Monday, December 12, 2011

Bad Day

This was the start of a bad day. Probably the worst while I was in Afghanistan. The explosion pictured in actually from a MCLIC (mine clearing line charge) so we were expecting it. The picture can't show a few things, though, that are crucial to the story.

First, we were leaving out of the SW gate of FOB Jackson to clear the treeline about 200 meters south of the base in hopes that we could minimize Taliban disruption of the election, which was a day or two after this operation. This was basically a situation where we marched out of the gate in order to draw fire and set off IEDs so Afghans wouldn't have to worry as much about violence if they decided to vote - the joys of counterinsurgency . . .

Second, a sniper had been shooting at us for a while that morning. A bunch of us were sitting around waiting to leave and a big puff of dust kicked up about five meters away with a big SNAP! Everyone scrambled for cover, hoping the bastard wouldn't get lucky.

Third, this picture was taken about four hours after we were supposed to leave. Originally the first element was crossing the LOD at 0600, but it ended up being 0930 or so before anyone stepped off. Something about problems with the MCLICs or whatever. No one ever passed the word.

Fourth, the rest of the day was brutal. It was hot as all get-out. We were ambushed outside of a compound several hundred meters south of the FOB. This was the first and only time in my deployment where we were unable to achieve fire superiority - truly scary. I can't imagine what war was like before we were better than everyone else.

Fifth, it was effing hot. So hot that by 1100 I was drenched in sweat and was sucking water like it was going out of style. Still, it was better than a few months later when I'm pretty sure I spent four weeks without actually feeling my hands. Whatever. 

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

What was it all for?

I don't know how many of you (who reads my blog anyway?) have seen this video but I just had the pleasure last night. The best way to hear what people think is Facebook right now, so I left it up there all night and was not disappointed this morning with over ten comments from various people. I don't think a single one of them captured what is so disturbing to me about this video.

For starters, I have to give this girl credit. At least she isn't posting anonymous comments somewhere. She has her position, however crude and uniformed, and puts it out there for everyone to hear. That's something, even if she speaks with "the valor of ignorance."

Two things bother me about this (well, that's not true but I'm focusing on these two). One is how many other people I know share her convictions but lack the integrity to say so. What does "Support the Troops" mean to someone who has never served and has no connection to the military community? They probably think, much like this girl, that a bunch of stupid minorities and farm boys are signing up because they either have no job prospects or are seized by unconquerable bloodlust. In their paternalism, these people believe they need to help these poor people in the military understand what they are doing so they can stop being a part of the war machine. The warped view of military life held by so many of these people simmers below a politically correct layer of BS.

The complement to the first issue is how unlikely this girl is to ever change her mind. People with no exposure to the military are not going to magically start meeting and talking with veterans or active duty servicemembers. And even if they did, the exposure would never last long enough for them to move past the "don't you realize how terrible the military is?" phase to the "hmm, I guess I don't really know much about the military" phase. No, instead they will sit with others who agree with them, convinced of their own superiority, and die thinking the same thing.

So why do we fight for such people? Why am I and all the other veterans the ones expected to be so much more mature and turn the other cheek? Because she's young? We're young. Because she obviously has no experience? She never will. Because it's her right? I also have rights of self-expression. Because we should tolerate diversity of opinion? She doesn't have an opinion - she has a belief. A belief is a conviction held without evidence, and that is precisely what this rant represents.

Right now 3/7 is back in Sangin. I hope the next time one of their 19 year-old LCpls rotates back to FOB Jackson he doesn't go online and find something like this video. We all deserve better. America deserves better.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

When Things First Got Hot (and Chilly)

This picture reminds me a lot of our team's early days in Sangin. It was taken during one of my first operations in country, or at least I think it was . . . anyway, it was mid to late September. Big Daddy, Creole, Mumbles, Doc, and I had been attached to India Company, 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines for a clearing operation. The LT was butting his head up against a wall trying to get us deployed the way he wanted, but the word from higher was to get CAG "surged" (everyone loved that phrase back then) to India Company, who was the focus of effort. So the team was split up, and each of us ended up with a different element, while LT and Dominicano stayed at the main base and Doc helped out at the Aid Station.

It was a relatively uneventful start to a difficult day. The first squad LDed pretty early in the morning but by the time I stepped off with the third squad it was already ridiculously hot. Probably 100 degrees, plus all that damn gear. Sweating our way into orchards, across mud walls, rushing through danger areas - it was a long, grueling start. I amused myself during breaks with the EOD Tech with whom I'd made fast friends. Guys like him have to be a little crazy and the one thing constant across 3/7, 1st Recon, and 3/5 was how quickly I was able to make friends with EOD. They are a strange bunch. We eventually joined up with the second squad at a large compound where a family claimed their father was working in the District Center. First squad was pushed out clearing the next sector of the route, so we holed up at the compound while they swept for IEDs. It was a pretty standard scene: Marines bored as hell, kids chucking rocks at their goats and (if they also got bored) each other, women hiding in one of rooms, and me trying to figure out how the hell I could get some useful information for the Platoon Sergeant or maybe even the LT. The father returned, claimed he was an Engineer and sympathetic to the government and the Marines even though he was Ishaqzai. Big Surprise - he only had twenty-odd Marines armed to the teeth waiting for him when he got home. What else was he going to say?

We had a particularly awful terp, so I didn't get very far but the forward element was moving so slowly it really didn't matter. A few hours later we realized there wasn't going to be any further movement before it got dark so the Platoon Commander ordered first squad to RTB. On the way back their Combat Camera was shot in the side above his side SAPI plate. Creole was there, and helped bring him back to the compound where the rest of us were staying. Leatherneck (the main camp) spun up the MEDEVAC bird and sent it on its way, but it took over a half-hour. The Corpsman we had with us brought the guy back three times before the chopper touched down.

