Ten Years

I'm sure all of you who are old enough to remember do remember what you were doing on September 11th, where you were when you found out, the horror of the rest of the day as we watched endless loops on cable news of towers burning and falling, people jumping, people running. The clean-up effort afterward, the way our nation pulled together, the beginning of the war, airport security tightened, the Department of Homeland Security was created, Americans joined the military in droves.

I spent last September 11th in Afghanistan, fighting the war that continues to this today. This year I'll also have the pleasure of wearing the uniform on September 11th, as my unit holds their monthly Inactive Duty Training (IDT), or what most reservists just call "drill". It's part of the "one weekend a month, two weeks a year" that I signed up for. I doubt I'll have a chance to return to Afghanistan, but I'm proud to continue to wear the uniform and make a contribution towards the safety and security of our country.

I stopped in the PX after drill today and was walking through the aisles when a gentlemen pointed at me. As I stopped, he said, "thank you". Since I was the only person in uniform in that section of the store, I assumed he was thanking me for serving, so I said, "you're welcome". "I slept safely last night," he explained. "Someone had to stand watch." You're welcome, sir, and thanks for your appreciation. I am truly grateful that the VFW throws parties for us and random people stop me and that I don't have to go through what the Vietnam-era veterans experienced.

Security on the base is tight, as it should be, and it will likely remain that way for a while. That's fine. The war is not over, and our fight against extremists who will go to any measure to hurt us is not done. Be vigilant. Look up "Operation Gratitude" or "Operation Shoebox" and send a care package to service members who are currently overseas. (Or, if you wait a week and send me an e-mail, I'll send you the address of a friend of mine who just left--he can easily distribute things to his unit.) Things that are good to send: baby wipes, chap stick, trial-size toiletries, individually packaged snacks/candy, gum, a deck of cards, cheap paperback novels, and those Starbucks "via" instant coffee packets (yes, they're expensive, but they're like gold over there).

For all those who died that day, and for all the Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, and Airmen who have given their lives to provide justice: we will not forget.

Angel

I wrote this one night while I was in Marjeh, but held off on posting it while I was in country. Then, obviously, my priority on my blog has been just about zero since I got back, but I've finally decided maybe some of you would appreciate these thoughts (and have decided to be Not Lazy enough to actually post).

I drifted out of sleep the first time, the buzz of the chopper seeping into my consciousness and slowly waking me to the point where I realized what I was listening to. The buzz faded: the chopper had left. I checked my watch. 0330. Earlier in the day I had been sitting at a conference table, getting some work done, while a squad briefing was held around me. When it was done, the Lt asked if anyone had seen the warning order for what was happening tonight. One Marine had—a cordon and search.

What that means is that the Marines had reasonable intelligence that someone they were looking for was going to be in a particular house that night. In order to nab the guy they were looking for, they would set up a cordon around the compound, then search every room of the house until they’d found someone. The cordon would prevent him from escaping. Right before I went to bed, that same Lt had stuck his head in the female billeting room to talk to the FET team about the operation. He’d mentioned that they’d be assembling at 0130.

That had been two hours ago, and I hadn’t heard them leave. If they’d stepped off at 0130, probably more like 0200, they would be well into their operation by now. And you don’t call in choppers to evacuate bad guys in the middle of the night; you hold them, question them, and then take them in the next day. A chopper landing in the middle of the night meant one thing, and one thing only. Medevac.

I lay there, and before too long I heard a second chopper coming in. I wanted to go into the COC, the Combat Operations Center, where they would be coordinating the medevac birds. Assure myself that it was just a flesh wound. That the young men I had seen sitting around the table earlier that day would still live long, healthy lives with their families. But you don’t need extraneous people milling around in your COC when you’re trying to get Marines medevaced. Instead I got up to go outside and use the head.

The main room right outside our door was filled with dust, which was not unexpected. This COP is covered with moon dust, and the buildings around here aren’t even close to air tight. I got outside to find it even dustier, the hum of the chopper even louder. The dust in the air reminded me of the dust storms we had right after we got here. It blows everywhere, and the chunks are large enough that you can feel the dirt hitting your arms and your face. I stood on a stool underneath the pull-up bars, hoping it would let me see into the LZ that is set up out back. It was too dusty to see anything, so I gave up and walked to the head.

When I was done, the dust had mostly settled, and I could see the stars again. I realized that because the LZ was covered in gravel, the dust I had initially seen was just from the landing. I stood on the stool again and looked down into the LZ. The bird was a CH-53, a pretty standard piece of gear the Marine Corps uses for combat support. The buzz grew louder, signifying that the bird was about to take off. I closed my eyes and covered my nose and mouth, hoping to avoid breathing the dust in, even though I could feel it on my arms and face again.

