devastated'

Thomas White wasn't going to let 17 surgeries stop him from climbing the highest mountain in Antarctica.

The soldier, who's currently stationed in Petawawa with the Royal Canadian Dragoons, was severely injured by an IED attack in Afghanistan back in 2009. Since then, he has had to re-learn how to walk. Having been robbed of several chances to be redeployed, as a result of his injuries, he lept at the opportunity when this expedition arose.

"And I said, 'Yes, I'm going to see if we can do this," White said. "I wasn't sure that I could do it, and then I realized that we're going to the bottom of the earth to where there's nothing."

The journey to the frigid, ice-covered land wasn't quick. It took more than 20 hours by plane and with White not at his full health, sitting down for such a long period of time caused him excruciating back pain. But despite the onerous trip, he arrived safely to the massive white grounds. Then, three days into the journey, he threw his back out.

"It was brutal, I was devastated. I couldn't put my boots on," he said.

Dr. Markus Besemann, head of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation for the Canadian Forces Health Services Group, had been recruited by to provide medical aid to the team. He performed acupuncture to White that eased the pain. And with his teammates by his side, White trekked the 7 1/2-hour march to the first destination, low camp.

"Where you are, it's very humbling. It's very emotional, because the only thing that's there is the buddy that's with you. And everybody gelled together instantly," White said.

Temperatures dropped below -60 C and they received more than 45 centimetres of snow on the first day. But despite the physical demands of climbing the summit, for White, it wasn't the physical struggle that challenged him the most.

"The hardest part about the whole thing was mentally. Like, my God, how am I going to get through this?" he says. "And it was the team work and camaraderie, that was built that happens on tour as well."

White saw the importance of this expedition because he values TPL's initiative to help soldiers transition from the military back to normal life.

"A lot of the people I work with at work right now are going through that phase. ... so that's what made me think this is going to be a good cause."

And White himself will also be going through his own transition soon when he retires from the military in September.

"I've been doing this for 22 years and this is all I know. ... And I know when the day comes it's most likely going to hit me hard. Especially when I have to hand in all my kit -- that's the day when it's going to hit me saying 'Oh my God, this is it.'"

Though White did not make it to the peak due to injuries, he was close.

He's now trying to make a plan to open his own shop once he leaves the military, as a cobbler and a leather worker. But though he knows the transition will not be easy. He said the expedition taught him a very important lesson that he will carry with him.

"You're not alone. Ever," White says. "Ask for help when you need help. ... Everyone is in the same situation. Everybody's in the same pot but everybody's got their own real issues that they've got to work through."

White credits the TPL Foundation for the experience.

"True Patriot Love believes so much in what the military does. ... They've told us they can do what they do because of what we do."

Jeremy Blair: 'There's a quietness that doesn't exist elsewhere'

Hefty backpacks, heavy breathing and trekking for hours on end was nothing new to Jeremy Blair.

Blair, from Brampton, Ont., joined the Canadian Forces shortly after finishing high school. He is currently with the Battalion of the Royal Canadian Regiment posted to Petawawa, just outside of Ottawa.

His interest in the expedition lay in supporting the goal of helping troops transition into civilian life. But something there was another motivation, as well: His passion for the mountains.

"There's a certain quality of peace to them. There's a quietness that doesn't exist elsewhere," he says. "All the background noise of everyday life doesn't make its way up there. Things are simplified to the necessities. And I find it oddly enough therapeutic being up there."

Blair had been exposed to other mountains through being in the military since 2008. But the most gratifying thing about the journey, for Blair, wasn't reaching the top of the mountain.

"It's kind of strange that the climb itself seems insignificant compared to the bonds made with all the people that were on the civilian team. When we got back to Chile, it was almost as if the climb was just a very short portion of what the trip was."

Blair's release date from the military is in two years, and he plans to own a company. The connections he made to the business leaders on the trip will help him achieve that goal, he said.

"Every one of (them) opened their doors and said 'Hey, if you want to start a business, we'll help you.' From that aspect, business planning and that sort of thing, the connections there are just invaluable."

But the biggest takeaway for Blair?

"The level (in which) these people cared about the troops in general. ...I incorrectly had the impression that the civilian population doesn't really understand what soldiers go through," he says.

"And I still don't believe that they know the details of what we have to go through overseas, but they do get the fact that this (is a) cost to us. Every single one of the people on the civilian team were just incredible."

http://www.torontosun.com/2016/02/20/peaks-and-valleys-injured-canadian-soldiers-ascend-antarcticas-tallest-mountain

A Prince George veteran of the Canadian military was sentenced Tuesday to two years probation for uttering threats to hold a Veterans Affairs Canada office hostage and possessing a prohibited firearm.

At the time he had committed the offences in mid-2014, Anthony Jerome Manuge, 52, was "struggling with every aspect of his life," Prince George provincial court judge Judith Doulis said.

After a decade in the Canadian Armed Forces, which he joined upon graduating from high school, Manuge was honourably discharged in 1990 and began a career as a certified computer systems engineer.

But from his time in the military he was suffering chronic pain from various injuries and from various psychological troubles, including post traumatic stress disorder. By 2004, Manuge could no longer work and began receiving benefits from Veterans Affairs.