He died on the return flight.

Funny, this picture is actually from the next morning. I remember it because it was so cold on radio watch (I think I had 0200-0400) and I had only packed out my poncho liner. Solution? Burn a bunch of plastic from MREs I had eaten, staying close enough to get some heat but not so close that I was hacking constantly. It's a difficult balance.

Monday, October 17, 2011

What Is There Left To Defend?

Sitting in a coffee shop on campus with a few minutes to kill before class. Standing up to refill my cup, I see something . . . absolutely ridiculous. I don't know if you have heard of G4 TV but it's some cable channel focused on young adults. They are showing some game shop-type series with two chicks dressed up to look like a New Yorker's caricature of a trashy teenage girl: daisy dukes, midriff t-shirts, and pigtails.

This is America now. It's 11:45 on a Monday, I'm at one of our so-called "elite" institutions and the flat-screen on the wall is showing two anoxeric whores playing Marble in the Oatmeal, where they mock fight each other in a kiddy pool of porridge.

Originally I wanted this blog to be a way for me to remember and make sense of my deployment to Afghanistan. I've been afraid to write in it for the last five months and I don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with the steaming, messy pile of shit that is American culture. How can you justify what our eighteen and nineteen year-olds are going through when this is what we do with the opportunities?

There is nothing of value is what we create under the logic of profit maximization. I may want to watch some girls flailing around in oatmeal (actually, I really don't but when I was sixteen I might have) but does that justify a channel dedicated to hedonism? Is it right just because they can make a few bucks on advertising?

We are lost.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

It never leaves you

Occasionally you are reminded how different you are from other students at school. Most of the time you can pretend you're not but then the most random little event will trigger something inside of you. And that can scare you.

I was walking with a friend toward the Stanford Quad last week along Serra Street. It was a beautiful day, clouds playing across a blue sky while a brisk wind kept it just on the chilly side. The two of us had spent a carefree afternoon walking around the new Graduate School of Business complex looking at some of the new sculptures, discussing them (she's a writer for an art magazine), and generally catching up since we hadn't seen each other since I'd returned.

Two people crashed into each other on their bicycles about one hundred and fifty meters ahead of us while we passed the fountain in front of Memorial Auditorium. I could hear a few people yelling and sprinted over to see if everyone was okay. One of the girls was standing up and seemed to be okay while the other was lying on the pavement on her side, screaming.

The first thing that flashed in my head was how only one woman was even attempting to help. Everyone else was just standing around. I let a wave of anger pass over me and then focused on the girl. She was on her right side, grimacing and incoherent. After making sure someone called 911, I looked her over. She was unable to move her left shoulder but claimed to be otherwise hurt, which a quick scan confirmed.

Her name was Hillary. I rolled up my sweatshirt and put it under Hillary's head while we talked for the next seven or eight minutes. First the police (a wonderful deputy name Harris Kuhn who is a good friend of the Stanford veterans) and then the fire department showed up and took over, much to my relief. This should have been a pretty unremarkable event - Hillary gets hurt, gets help, end of story - but it wasn't. Not to me.

Kneeling over her, telling her she was going to be okay, telling her help was on the way - all of the sudden I was back in Sangin during a clearing op with L/3/7, watching an Afghan soldier with no legs slowly bleed out muttering "Allah, Allah" over and over again. All I could do was shout at him in English to stop moving because we were about to drop a GBU on a compound only sixty meters away. He ended up dying on the MEDEVAC bird. Did I check his tourniquets and do a blood sweep every time we moved him? I think so.

I think so. But I'm not sure. It never leaves you.

Friday, March 25, 2011

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.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

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.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Team Love

I wish I could explain exactly what happened a few night ago in our hooch. It was just one of those weird moments you know you'll remember for the rest of your life. All the enlisted guys were lying around killing time. It was two days until the junior guys were due to leave Sangin for good.

I was sitting on my cot cleaning my M4 sort of half-assed. I wasn't getting much carbon off the bolt, but the sound of bore brush's constant scraping relaxed me - put me in a reflective mood, I guess. I looked up and slowly gazed around at my team.

Buddha sleeps to my left. He had a white sheet hung up between us, and I could see his fuzzy silhouette as he fiddled around with his laptop. He's always messing around with it because everyone picks up viruses when they share movies on external hard drives. Buddha, though, never accepts degraded performance from his machine; he diligently dissembles the computer, diagnoses the problem, and fixes it. This process sometimes takes days, and we all give him shit for being such a stereotypical Asian.

Dominicano lay on his cot across the walkway watching a movie. His boonie cover rested low on his head and was pulled down, almost completely covering his face. With his earphones in, I don't think he was aware of anything but a bootleg action movie with russian subtitles.

Mumbles had moved over from his normal spot down to the left. Instead he sat on a stool on Dominicano's near side so he could watch Creole play Plants & Zombies. This is a very popular (and incredibly stupid) video game played by 90% of the junior enlisted Marines. The volume was turned up, so the sound effects blasted out of the computer speakers. This ceased bothering me after month #2 or so - I tuned it out completely.

To my immediate right, Big Daddy was also enjoying some electronic entertainment. He had discovered the HBO Series "True Blood" the day before and was already an addict. I'm pretty sure he watches seven or eight hours a day right now. In any case, his attention was absorbed in the dramatic lives of vampires with bad southern accents constantly trying to sleep with each other.

In other words, the team was together and happy. We had finished almost all of our RIP (relief in place) with the new team and had nothing to do but enjoy each other's company. I looked from one guy to the next, lingering a little on each face as memories of the deployment swirled around in my head.