I made my way back inside and lay down again.

The third bird came in. Three in a matter of about twenty minutes, and you can fit multiple casualties on a bird. Something had gone very wrong in their operation that night. Or maybe it hadn’t gone wrong, and their operation had been a success. Hopefully they had gotten the guy they were looking for. The operation was just following Hawkeye’s Rule #1: In war, young men die. I fervently hoped that the medevac birds meant that Hawkeye was wrong about Rule #2: Doctors can’t change rule #1.

I lay there for a few more minutes, then got up to write. As I wrote the first few paragraphs, the fourth bird came in. But right now we’re still at four.

We periodically get messages sent out to all hands aboard Camp Leatherneck. They are usually short, only two lines, and read something like this:

At [time] ([date]), there will be a Ramp Ceremony for an Angel from [unit]. The ceremony will be conducted at the FW ADACG Loop* at Bastion Airfield. Please ensure widest dissemination of this information. All available personnel are encouraged to attend. Arrive early for the ceremony.

Unfortunately we usually only get a couple hours’ notice, and the ceremony is a couple miles across base. I haven’t attended a Ramp Ceremony yet, but I have seen pictures. Two long lines of Marines, sailors, soldiers, airmen and civilians standing at attention, facing each other. At the end is the transport plane that will take the casket from here to Dover Air Force Base. I’m sure you’ve heard of the controversy surrounding whether pictures taken at those ceremonies are released to the press. Maybe you’ve seen some of the pictures. (Pictures of President Obama attending a ceremony were released last year; google Obama and Dover and you’ll find it pretty quickly.)

A couple thoughts. I feel somewhat conflicted about the policy against releasing the pictures. Not that I think that the families should be identified, but I think regularly seeing pictures of our fallen Marines and soldiers would make the war much more real to the American public. I remember the first few years of the war (OIF) before I had decided to join the Marine Corps, feeling disconnected from the war. Reading about it, learning about what was going on, but not having a personal connection to it. Seeing the pictures would change that.

But I think there would also be two other (somewhat conflicting) effects. One, the public would grow desensitized to seeing the pictures. Two, they would quickly lose their tolerance for casualties, and thus for the war. Pressure would build to end it, now, and we would leave, probably sooner rather than later.

Let me say again: the things we do here matter.

In the last week I have had more interaction with Afghans than in the previous four and a half months that I’ve been here. The dirt we have been using to fortify the COP we are building was brought in from another part of the city by a civilian contractors, with 82 trucks coming in over a span of three days. The narrow ECP, or entry control point, and deep moon dust created a logistical nightmare--the heavy vehicles would beat up the surface of the ECP, and following vehicles would get stuck. We used our heavy equipment to smooth out the ECP and scrape away some of the moon dust, but it took several hours to offload the fill each day.

The second day, while we were waiting for the last trucks to offload, I stood around talking to some of the drivers. They knew only a couple words of English, and I didn’t know any of their language. But we managed to communicate. One of them told me he was 25; I told them I was 28, and the two others fessed up to being 28 and 22. (The one thought it was cool that we were the same age. I was amused.) One of them joked with pantomime and very broken English that his friend was chubby because he ate a lot and didn’t spend much time working out. He explained that he was skinny because he did a lot of running, and we talked about what we liked to do at the gym. One of them asked me if I wanted to trade my watch for his ring (no!).

These young men are particularly brave. The Taliban likes to target civilian convoys that provide support for Americans because they aren’t as well guarded as convoys solely made of American logistical vehicles. They are just as likely to hit an IED as we are, and their trucks don’t have the armor that saves American lives. They frequently own their own trucks, so if the truck is damaged the money to repair it comes out of their pocket. If they or their families live in the area, they likely receive death threats from the Taliban.

These men and all of the children that crowded around me a few nights ago after dinner deserve a better life than what the Taliban offers to them. They will not have that if we leave now. We, working with Afghan forces, can and will defeat the Taliban. But they still need our help.

When I return from this mission, I know I will have many e-mails piled up. The one I hope not to see: a Ramp Ceremony invitation sent out some time tomorrow for an Angel from G 2/6. Our Doctors are very, very good, and if a Marine can make it to a medevac bird, he has an excellent chance of living. Here’s hoping.

*The airport here on base.

