War as an Attachment

Life as an attachment sucks, especially in war. We breath the same air, eat the same food, walk the same route, and can die just like everyone else yet we are never a part of the core group of guys, the grunts who do all the sweating and bleeding. Try as we might, attachments hover slightly off the "tip of the spear" earning a dubious gratitude from their infantry counterparts.

The basic Marine warfighting unit is the infantry platoon, which varies in size but usually contains about thirty-five people. These guys must be augmented to provide a full spectrum of offensive capabilities: machine gunners, snipers, assaultmen (think rockets), and others as dictated by the mission.

In Afghanistan the (ideal) standard loadout also includes engineers to sweep for IEDs, a dog and dog handler for explosive detection, an Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD) team to dispose of any IEDs, an interpreter for the patrol leader to talk to locals, a Human Exploitation Team (HET) guy to question any shady characters, and poor ol' Civil Affairs bringing up the rear to gather information on VIPs, identify projects to help out locals, and pay claims for damages or deaths.

This never happens. In fact, I have never seen an infantry patrol with all elements together ever - even in training. Two reasons for this: one, there aren't enough personnel to cover down on every platoon; and two, attachments can be viewed (rightly, sometimes) as another mouth to feed. So instead we end up moving around a larger area, attaching and detaching as instructed.

For Civil Affairs the default infantry attitude is skepticism if not downright hostility. Most of our work is seen as a joke - the whole hearts and minds crap that no one sees as useful in a place as violent as Sangin. When you first start out with a new platoon you have no friends and cry yourself to sleep every night. Or maybe that last part is just me.

Anyway, there's nothing to do but plug away day after day - patrol, debrief, stand post, fill sandbags - until the guys start to open up to you. Eventually you get know the names of the squad leaders, then the fire team leaders, then the individual Marines. You learn the "in" jokes, get made fun of, wrestle or box someone and win/lose (usually lose), and work your way in. Depending on the platoon this process could take two days, a week, or even a month.

And then you leave. The relationships you built are gone. The guys you've learned to work with, respect, and trust are gone. You're gone, headed off to a new group where you will face a sea of uncertain, even unwelcome faces again.

Lather, rinse, repeat. War as an attachment.

Rocket launchers and Pharmacists

It's very easy to lose perspective in Afghanistan. Marines tend to forget how they look in the eyes of the population, both figuratively--an occupying force--and literally--gigantic alien-looking guys with big guns). Creole saw this first hand a few months ago.

He was on a patrol in the bazaar with an infantry squad and needed to speak with key health care personnel in the area to determine the level of care provided to the locals. True to form, Creole offered to carry some ammunition or gear to lighten the load for some of the grunts. This is a fairly standard practice; it helps us integrate with the guys and shows we're willing to carry our fair share. This seems intuitive but you'd be surprised how many attachments pretend they are above the normal responsibilities of a Marine.

Anyway, before this patrol Creole takes an AT4 anti-tank rocket launcher and straps it to his back. About an hour later, they reach their destination - a pharmacist's shop toward the southern end of the bazaar. Creole is of course the guy who goes in to speak with the pharmacist (AKA someone can pronounce the names of drugs in Pashto). Just to make sure everyone's tracking, we have a giant Texan in full body armor and bristling with weapons walking into a shop simply to ask how business is doing. The guy at the counter was (justifiably) scared and refused to answer the questions. I'm pretty sure he thought his shop was going to get blown up. And Creole was getting pissed because he couldn't understand what the guy was so scared of. Finally the interpreter sorted out the problem and the Marines left to finish their patrol.

I didn't hear this story until several weeks later and I couldn't stop laughing. Dark military humor, I guess. The reality right now is we can't be the baby-kissers and money-spenders in Sangin because security is all anyone cares about. It'll get better, in sha Allah, but for now I'd prefer to have that guy with a rocket launcher, even if he is Civil Affairs.