I don't know what to call the emotion I felt. Love, maybe. Affection, probably. Kinship, definitely. These were my guys and we'd been through a lot both separately and together.

Creole must have felt me staring at him - we locked eyes.
"Hey Sarn't T."
"Yeah?"
"Quit being gay."
"Shut up."
"Roger that."

Yup, my team.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Easing back in

Learning to live anywhere but an isolated patrol base is a difficult process. Everything you take for granted in the States has been stripped away - hot food, hot water (hell, running water), toilets, central heat, clean air, and so on. It's amazing how much crap we use every day that doesn't contribute meaningfully to our survival.

Anyway, what's strange is you can't pick back up the habits of using these amenities even they're available again. Sitting inside insulated from the wind makes me sweat because I'm wearing layers all the time and I've acclimatized to the severe Afghan winter. The cough I developed from breathing in all the dioxide (thank you, burning piles of plastic and shit) has lessened noticeably. My fingernails are clean for the first time in months.

Strangely enough, the hardest thing to pick back up is showering. Normally I'm a pretty clean guy but going weeks on end with nothing but baby wipes changes a man. I took a shower five days ago and still feel really, really clean.

And I'm not even the worst on the team. You should see Mumbles. Or smell him, I guess. I had to threaten to duct tape him to his cot and beat him senseless if he didn't take a shower. It was something like a month but he has had access to the shower trailer for at least two weeks.

Living on this Forward Operating Base for a few weeks will help the transition to Camp Leatherneck, which adds a cafeteria and heated rooms into the mix. From there it shouldn't be too much of a leap to the manicured, perfumed reality awaiting me back in the good ol' U.S. of A.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Big Daddy

Certain days you realize you have it good in life. Let me tell you a short story about how lucky I am, and maybe you'll understand what I'm feeling.

Let's start off with two facts: Fact #1 I'm a cocky bastard. Anyone disagree with that? No one? Fact #2 I don't do a very good job of hiding it. Any care to disagree? Alright good, let's move on to the story.

I realized several months ago that I would have had a totally different experience in any other Civil Affairs team. LT takes an unusual approach to leadership, encouraging dissent and listening to everyone's opinion before pulling the trigger. He values broad perspectives and never takes the status quo for granted - to him, there is always a way to improve.

But the next guy in my chain of command isn't him - it's my Gunny. Our pre-deployment training was strange because he was gone a lot of the time, on leave and then at Civil Affairs school. Team 1 effectively lost our number two Marine, the one who makes things happen. I tried to step into that role but it requires a familiarity with the Corps you can't get as an off-again, on-again reservist. We missed him, more than we realized at that point.

He is a quite a guy, and I've come to respect him more and more. There really in no other name for him than Big Daddy. He's short, about 5' 7", built compact and strong. Creole always complains that he can do pull-ups forever because of his "old man strength." Only in the Corps is 33 considered old. Big Daddy runs us hard but fair, and takes care of us when we're in trouble. I can't even begin to count the number of times he's given me good advice on a problem I saw as overwhelming or hopeless.

He also lets me off easy, and that was huge during the deployment. 99% of the Staff Sergeants and Gunnery Sergeants in the Corps would have smacked me down hard for being too forward, too cocky, too aggressive, and not deferential enough. I'm nothing is not a stubborn and prideful cuss, so you all know how I would respond to criticism like that.

Don't get me wrong - these complaints are all spot on. But Big Daddy gave me a soft landing. He took the time to show me how I'd dropped a lot of attitudes of respect for rank and tradition during my time in college, and how this undermined the Total Marine concept we were both trying to impart on the younger guys. We walked through it together and I'll be damned if I didn't come out of that conversation more dedicated to him than ever before, even though he basically told me I was being a jackass.

I've never quite found this type of relationship before. We're as different as night and day but have worked out a system of cooperation second to none. Whatever I think about my own abilities, I thank God every day Big Daddy is there to catch me if I fall.

Funny what you can be grateful for.

Monday, February 14, 2011

The Sound of the Police

If you're one of those people who did not enjoy my last blog about Afghanistan's complexity then you're sure to like this one. Here I'll write like your standard editorialist and reduce this country's malaise into the crisis du jour.

Today we're serving a big steaming pile of police. Afghan Uniform Police to be specific. It used to be the Afghan National Police until the Wizard of Oz in Kabul - or perhaps DC - decided to plus up security by adding militias called arbakai. So now we have uniform policemen and some yokels with AK-47s.

And why are we doing this? Several reasons, it turns out - none of them particularly comforting.

First, because we promised some people we'd begin withdrawing troops in 2011 (this year, in case you don't have a calendar handy). That means we need someone to fill the void and we can't train AUP fast enough. Someone hit on the great solution of arming young men with few qualifications, a minimum of training, and close to no oversight. Problem solved.

Second, people hate (HATE) the AUP. They're poorly trained. They aren't motivated. They take bribes. They harass locals. Some are even Taliban. They smell. Okay okay, I added that last one. The rest I've heard straight from locals on numerous occasions. To address these concerns, the thinking is, we use locals with "skin the game" and a knowledge of the area, pay them a token salary, and watch the Taliban disintegrate. Problem solved.

Third, there's already a strong tradition of local defense in Afghan culture. As I mentioned earlier, bands of arbakai have been around for centuries. Afghanistan has never enjoyed a long period with strong central leadership so each area developed the institutions necessary to provide for their own defense. Now the US can co-opt this phenomenon and use it our advantage. Problem solved.

It's not all bad with the cops here. A lot of them work hard and just want the violence to die down. Most (read 90%) are stuck in a crappy situation not of their own making. But that 10% man, they're freaking AWFUL. And the police are a fascinating illustration of the problem of providing security when you don't know who to trust.