My Marines told me the next day that only one chopper ever landed, but they also told me that it only passed over the COP three times. I don't know for a fact that the chopper landed because of a medevac, but that's the most probable thing.

65 and Sunny

I've been trying to figure out how to write this post for a while now...what I can write (due to security and operational concerns)...what I should write...what I can write without hurting people's feelings. I will do my best to make this post coherent, comprehensive, and at least somewhat tactful, but forgive me if I don't succeed.

I watched the National Geographic special with my family when I was there for Christmas. My dad was in India when it aired, so he taped it, and we all watched it together once we were back. Everything in the special was correct. Except... There was a part of the special where the reporter was visiting a unit that got hit. The narrative went something like this: "a week later, this same unit got hit again." The story spends all its time talking about the two times the unit was hit, but completely glosses over the week between where absolutely nothing happened. And this was one of the area's hot spots!

This is the fundamental flaw in the media's reporting of what happens in Afghanistan. For most Marines that deploy, there is much, much, much more sand, wind, heat, cold, boredom, walking around with 55lbs worth of gear on your back where you look at the same piece of ground that you've seen 50 times before than there is small arms fire or IEDs. Indeed, this is one of the largest challenges for Marine small-unit leaders: how to keep the Marines alert and non-complacent when nothing happens day after day after day, so they're not caught off guard on that one day when something does happen.

And then you have Marines such as myself, who go to Afghanistan and spend 95% or even 100% of their time sitting on a large base surrounded by thousands of other Marines, each of whom is equipped with a weapon and rounds. Can you imagine a safer place to be? Honestly, I am more likely to be killed or injured because I am hit by a car while riding my bike in Grants Pass than I am to be killed or injured while on such a base.

If you thought I was leaving off all the "dangerous parts" of my missions while I was blogging in country, that was largely not the case. I was on one mission where my convoy received enemy contact. We were all in armored vehicles at the time. No one was injured, except for some ringing ears. That went away after an hour, which means that no one was injured. I was on a separate convoy where we were in an area that had a high IED threat, and I was concerned we were going to hit an IED. We didn't.

Instead, we dug a couple vehicles out of some potholes in the desert. We came by around 1800 and the Marines told me they had been there since the morning. So they had been sitting there for at least eight hours, waiting for their unit to find someone with the assets to pull them out. They were several clicks away from the village, so they would see anyone coming a long ways out. Their unit knew where they were and could re-supply them with food and water indefinitely until the necessary assets were located. They could even be relieved by other Marines if it came down to it.

We had another mission that lasted about a week and a half where I thought there was a chance we might receive small arms fire, based on our analysis of the enemy situation before we left. We didn't. We had yet another mission of the same length where I didn't think we would be hit at all. We weren't. Can you detect a pattern here?

I know that my Battalion sent at least five Marines home while we were deployed, for various reasons. Only one of them was sent home because the Marine was injured from enemy contact. No one from our Battalion was killed while we were there, nor had anyone been killed in the Battalion that we relieved when we arrived in country.

I got two types of e-mails while I was in Afghanistan. One type said something to the effect that they were scared or worried about my safety, the other type was no different than the e-mails I received when I was stationed in Quantico and North Carolina. I can promise you one thing: no deployed Marine wants to read the first type of e-mail, regardless of how much danger they are (or aren't) in.

First of all, the person sending the e-mail isn't going to have an accurate picture how much danger the Marine is exposed to, and there is nothing the Marine can do to accurately present that picture to them. Second, if the Marine is not in much danger, you will only frustrate the Marine, that you don't understand what it's like. The Marine might even feel some guilt that there are Marines that are in danger while he or she is stationed in a safe location, and possibly some guilt because he is glad he is safe.

However, if the Marine is actually performing dangerous duties, then the Marine already has ways for dealing with his or her own fears. Trust me: even if the Marine acts as if nothing is out of the ordinary, the Marine still has fears and concerns. By telling a Marine that you are scared or worried, you are giving them your own emotional burden to deal with in addition to theirs.

Make no mistake--Marines experience every emotion that a civilian experiences. Our training doesn't take our emotions away, it teaches us to ignore them in order to get the job done. There were four of us in the truck who, on our last mission, were involved in the two roll-overs. We disliked the canal enough after the first time, but after the second time we hated it. Could you tell how much we disliked the canal by the way we acted? Not in the slightest. But we did.

This same approach--ignoring the emotion or simply acknowledging it and moving on--is what we want from our friends and family. Yes, we know you're scared. But trust me: the fear of the unknown, the imagined danger, is always worse than the actual situation that endangers the Marine.