In March 2014, Veterans Affairs discovered it had accidentally overpaid Manuge for two months and reclaimed the additional money. For Manuge, it turned his financial situation from "bad to desperate."

He appealed the Veterans Affairs decision but was dissatisfied with the outcome and began sending a series of angry emails to various destinations, including his younger brother, Dennis, who lives in Nova Scotia.

Also a veteran, Dennis was the lead plaintiff in a class action lawsuit that led to a $900-million settlement in 2013 on behalf of disabled veterans whose long-term disability benefits were reduced by the amount of the monthly disability pension they received.

Rather than acting as a "sober voice of reason," Dennis played a significant role in "winding up" Manuge, Doulis commented.

Matters came to a head on April 17, 2014, when in an email to Dennis, Manuge suggested they go to Charlottetown and hold 1,100 Veterans Affairs employees hostage for the Easter long weekend to make their point.

Manuge also had comments for RCMP emergency response team who shot and killed another military veteran, Greg Matters, during a September 2012 standoff in Pineview.

"If they send the RCMP to my door, I can get some payback for Greg," Manuge said in one email. "Unlike Greg, I'm not afraid, I'm determined. I'm the ERT's worst nightmare."

Manuge had copied the email to Veterans Affairs and three days later, when the Easter long weekend had ended, it was referred to the RCMP.

RCMP subsequently executed a search warrant on his home and although most of his firearms were legally owned and properly stored, they found a semi-automatic rifle with a magazine holding 22 bullets, well above the legal limit of five. They also found three other overcapacity magazines.

Doulis accepted that Manuge never intended to act on his thoughts and noted his life has improved significantly since then. Although his marriage broke down, Manuge is now receiving treatment for his physical and mental health issues.

Prior to his arrest, Manuge was a director for the Prince George Rod and Gun Club. He also used to shoot clay targets for a hobby and was vice president of the national clay target shooting association.

Manuge's probation comes with a suspended sentence and he was issued a 10-year prohibition against owning any unrestricted firearms and a lifetime prohibition against owning any restricted ones.

Manuge has "likely learned his lesson," Doulis said, and noted he's lost his firearms collection, both a valuable asset and a source of enjoyment, as a result of his offences.

Manuge sat quietly next to his lawyer as Doulis delivered her verdict. Matters' mother, Lorraine, was also in the courtroom for the decision.

http://www.princegeorgecitizen.com/news/local-news/threat-illegal-firearm-earn-military-veteran-two-years-probation-1.2169148

Lol @ propat ~ nice to see you again!

https://www.google.ca/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjw1PeKzbjKAhVBJB4KHRu7CcsQFggbMAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.torontosun.com%2F2012%2F01%2F20%2Fpension-double-dip-may-be-possible-for-some-mps&usg=AFQjCNE_mPBHXWpEa7CZqN8AjkNVYohYgA

Do you suppose harper is collecting pm pension and mp salary. double dipping why are are news channels reporting us useless stories instead of exposing real canadian tax payer rip offs.
lol@propat no their sleeping on 24ct gold stitching.

on a mattress filled with your tax dollars buds .

propat

How the H--- do they sleep at night???????

What get's me is seen one whining to Peter manbridge about worried about having to sell her home what the h kind of home do you have there in NS. well lady if you cannot save 100k a year on that kind of salary plus being a lawyer well then you should not be trying to run Canada's expenses. for this mp's expenses was over 400k.

A military widow in Beaver Bank, N.S., says she will be forced to sell her home if Veterans’ Affairs doesn't compensate her for the tens of thousands of dollars she spent trying to save her husband's life.
Wayne Collins died of multiple system atrophy, a rare neurological disorder that may have been linked to his time in the navy. He and his wife, Dawn Collins, spent much of their life savings seeking treatment, including a trip to Germany for stem cell therapy.
Wayne rallied for a while, but died in 2012.
PHOTOS
Widow
Dawn Collins says she was promised nearly $160,000 from Veterans’ Affairs after her husband's death.
After years of fighting, the couple had been promised nearly $160,000 from Veterans’ Affairs to cover Wayne's medical expenses. Nearly four years later, Dawn still hasn't seen a cheque.
The couple always believed the disease was related to his service in the navy in the mid-60s where he was a stoker in the engine room of several ships.
"Back then, they used carbon tetrachloride as a de-greaser,” said Dawn Collins. “They would shower in it and clean pipes and stuff like that with it.”
With a part-time job that only guarantees 12 hours a week, along with a mortgage and other bills, Dawn's savings are rapidly running out. She says if nothing changes, she'll have to list the house next spring.
"It's extremely unfortunate,” said former Maritime MP Peter Stoffer. “The man was exposed to a variety of chemicals during his service time.”

Stoffer, who spent years as Veterans’ Affairs critic, is optimistic the new minister will take a second look at Collins’ file.
"I have confidence in the minister,” said Stoffer. “I've spoken to him and I like his tone so far, but as you know, when the rubber hits the road, we'll see what action comes about. “
With her husband of 47 years gone, Dawn Collins says she’ll keep working and hoping she won't lose her home, as well.

http://atlantic.ctvnews.ca/military-widow-looking-for-help-with-medical-bills-four-years-after-husband-s-death-1.2744016

Only met him once, just a short chat. A good guy. Properly feisty.

And inspite of last years ABC, at least this article shows a broader spectrum of the man.