What's the real solution here? I am not the Wizard dispensing answers from behind the veil - I can't answer that. What I can tell you is the organizations needed to provide security in Afghanistan probably can't be developed in the timeline we're stuck with. Keep your eyes and ears open for timeline extensions, lowered expectations, or a depressing mix of the two.

Remember when I said I'd make this problem simple? yeah, That was a lie.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Afghanistan as Art

Do you want to know why you don't understand Afghanistan? It's because no one understands Afghanistan. It's because Afghanistan is a huge mix of cultures with no - let me repeat that, NO - unifying traditions or values.

What else is like this? Where in the world can we find examples to help us gain a measure of confidence in discussing the future of our involvement in this "country"? I believe art can help.

If you know me, you know I hate modern art. I don't understand it all, and I think most of it is a huge joke perpetrated on the public by people without the skill, time, or inclination to learn how to paint or sculpt realistically.

But I digress. You've probably seen this painting before:


"A Sunday on La Grande Jatte" by Georbes Seurat. I think it's the key to Afghanistan. This is - according to my Kindergarten level understanding of art - the first popular example of Pointillism. Rather than brush strokes, the artist used the tip to make small circles of color. Viewed from a distance, these dots appear to be a picture of a lot of strangely dressed people hanging out next to a river. With umbrellas in the shade. In reality, it's a bunch of dots - we only see a picture because that's how our minds make sense of it.

Enter the war. I've discovered that reading news about Afghanistan while deployed doesn't reflect anything I experience on a day to day basis. Hell, listening to other guys on my team talk about a village two kilometers from my patrol base is like hearing about a different universe.

Each small area here is its own dot. There's very little resemblance in behavior or composition from one to the next, and they often lack the sort of interaction we'd expect in a more developed country. This is especially true of the more rural areas in southern Afghanistan where the Marine Corps doggedly pursues the Taliban with one hand tied behind its weary back.

You'd think this isolation, variation, and complexity would inject a little humility into the writing about Afghanistan, but it doesn't. Everyone has their opinion about what's happening, and these always deal with the broad trends of the war. Discussing the true war - the amalgamation of blood, sweat, and tears unique to each area - necessarily reduces one's scope to the point where you'd have to have 10,000 long conversations rather than an 800 word-tall pile of goat shit.

But hey, it's always possible that I only understand Afghanistan as well as I understand modern art. Maybe the joke's on me . . . but I doubt it.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Counterinsurgency strategy for dudes

All told, I've spent about four of my six months here on patrol bases. Some were larger and better equipped than others but they all shared certain characteristics: we ate MREs - maybe tray rations if a resupply convoy came in; the highest ranking officer was a Lieutenant; there were no women; and the average age was around 20. (Note: that average includes me, the oldest guy in most places at 28)

We patrolled, we stood post, we waited around as QRF (the quick reaction force, called up in case the patrol gets in contact, hits an IED, and/or has a casualty). We ate bad chow, we worked out, we chopped wood, we police called, and we talked. A lot. About everything on God's green earth.

Although there were certain topics everyone loved - women, alcohol, trucks, hunting, fancy restaurant food - conversations inevitably drifted toward the war. By and large these guys feel like they were cheated out a good war in the name of counterinsurgency, or COIN. Hearts and minds. Population-centric warfare. AKA bulls#it.

As the Civil Affairs Marine I become the personification of all things COIN. I am the reason they can't just drop mortar rounds, call in bombs, and watch gun runs all day. Basically I suck more than anyone has ever sucked in the history of the world.

This forced me to come up with an explanation of why we were using the COIN approach to Afghanistan. This went through several phases, including raw logic (total flop), pointing out that was basically how the Soviets lost (total flop), even using Marine Corps history from the Phillipines, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, and Vietnam (total flop). What you are about to read is the culmination of six months talking to teenagers about complex military strategies using more expletives than real words. Feel free to stop reading if you're worried about your virgin eyes.

Here goes: you're at a bar with one of your buddies. He's an average guy: 5'9", a little chubby, quotes movies rather than makes up his own jokes, et cetera. You don't really like hanging out with him but you feel sorry for the guy. You've got other plans tonight, which means time is precious. Your goal is to off-load him on a girl so he can enjoy himself without clinging onto you for the rest of the night.

You spy a gaggle of four girl in the corner. They're all reasonably cute but no one stands out - that is, there's no angry-looking chick who wants to spoil everyone's fun by running interference on guys coming to talk. You order another two beers, let your buddy know these girls have been eyeing him, and start walking over.

A conversation strikes up among the six of you. The girls enjoy your jokes and are obviously interested. Your buddy, unfortunately, is pretty much dead weight right now. You've tried to coach him on things to say and ways to interact but it's in one ear and out the other. Still, you're staying afloat and that gives you hope.

Time drags on - one girl catches you checking your watch. Crap, now the whole group will know you're on a timetable. Ah well, can't be helped. Things are still flowing but you're starting to sense one of the girls isn't adding much. She's sitting there, stirring her drink and occasionally making a bitchy comment to your buddy. You dub her Mean Girl.

The girls spy a friend they know and walk over to make small talk for a few minutes. You coach your buddy a bit more, pointing out Mean Girl's tactics. He looks at you like there's too much cud in his mouth. Man, this guy is an idiot. It's going okay, you tell him, one of the girls definitely likes him (not true). Now you reiterate the game plan: try to win over Mean Girl by showing her extra attention, listen the girls' stories about how awesome the Twilight movies are, keep the drinks flowing for the next few hours, and you're golden. Okay? He nods. You're not convinced.