There's another aspect, too. Each Marine has, for one reason or another, decided that the benefits we receive from being deployed, whether material or immaterial, are worth the risk of injury or death that we accept because of that deployment. We knew what we were signing up for when we signed up for it. When someone tells me they are scared, what I hear is: "that risk is unacceptable to me." Frankly, my decision to become a Marine and deploy overseas is just that--my decision, and no one else's.

So what do Marines want to hear? If we don't want to hear that our friends and loved ones are concerned for our safety, then what do we want to hear from them? When I returned from my convoy where my vehicle had hit an IED, I walked into my office to find a note from my Platoon Sergeant. He explained when he walked in the door a couple minutes later that he had left the note because he wasn't sure he would be there when I returned, but I saved it anyway. The note was very simple. It said: Glad you're back. Good Job.

That's all that's required. Welcome back. Good job. How are you doing?

Again, make no mistake: we need the support of our friends and family while we are overseas. Particularly during my first two months in Afghanistan, when I was still adjusting to my new job and the overseas environment, I would read and re-read every letter I received. And the parts I liked best were the parts where Mom told me about her math classes, or when when one friends asked me if I was doing NaNoWriMo this years, or when another friend talked about riding her bike at lunch.

So, 65 and sunny sounds like a great day for a ride. Once I get back, you can bet I'll go with you.

Last Mission (ctd.)

Where we were? Right, cakes. So, my favorite cake is Black Magic chocolate cake, which you make with coffee, and it turns out all moist and yummy, and you put cream cheese frosting on it...wait, you didn't actually care about the cake? Right. Sorry.

The next morning, of course, we had to cross the same culvert again. Only this time, it was slightly smaller, and our driver was afraid of it. We put a Marine on the other side of the culvert to guide her across--a Sergeant with plenty of experience both driving and guiding heavy vehicles. There's a fairly steep, yet short, hill leading up to the culvert. Sitting in the back of the MRAP, I heard her rev the gas, but then as we approached the top of the hill, the gas didn't let up. I heard our VC, one of my Sergeants, yell, "left, left, left!" and then we were in the ditch again, this time on the opposite side of the ditch. A plastic wrapper that bundled up gatorade bottles floated across the vehicle towards my face and I caught it; I was just glad it wasn't something heavier.

Again, none of us were hurt. We climbed out of the vehicle, and fortunately this time we had brought the recovery vehicle with us, so we were back in business fairly quickly. Unfortunately, the road surface over the culvert was now too narrow for the minerollers, so it would require improvement before we continued regular traffic. We replaced the driver of my vehicle and continued on to the patrol base. The day's task was to start setting up the HESCO perimeter, but we sent a team out to repair the culvert. Every single time we passed over that culvert for the rest of the mission, everyone in my truck held their breath, but the repairs held, and there were no more trips into the ditch for the rest of the mission (for anyone).

That day was productive, as was the next. We got the perimeter set up, and a good chunk of it filled, and started running rock from the river down to the patrol base. The order had originally called for us to put down a foot of gravel and compact it so the Afghans could build barracks on it, but we didn't have the proper gravel available, so we hadn't brought the necessary heavy equipment to compact it. Our plan was to put down river rock and smooth it over the patrol base, so at least the Afghan trucks (little Toyota pick-ups) wouldn't get stuck in the moon dust inside the base.

The first day, the SeeBees were running their own heavy equipment up at the river, so we used them to fill the dump trucks transporting the gravel to the PB, and both of our TRAMs were available to work inside the base. We got quite a bit done that day, which prove very useful.

The first thing I heard about the problems the next day was on our way down to the patrol base the next morning when we got a call on the radio that one of our two TRAMs was overheating. The operator had turned the fan off to ford the river--standard procedure--but then when he had tried to turn it back on again it hadn't come back on. It was determined that the TRAM could make it the rest of the way into the patrol base, where we set the mechanics to trying to figure out what the problem was. After about an hour, they had isolated the problem to a leak in one of three hoses, all of which ran from the hydraulic oil reservoir into the transmission. Unfortunately, they couldn't tell which of the three it was without taking the entire armored cab off--something we didn't have the resources to do ourselves.

We sent our second TRAM out to the river to load the dump trucks with rock. Unfortunately, the SeaBees had started pulling rock from a different location that day, so with one TRAM broken, we were somewhat limited in what we could accomplish that day. That afternoon, we drove the broken TRAM back up to the FOB, where we talked to the mechanics stationed with the Battalion. They were quite helpful, and told us they would try to repair it that afternoon so we could use it the next morning. Unfortunately, when I went back in the evening, they told me that the TRAM's transmission was destroyed, and that we would need to take it back to Leatherneck for some heavy-duty maintenance before it would be usable.

