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.

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.

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.