Fifteen minutes comes and goes. Nothing is happening. You're getting frustrated: your other friends are texting and calling and you can't answer because it risks ruining whatever mood has been set so far. You're painfully aware of how much hinges on your efforts. You're at the point where you wish you had never agreed to go out with your buddy at all - he probably won't have any luck tonight if you leave, but if you don't then your whole night is going to suck. So what do you do?

Explanation time: you are the Americans. Your buddy is the Afghan government/military. The girls are the Afghan people. Mean Girl is the Taliban. Like I said, your job is to get out of this situation as quickly as possible (2011, 2014, whatever) but in such a way we leave the Afghan government/military with the people, even though it's not entirely clear either really cares that much about the other. The Taliban can wreck this in a flash, requiring additional time and energy on your part. So you have to sideline them by a) getting the locals to stop supporting them (AKA COIN), b)killing every single one of them (AKA total warfare), or c) leaving the country and not worrying about it (AKA the Ron Paul solution).

Believe it or not, this story worked really well. It's pretty clear, draws from the Marines' experiences, and uses women as metaphors. Check and mate.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Turning toward home

180 days into a 210 day deployment and I'm ready to start thinking seriously about coming home. This doesn't include all the day-dreaming about BBQs, beer, pancakes, and so on - conservatively that's taken up about 50% of my waking hours here.

In any case, sticking my toe back into the water means I have to pick one thing to write about and let it go. Very simple, very short.

So here it is: My expectations were totally out of line with the reality here in Sangin. Thinking back to pre-deployment training (which was this decade, right?) we focused on things like our agricultural training at Fresno State and using crazy technology to efficiently development and implement development projects.

And . . . we used pretty much none of this. I haven't talked much to the other teams so I don't know what they did in Now Zad, Musa Qaleh, and Marjah. Maybe things were less "kinetic" and they took advantage of their training.

Actually, it's not true to say I didn't use the training - it's more accurate to say I found it distracting rather than helpful. In the beginning I was more focused on Civil Affairs as it was described on paper: projects, money, or some combination of the two. I wanted to make use of what I had learned, even if it wasn't what anyone around me wanted. So there were several times during patrols (when you're looking for IED indicators) that I noted the type of irrigation they were using, or the number and condition of livestock in a compound.

An example - (Talking out loud) Okay, they have three cows, four goats, and . . . ten chickens. BOOM! Okay, they have two cows, four goats, and seven chickens. BOOM! Okay, they have one cow . . .

This didn't last long but it did illustrate how weak my critical thinking skills were at twenty-eight years old. Next time (hopefully there won't be a next time) I'll understand that my job is to LISTEN first and foremost - both to Marines and Afghans. I am, to the use the LT's favorite word, the interlocutor between all things civil and military. Nothing more, nothing less.

That's enough for now. I should be writing one of these every week or so for the next month then cranking out a more steady stream in hopes of making sense of what the hell I've been doing since August.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Turning the page

The last four and a half months flew by. We are now a trained team, having been tested in training grounds across California on a variety of missions from convoy operations to infantry patrolling. The team roster will not change anymore (finally, we have Buddha, our Corpsman!), the location is set, all our bags are packed. As I write this, the rest of the Civil Affairs Detachment says their goodbyes to loved ones and friends, and pretends not to be too excited about the challenges lying in wait.

Our final weeks were accompanied by massive personal upheaval. The tectonic plates of my world shifted radically and I have reacted as best I could. I owe more than I can ever say to my family, who accepted my retreat into their embrace wordlessly and gratefully. No one could ever be more aware of their support system than I have been recently. Everyone contributed in their own way, and in each instance it was exactly what I needed.

Oddly enough, a simile relates my experience better than describing individual events. To me, the impending deployment was like a huge stone wall. It drew closer and closer, and my vision seemed to be restricted a little each day. The narrowing space pressed on me - emotions gain a new sense of urgency and threaten to sweep the comfortable world away. My anxiety never grew, however, as wave upon wave of individuals appeared to soothe my concerns and retreat quietly. Much has been given to me in this state, and I know who I owe.

This new vulnerability mixes strangely with my professional confidence. While recognizing the stresses inherent in our mission, a young(ish) man can't help but feel invigorated by the same knowledge - I am possessed by the blending of so much I value in my life into a vibrant seven-month strand. The task left to me is suppress the ego and allow my training and openness to suggest the correct course of action. What I mean to say is I will try to create the space for good to develop around me, and this concept has been applied when I return.

I think I'm spent. All that's left now is to negotiate the steepest learning curve of my life with the help of a few good men.

P.S. If you're interested in a more emo send-off, please see my blog post Saying Goodbye from last deployment. The specifics are no longer relevant but the substance remains the same.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Cleaning house

The six weeks leading up to deployment has been interesting to say the least. Focus has shifted in both the personal and professional sense toward re-orienting and simplifying as the days keeps sprinting by.

Right now Team 1 is focused on the culmination of our Civil Affairs training: the exercise known as Enhanced Mojave Viper, or EMV for short. For our partnered infantry unit this is the month-long comprehensive field test of all the skills they will need to accomplish their mission in Afghanistan. They incorporate all their organic and attached assets on missions as varied as intelligence gathering, combat operations, meetings with village leaders, and call for fire missions using artillery.

Did I mention it takes place in the southern California desert in late July and early August?

We support this infantry unit but are only involved in certain parts of EMV, specifically the last third or so. Our primary task is to set and run a Civil Military Operations Center (CMOC, pronounced "sea mock"). The CMOC will run over several days meant to simulate the three phases of stability operations according to classic counterinsurgency doctrine: clear, hold, and build.

The "clear" phase implies active combat operations, as in we're clearing the area of enemies. Our job here involves responding to humanitarian needs, possible setting up a dislocated civilian (DC) camp, or providing payments to people who have suffered losses during our operations.