Awesome. So, that TRAM was out for the rest of the mission. The maintenance shop did ask us if there was a day that they could lend us a TRAM. There was one day--we had the additional task of bringing some gear back to Camp Leatherneck, and the gear was at a separate patrol base about 35km away. We would need to send the TRAM we had with them so it could load the trucks. Fortunately, we didn't have to take the trucks there ourselves--we had found another CLP to escort the trucks to the base and back--but we would need a TRAM to continue work at the patrol base that day. The maintenance shop said it wouldn't be a problem to lend us a TRAM on Friday.

Wednesday afternoon. Everything was going fine. Most of the HESCO was up; we were just waiting to finish spreading the rock inside the patrol base before we put the last bit of HESCO up across the entrance. Early in the afternoon, one of my Corporals found me. He had been outside the patrol base, providing security for the trucks running gravel, and he showed me a BFT message from my Platoon Sergeant, who was also outside the wire. The message said that two of the dump trucks had been in a collision, and to send a corpsman back with my Corporal and call our company office to let them know what had happened.

The Marines were all okay, but one of the dump trucks was seriously damaged, and the other would need some repairs before we would be able to use it again. The cause of the accident was operator error, which made me selfishly glad that the Marines involved were attachments from another company (i.e. not any Marines I was directly responsible for).

I spent the next day doing paperwork related to the collision, as one of my Sergeants supervised the completion of the patrol base, and another Sergeant supervised the repairs. That's been one of the best things about this deployment--the number of outstanding Sergeants and Corporals I have. My job would have been 100 times harder if they hadn't done such a good job. Unfortunately, that evening when I talked to my company commander, he told me that the battalion commander was considering bringing us back from the mission early.

I begged him (in a dignified manner, of course) to convince the CO to let us stay out and finish the mission. One of the easiest ways to completely destroy a Marine's morale is to tell them they can't finish the mission. After all the work that my Marines had done, after all the difficulties they (and I) had worked so hard to overcome to finish the mission, not letting us finish would make it that much worse. He said to continue as we had planned for the next day, but be prepared to pull up stakes and leave on Saturday, instead of Monday as we'd originally planned.

The next morning we got the call--finish everything up and leave the next day. We threw up the last wall of HESCO and returned to the FOB to prepare the trucks for the 140km drive the next day. As you remember, we made it halfway the first day, spent the next day repairing trucks, and then made it back to Camp Leatherneck very, very late Monday evening. Or early Tuesday morning, if you prefer.

And then--here's the kicker. Most of the Marines had already been cut, but I was the last one to leave because I was finishing up some paperwork from the collision. When I finally was ready to head back to my tent on Tuesday morning just before 4am, I managed to get a Marine to drive me out there in a gator (golf cart), since it was over a mile, and I had a lot of gear with me. We were driving along, driving along, the tent was in sight...and then the gator died. Out of gas. One of the bus drivers saw us and stopped. They didn't have gas, but they offered to help. I sent the Marine back to our battalion lot and settled in for a nice 30-45 minute wait (in the cold!) while he tracked down gas and walked back out to the gator. Surprisingly, he was back in 20 minutes. The bus driver had waited for him and brought him back.

Trucks breaking down, trucks rolling into ditches, trucks colliding, all the other stuff I haven't told you about (because it would just take way too long)--all that is well and good, but the gator running out of gas? That was the icing on the cake.

Last Mission

We should have taken our first clue from our first day, rather our first night, of our last mission in Afghanistan. Our first day went pretty well. Our task for the first day was to drive south about 140km to the FOB where we would be working out of for the next week and a half. I'd heard horror stories about the drive before, but our drive went fairly well. We found the hard-packed dirt and made it most of the way down in ten hours. Believe it or not, this is pretty good time for Afghanistan.

And then, about 10 clicks out, we hit some snags. The sun went down. Our lead vehicle had trouble finding the hard-packed dirt. Our trailers hauling heavy equipment started getting stuck. At one point the vehicle commander for the vehicle I was riding in told me we had been averaging 26 minutes per mile for the past five miles. And then we made it to the FOB--we could see the lights just over the hill. What we couldn't do was find the ECP, or entry control point, that would let us inside friendly lines. So we searched for it, and finally the last vehicle in our convoy radioed that he had found it.

Unfortunately, at that point, our three trailers hauling our TRAMs and the small bulldozer we had brought with us were a ways past the ECP, down the hill and by the Helmand River, which we would be crossing every day for the next week. We started turning vehicles around, and our first vehicle made it inside the FOB around 1900. Then the fun started. The road close to the river got pretty narrow, so one of the trailers ended up in a small tributary when it tried to turn around. One of the trailers succumbed to the elements and died entirely. Fortunately, we had brought the heavy-duty recovery truck with us, so we sent it out to drag the vehicles out of the river and back up the hill. By the time our last vehicle rolled in the ECP, it was a minute past midnight.

Annoying, but no big deal. We wouldn't need the trailers until we headed back to Leatherneck, so our mechanic had a while to fix the trucks. We started the next day by taking a look at the BOM (Bill of Materials), or the lumber and HESCO that we would be using for our mission. It wasn't in the greatest of shape. It had been delivered from Khandahar, to the east, by a civilian contractor, and they hadn't used common sense in its delivery.

The materials had been loaded up in Khandahar in dump trucks, so when they arrived at the FOB, they had simply lifted the beds of the trucks and dumped the materials on the deck. The lumber and HESCO had been mangled. The nails ended up in a head on the deck and had to be sorted out. Some of the items had been substitutes for what was requested. For example, my Sergeant liked to use orange spray paint to mark the lines of the patrol bases we built. Orange paint had been delivered in cans instead--completely useless to us. Razor wire was substituted for concertina wire.

Our mission was to build a PB (patrol base) for the Afghan Border Police, to give them their own base to work out of instead of them working out of the adjacent Marine Corps outpost they were currently using. We would build a HESCO perimeter, guard towers, a "hygiene" (head) area, and the original order called for a wire perimeter. We inventoried our materials on hand; they would be enough for what we needed. The razor wire wasn't an adequate substitute for the concertina wire we had requested, but the engineering officer stationed at the FOB said he had some c-wire we could borrow. We headed out to the existing patrol base to take a look at the site.

(We slept at the FOB and commuted to the PB every morning. We ended up fording the Helmand River every morning and evening, and there were a couple of canals we crossed along the way, but it worked out pretty well. There was a real chow hall at the FOB, and showers, and an office to work from. There was supposed to be a tent to sleep in, but because the Battalion was being replaced, there was an extra Battalion currently at the base, and all of the transient billeting was occupied. Still, it was better than staying at the PB.)

So we arrived at the PB after lunch. The site survey had been done by someone else. We had been assured that there was enough dirt on site to fill the HESCO, but we had failed to properly assess the amount of work required to level the site. We got on site only to find out the small bulldozer we had brought would be completely inadequate to complete the job in a reasonable time frame. We were in luck, though. When we got back to the FOB that night, I talked to the SeaBees stationed at the FOB, and they said we could borrow their bulldozer the next day. Score.

So we headed out the next day with an extra bulldozer and managed to get the site leveled. It wasn't perfect, but part of the order called for putting down gravel inside the PB--we would level the deck when we spread the gravel. We started heading back to the FOB. The Sergeant that had been my VC (vehicle commander) was in a different vehicle, so I was in the VC seat (front passenger seat). One of the culverts crossing one of the canals was fairly narrow, and the driver of my vehicle hit it wrong as we went over it. Too far to the right, and then slowed down when the rear right side of the vehicle sank. I told her to crank the wheel and hit the gas, but it did no good. The vehicle started to tip over to the right.

I yelled back at my gunner to get inside the vehicle--the gunner's turret is the most dangerous place to be in a vehicle, especially in a roll-over. Fortunately, he had already crouched down inside the vehicle and braced himself. We rolled slowly. Once it felt like we were more or less stable, I told the radio operator to radio back to the vehicle behind us and make sure we were stable. I didn't want anybody getting hurt as they climbed out. It was too late. My platoon sergeant, the VC for the vehicle behind us, was already on top of the vehicle, now the driver's side, trying to get the door open. It took two of them to open the door, but then he was yelling down into the vehicle to make sure everybody was okay. I assured him we were okay, and other Marines helped the four of us climb out of the vehicle.

We hadn't brought our heavy-duty recovery truck with us that day, so we called back to the FOB and waited until it came. It took the operator a couple of tries to pull our vehicle out of the ditch it had slid into, but finally it was out. We examined the culvert. It had been built by filling HESCO placed on top of concrete. When our vehicle drove too close to the edge, the HESCO had burst, starting the roll-over. The firm ground left was smaller than it had been, but it was still just barely wide enough for our heavy trucks. The truck itself was in fairly good shape. The stairs were bent, a couple panels were bent, and dirt had been packed into the crevices on the right side of the truck, but it still ran, and the armor hadn't been damaged.