"Hold" refers to the consolidation of our monopoly on security and the development of strong ties with local power brokers. Team 1's job here is to identify important civilians, gauge the population's sentiment, identify short- and medium-term projects, and to dispense funds.

Finally we have our "build" phase when the focus is on furthering local self-governance and security capacity. Here the messier work of placating angry leaders, reintegrating former combatants, training indigenous military and police forces, and reforming (or more likely instituting) the rule of law.

All these operations will be condensed into a very short period of time, of course, and we only "notionally" accomplish many of our tasks. Still, this time with our partnered units is invaluable: it allows us to see how we will integrate into their force structure and daily "battle rhythm". They get to see our faces and we become familiar with the movers and shakers on their end. All this makes our work in Afghanistan that much easier.

Our actual work in country will not be anywhere near this defined but it does help to have such clear expectations for desert dress rehearsal. The junior Marines and sailor in Team 1 - Creole, Mumbles, Dominicano, and our replacement medic that I'll call Buddha - will now get to see how many of their skills are to be used. Part of my job as the team Sergeant is to focus their attention on the most important aspects of our training given the mission at EMV, and then offer guidance on how best to accomplish them. This is no easy task but it's necessary to prove our value to the infantry Marines whose job is create the peace necessary for long-term stability in Afghanistan. The better we do at our jobs, the more LT can focus on the big picture and engage effectively with the other Marine leadership.

Focusing my Marines means first focusing myself, and that is a completely different task. Rather than working hard on simplifying my life as I have before, I have instead allowed those closest around me whose opinions I most value to point me in the right direction. Their honesty and perspective is what will help pare down the flotsam and jetsam I've accumulated over the months and even years. Only then will the important components of my Civil Affairs work appear as they should. And so, in keeping with this idea, I will say no more about my personal opinion (this is a blog after all) and just let the results speak for themselves. Who knows - I may even try to apply this to the rest of my life as well . . .

Monday, July 19, 2010

Civil Affairs vs Everyone Else

Much of the Civil Affairs mission appears strange to other Marines and to civilians who think they know what the military does in Afghanistan. The Marine Corps as a whole prides itself on being self-sufficient; we look to leverage other resources before using our own. The Marine Corps focuses on its primary mission to locate, close with, and destroy enemies; we try to get indigenous forces to complete this mission instead. Really it's a yin-yang dynamic. The Marine Corps is primarily military, so we must be political.

I'm well-aware of all these differences, but a recent conversation with another Marine veteran demonstrated just how much my perspective has changed in the last few months. Ten minutes after sitting down with our drinks we were arguing about the what was happening in Afghanistan. A little background here: my friend was in the infantry during the invasion of Iraq and then served in the second battle for Fallujah (the most intense urban combat seen since Khe Sanh in Vietnam) so his perspective is one of offensive military operations. The details of our conversation are not important; what really struck me was how I immediately sought ways to understand or identify with the Taliban and see them as a complex organization rather than as "the enemy" whose goal was to kill freedom-loving people all over the globe.

Of course, we need a lot more Marines with his perspective than mine, but in this particular fight we could probably stand to balance out the ratios a bit. As a Marine Officer put it to me, "The worst non-lethal threat we face in Afghanistan is Marines who don't get it." That is, those stuck in the offensive military model. There's a lot more to this fight than the Taliban as an insurgent group.

We often hear from others in the Civil Affairs/State Department community about how easy it is to discredit the standard arguments given about why people join or support violent movements. If it was religion, there would be a lot violence because fundamentalist madrassas [Islamic schools] are sprinkled all over the world. If it was money, there would be more of the 1,000,000,000 people in dire poverty taking up arms. The truth is we don't know - or more accurately, it's impossible to know for any one person or area by looking at large trends. It's our responsibility as CA Marines to analyze the local environment and figure out which factors are contributing to instability and (more importantly) which are NOT.

There may also regional or transnational points to consider, but the concept applies across the spectrum. That's what is so refreshing about CA compared to a lot of other work: it takes away the mental comfort of "knowing" things. There's an intrinsic humility in this sort of work when it's done properly. We seek out advice from the people around the area for everything we do. It's their problem so it has to be their solution. In fact, the more successful we are, the less credit we'll be given. The locals will see how much they've put into a given project and quite naturally decide the weird guys in the crazy camouflage suits didn't do a damn thing. We get to leave and they get to live. Fair trade in my opinion.

The best statistic I've heard illustrating this point is that approximately 75% of the schools we build in Afghanistan end up destroyed, while about 75% of those built by the locals survive. It might not be entirely accurate, but it's worth pondering.

Friday, July 16, 2010

TCAPF Round Two

The Tactical Conflict and Planning Assessment Framework was developed by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) and adopted by the Marine Corps a few years ago. It has been folded more and more into predeployment training in hopes it will improve the effectiveness of our projects and activities in Afghanistan. Its actual implementation has been contentious and haphazard: many infantry Marines are not convinced of its utility. As with so many other things related to the difficulties of civilian-military coordination, the onus lies on Civil Affairs to prove all these new programs can help win the fight.

It has been a month and a half since Team 1 went to San Mateo for its first iteration of TCAPF training, and we started this three-day session with mixed feelings. Some of the USAID instructors were the same and they were duplicating much of the content from our previous training. To make matters worse, we lost the most charismatic instructor and he was replaced by a French Canadian. I don't know who exactly plans these things, but they were not thinking about their audience when they deemed a Canuck with an accent a suitable replacement.

As feared, the repetition had its effect almost immediately and most of our team did not engage the instructors. Things were spiced up slightly when the class was divided into two groups that competed against each other for points (which, so far as I could tell, were assigned pretty arbitrarily). Unfortunately this focused the Marines more on accumulating points than learning the material but at least it raised the enthusiasm level.