We drove back to the FOB. I hopped out near the entrance so I could head to the office the SeaBees worked out of and thank them for the use of their bulldozer. As soon as I did so, I found myself staring into the barrel of my rifle. A buckle on my sling had worked itself loose and fallen off, so my rifle was now connected to my sling at only one point, instead of the typical two. I took the sling off and carried my rifle by hand--a broken sling was just icing on the cake.

What I didn't know at the time was that we hadn't even put the cake in the oven yet. (To be continued...)

Camp Leatherneck special

Most of you probably already saw this on facebook, but for those who didn't, the National Geographic channel will be running a special on Camp Leatherneck on Sunday evening.

Information on Camp Leatherneck Special

I saw about ten minutes of the special a couple days ago, and from what I saw, it's pretty accurate and definitely worth watching if you want a glimpse of what my life has been like for the past seven months. I didn't do much foot patrolling--most of our patrols were mounted--but as far as the environment goes, it's spot on.

I'm in Kyrgyztan right now; we leave for the states tomorrow evening, landing in California on Saturday. We land in Eugene on Wednesday afternoon, and then get a four-day weekend directly afterwards (back in Eugene on Monday morning). I'll be hitting up both Grants Pass and Portland but haven't decided on which city to go to first. Any suggestions?

Five Kernels of Corn

So the story goes: in their leanest winters, the pilgrims came to a time where each person was allocated only five kernels of corn for their subsistence each day. So for as long as I can remember, before my family eats Thanksgiving dinner, we put five kernels of corn on each person’s plate and go around the table and list five things we’re thankful for. Two years ago I was at OCS and unable to discuss over the dinner table, so I caught my platoon while we were waiting for PT (Ha! You’re in formation and not allowed to talk! No choice but to listen to me!) and told them my five things I was thankful for. This year I am again lacking a dinner table, so you all have to endure my list. Of course, the standard "I’m thankful for my friends and family" applies. But that goes without saying, right?

1. I am thankful that neither myself nor anyone from my platoon has sustained serious injuries while we’ve been here. Sure, we’ve had the odd set of stitches, smashed thumbs, and some bumps and bruises from IEDs, but nothing that required anyone be sent home.
2. I am thankful for my nephew (Photo credit to Juanita. Thanks for the picture! Hope you don't mind me using it without your permission...). I haven’t met him yet, but I’m sure he’s the coolest 4-month-old alive.
3. I am thankful for all the friends I’ve made on this deployment: Wanda, Carmella, Tim, Sherry, Tanya, Joshua, Kim, Jay, Miguel, and Bill.
4. I am thankful for all the support I’ve received from my friends and family back home. Your cards, packages, and e-mails made a huge difference to my morale.
But, most of all:
5. I AM THANKFUL THAT I AM COMING HOME SOON. Yes, I know that all caps means I am shouting. I don’t care.

Happy Thanksgiving!

3

Mph. Yes, three miles per hour. That was our average rate of march last night, for 75km, as we returned home from our last mission. Making for a grand total of 15 hours on the road. And here's the real kicker: we left at one in the afternoon. (Side note: Yes, this was our last mission. For real this time. As in, by the time we get the pre-requisite rest time between missions, the transfer of authority will have already happened, and someone else will be in charge of our missions.)

Our first vehicle to break was one of the trailers carrying a TRAM (Tractor, Rubber-tired, Articulated-steering, Multipurpose). Now, TRAMs are a handy thing to have when you're trying to build a new patrol base, as they're quite good at scooping up dirt and dumping it into HESCO. Which is what we spent most of our time doing on this mission. So there were no regrets that we'd had the equipment, resulting in a broken trailer that cost us two hours while the drivers unloaded the TRAM and removed the broken axle. Excuse me, axles. I'm still not quite clear on the details of how you can break 1.5 axles, but that's what happened. Did I mention we were still within sight of the base we'd just left? Yeah, not good.

The next vehicle broke about 5 clicks out; I think the one after that was 15. Considering that there were 140 clicks total between the base we left and the one we were trying to get to that night...well, I already gave it away. We ended up stopping at a different base, halfway home.