The first day closed with little being accomplished in the class, but we did learn a little about some of our classmates. Many of the others were from a reserve unit called the 3rd Civil Affairs Group (CAG, pronounced "kag") with CA deployment experience. They were able to bring their personal history into the class and offer different perspectives than the instructors'. As day one dragged on, the atmosphere became increasingly charged with tension between us and 3rd CAG, mostly due to the Canuck's sarcastic sense of humor - case in point: his comment after a silence in response to a question was "Come on! I heard Marine know how to think."

Way to go, Frenchy. What a great example of the charm that wooed the Germans into submission.

Day two moved from collection of information to analysis and then designing solutions to the identified problems. This was mostly review but we began to understand things better the second time around. The basic premise is simple: traditional aid, whether delivered through military or civilian, public or private, has not helped stabilize Afghanistan. For those of you keeping score, that's billions of US tax dollars wasted.

In any case, military commanders have resources at their disposal they will use in their local community. Our job is to use TCAPF to differentiate between needs (existing in endless supply) and sources of instability. To do this, we have to figure out what a significant percentage of the local population identifies as a problem. From there, we screen these priority grievances against a set of principles and what comes out the other end is . . . POOF! The local sources of instability. After that we figure out objectives and ways to measure how successful these efforts are.

All of this sounds common sensical but it hasn't been done consistently across any country we've given aid to, including Afghanistan. Civil Affairs Marines are the ones trained to do this and so we must occupy the role of advisor to those Marines tasked with approving projects, meetings, training programs, and so on. The military has limited time and resources - we rarely look at the opportunity cost of our efforts. After all, who wants to turn down the project building schools or digging wells? These are difficult things to turn down because they appear to benefit the community and (more importantly) they fit into our understanding of helping people.

These things swirled around in my head as we logged in hour after hour of checklists, questions, and matrices. By day three my comments had distinguished me to such an extent the USAID instructors asked me to be another assessor for practical application. Apparently they decided I "got it" and should be used to increase the number of groups. So instead of practicing I ended up grading other Marines as they worked with role players and interpreters (all Afghans here on visas) to develop their TCAPF skills.

Abilities varied widely and did not track with age or experience. Some of the older Marines with deployments to Afghanistan were not very good, and the two best interviewers I saw were corporals under 25. One red-headed female from Georgia came across so genial and friendly the role player answered all her questions despite his orders to the contrary. I suppose it will be somewhat different in country, but what do I know?

Taking stock of the training over the week, I decided this was very helpful. I learned the one thing I had been missing from the last round: perspective. My team should be able to ask the right questions for the right reasons and create a accurate picture of the local community, taking us one step closer to stabilizing the country.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Training at Fresno State

I was sent along with the senior officers and staff non-commissioned officers to a five day training course at Fresno State, the first of its kind. We had two main faculty who spent each day with us and led the wrap-up discussions following the final class on each subject. The course was broken down as follows: basics of small farms and soil analysis; irrigation; livestock; food crops and "agribusiness"; and post-harvest. An eight-hour training day was devoted to each topic.

We opened with an overview of the whole course, the instructors' backgrounds, and our expectations. After a brief presentation on the agricultural history of Afghanistan, our first class on soil began. The rhythm and sequence of instruction was familiar to anyone with military experience. A broad treatment of soil and its attendant issues followed by several narrowly focused classes before a Q&A session and break. After spending ten minutes trying to forget everything we just learned, the group reassembled and began the practical application portion, or "prac app" as it's known by Marines.

For the first day, our prac app was folded into a tour of the Fresno State farm, which is really a group of small farms with very different organizations and growing practices. We trudged through monocultures of corn in various stages of growth, then walked around small organic plots with at least ten plant varieties coexisting happily. Orchards of fruit trees, a new miniature kind of olive tree known as arbequina, large vineyards, and even a small area managed by a solar-powered sprinkler system were all on display. At each stop our instructors would point out the basic characteristics of the field and then focus on the soil and how it was helping (or hindering) optimal growth.

The most hands-on portion of day one was actually in a small lab near our classroom. Various tubs of soil were laid out on a table with little squeeze bottles of water next to each one. We had to take a handful of the dirt, get it wet, and identify the soil type. This required clenching, squeezing, rolling, fingering, pinching, and otherwise manhandling mud for the better part of an hour. We learned to notice little differences between sandier, siltier, and more clay-like soils.

It would become apparent on the second day during our irrigation courses just how much of an important the composition of the ground would have on crop yield and long-term agricultural viability. Given the primitive/dilapidated nature of Afghanistan's irrigation system, we could expect to have substantial impacts on productivity if irrigation could be better-matched with ground conditions.

We were attending the first run of this course, and the instructors were learning just as much as we were. Our irrigation training made this quite clear: we ended up spending time learning about technologically advanced systems of water distribution requiring electricity, trained mechanics, and a stable water source. Although our teachers had experience in many developing countries, they were still farmers and wanted to show off the best and brightest. Good feedback thus became crucial to this course's value; we needed to make the most of our allotted training and constantly focused the instruction on conditions we could expect to see once we arrived in Afghanistan.

By far my favorite day was the third, livestock. We spent the morning in the classroom learning about basic biological and physiological characteristics of ruminants (goats, cattle, sheep). These are the most common large animals in Afghanistan and represent much of a poor farmer's "investment" in the future. In a country with where per capita GDP hovers around $450, one goat worth $70 is nothing to scoff at.

Immediately after lunch the group ended up at nearby Reedley, a small two-year community college. There was a brief meet-and-greet with one professor and a few students, then we dove into an afternoon that should have been called Sheep 101. It covered a little bit of everything. We were given a chance to try herding approximately twenty-five sheep around a large pen, and learned quickly how difficult that can be with only one person. Our teacher for the afternoon relayed several tricks about minimizing your size, slowing your approach,and ascending toward them up a hill. These all shrink the sheep's "flight zone", the area around them you can't penetrate without provoking some kind of movement.

Next the sheep were herded into a small paddock and the day got a lot more interesting. Here we were taught handling skills: what direction to come from, where to grab their hind legs, where to grab their head, how to make them sit down, and so on. After an hour or so getting dirty, I felt confident I could tell if a sheep was having any major problems through a combination of visual, behavioral, and physical clues.

A two month-old lamb had died sometime the night before and this provided us an opportunity to see and touch the viscera. At this point several of the city-dwellers in our group showed their stripes and graciously bowed out, while the rest of us with at least a minimum of farm exposure hunkered down to smell what Lambchop had for dinner the night before.

Day four focused on agricultural business, or agribusiness as it's now known familiarly. This was mostly a study of various crops that grow in southern Afghanistan representing potential competitors to poppy. We covered many options and closest one from a commercial standpoint was actually marijuana-an odd coincidence. The big takeaway from this day was born of one instructor's experience in Africa: intercropping. Instead of trying to directly compete in a one crop to one crop model (e.g. wheat as a substitute for poppy) we should present alternatives with overlapping crops that can cumulatively match illicit crop's market price. The best example of this was a wheat/clover/honey combination with the added advantages of controlling pests, reducing vulnerability to bacteria, and diversifying income sources.

We wrapped up training with post-harvest activities. This could be anything from drying to storing to marketing and often involved all three. Many interesting and "low-tech" options for processing were presented in the morning and our group left with schematics for several solar dryers, a great option for Afghan farmers who grow pomegranates, cherries, grapes, and other cash crops.

Certificates and handshakes went around on Friday evening at the university president's house a few miles off campus. I left with forty hours of instruction under my belt, thirty pages of notes, over four hundred pages of material, and (most importantly) a little glimpse into a farmer's mindset. The value of this training lay mostly in its ability to get our group to look at the land differently or, as one instructor put it on the first day, to guess us "to think like dirt."

Monday, June 7, 2010

TCAPF

There are many tools at our disposal to carry out our civil affairs mission. The most interesting and innovative, in my opinion, is the Tactical Conflict Assessment and Planning Framework, known as TCAPF ("tee-caf"). My team recently attended some TCAPF training at San Mateo in Camp Pendleton, the home of the 5th Marine Regiment. One of the three battalions, 3rd Battalion, will be our parent unit in Afghanistan. That is, we will be attached to them and used as the Battalion Commander sees fit.

Though it was developed by the United Stated Agency for International Development (USAID), TCAPF has been adopted by the entire Marine Corps. USAID still operates the training program, and they use contractors to teach classes to the Marines. These are all former State Department, USAID, or military personnel, but none of them are currently employed by the federal government. I see this another nod to the stresses of war-time and overextension of our government's assets.

In any case, our team dutifully drove the winding stretch of Basilone Road that leads from Las Pulgas to the School of Infantry, and then took San Mateo Road to our destination. Like most mornings in late May and early June, it was overcast and chilly. The LT drove up separately in his truck (a domestic, of course) while the enlisted crew crammed into a Honda Accord. No one was in a particularly good mood: we had formed up for physical training (PT) at 0500 and barely had enough time to shower before we needed to leave Pulgas.

I can't speak for everyone else but the classes quickly made me forget the day's bad start. We had three instructors with over a decade of collective experience just in Afghanistan, and over twenty years if you counted Iraq and several African countries. They were all youngish--mid-thirties I would say--and quickly overcame the natural uneasiness felt by the assembled Marines with stories about their time in country.

The best thing the instructors did--and the most depressing--was recount individually how much money they had overseen in projects during their time as Foreign Service Officers. "$98 million." "$150 million." "$212 million." Then they dropped the bombshell: "None of us can tell you whether any of those projects really made a difference." What a statement to make! The point, it turned out, was how obsessed governments and NGOs are with performance measures: kilometers of road built, schools opened, vaccines delivered, and so on. TCAPF alters this focus: it is designed to measure impact, not performance. Using the measurements above, they would be changed into: Are people traveling more? Is the literacy rate going up? Is life expectancy increasing? These are things we should care about if we seek to stabilize Afghan society.

The instructors went over all this in the overview class, which was followed by a TCAPF basics class, then we rolled into Collections. This was a chance for the Marines to get up in front of the group and try their best to go over the four questions in the TCAPF questionnaire. The goal is to get the person's opinion on the general state of their area and gauge their attitude toward the government. These exchanges generally take place during patrols and are conducted by a junior enlisted Marine with villagers at random, ideally over a period of months.

A corporal from 3rd Battalion volunteered, and I held my breath. Thus far I was not feeling too welcome as one of their Civil Affairs Marines, and the general attitude toward this training would help me understand how difficult it would be to get these infantry Marines to respect (or even acknowledge) us.

"Salam Alaikum" So far, so good. At least he knows the greeting.
"Ah, hello sir, pleased to meet you. What is your name please? What are you doing here?"
"Don't f*cking worry about it." Crap. This is going to be painful.

Recounting the rest of the exchange wouldn't do much good. Sufficed to say things did not go well on the first try. Several other Marines went, including a Civil Affairs Marine from Team 3, and the atmosphere thawed out a bit. Later on in the training a few of the senior NCOs offered war stories from Iraq that showed how important this type of interaction can be, and I could see some of the younger guys nodding their heads. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. We have a lot more training to go and not too much with these Marines before we meet up with them in Afghanistan, but hopefully they will remember enough from these classes to take us seriously when the time comes.