We brought six towbars with us on the patrol when we left. Around midnight was when our sixth vehicle broke, and we had no more towbars left to tow vehicles with. But even as we were still hooking up that sixth vehicle the call came over the radio--another vic was having problems with its brakes. We called the mechanic instead, and after another hour wait, we were Oscar Mike again. (This is the military, we can't just say "on the move". No, we have to abbreviate it to OM. Then, because it might get garbled on the radio, we have to say it phonetically. So we say we're "Oscar Mike". When you think we're talking in some strange and useful shorthand, really we're just thinking of ways to make simple things more complicated.)

The seventh vehicle to break wasn't going to be so easy a fix. It wouldn't start--the alternator was suspect--but it wasn't something we were going to be able to fix on the fly. So we hooked for tow with chains. The mineroller on the dead MRAP went to a third MRAP. Turns out it had been on the third MRAP originally, but the original MRAP was having problems with the all-wheel drive, and the extra weight of the mineroller might have caused it to get stuck. So we had moved it. Now we were moving it back. The dead MRAP was hooked to mine; the lead driver has never towed with chains before. It took them a while to get the hydraulics for the towed vehicle hooked up so the brakes would work. I thought the stairs hanging off the back of my MRAP were toast.

But did I mention that my Marines are awesome? Sure, there were a few jerks and false starts. Sure, we got bogged down in the sand--for a second. But we made it through, and the stairs were in tact.

We pulled in the lot at 0400. We'd had someone on alert to come get us in case too much more should break, and we weren't able to make it in ourselves. We were--just barely. The Marines set up cots and passed out. It was that time of the night where for the past week I've been waking up and unable to go back to sleep because of the cold. I volunteered to watch the BFT, our only communications link to our Battalion, and to half-hourly communications checks. Turns out we ran the heater, so I was warm and able to get in half-hour cat-naps between checks until I was relieved.

Last mission. Last set of HESCO. Last bucket of fill. We're working on the last manifest right now. (Manifest: document detailing all personnel and vehicles on a trip. The form we have to fill out has redundancy on top of redundancy. No, I am not kidding. I wish I were.) Soon I'll be saying "last day in-country", and then, "first day back in the states".

Tomorrow we cover those last 65 clicks back to base. We're starting out with vehicles already in tow; we'll see how many we're towing when we finally roll through the ECP. (Entry Control Point, or gate. See what I said about the code is really just a complicated way to name a simple concept?)

There's one thing I do know, though. Whatever needs to be done, my Marines will do it. And we'll roll through under our own power.

CLP

CLP, pronounced "clip", or Combat Logistics Patrol. The generic term for "we can’t fly there so we’re going to drive", because most of the CLPs we do don’t directly provide logistics for combat units. We do have some direct support patrols, where we escort trucks with food, water, and other necessities to units deployed throughout the AO, but most of the patrols my company does are to provide transportation or security for engineering missions. This past mission was my first experience as a patrol leader, responsible for transporting Marines and heavy equipment over 250km to their work site and back.

This mission had two distinct phases. Our first mission was to replace a bridge. The Medium Girder Bridge is a standard piece of equipment used to bridge small gaps (think: canals and streams, not the entire Helmand River). They are designed to be replaced after a certain time span so that microfractures do not grow and cause the bridge to fail while something heavy is driving over it. They fit together like a lego set, so that a team of twenty or so Marines can go out, pull a small bridge, and replace it with a new one in a day, or a night. The only heavy equipment required is a forklift to move the pallets on and off the trucks, and a 7-ton truck used to pull the bridge from the gap or push the new one into the gap. All the disassembly and re-assembly is done with pure muscle, and it’s a treat to watch a trained bridge crew at work.

The heavy lifting (literally) was done by another platoon; my platoon provided security. It was a pretty quiet night; the only problems came up the next day when the locals wanted to use the bridge before we had cleaned the site. One gentleman on a motorbike produced a laminated identification card and explained that he had to be at work at a certain time. Our plan was not to let any local nationals into the bridge site, but we rolled with the circumstances and escorted several local nationals on their bikes across the bridge and through the work site. Other than that, the mission went off without a hitch. We returned to the nearest FOB, about a click away, and crashed for the day before we ate dinner and then crashed again for the night.

For the next leg of the mission we dropped half the Marines and the heavy equipment off at a small patrol base and took the security trucks on a reconnaissance, looking at three more locations in the southern part of the AO where we could potentially put in additional bridges. Again, the other platoon commander was doing the heavy lifting; my job was just to get him where he needed to go. For the first two sites, this was pretty easy. I took us down to a COP (Combat Outpost), and then the grunts* responsible for the AO took the other Lt out to the sites they wanted him to look at.

The third site? Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. The grunts gave us a secure route we could use to reach the site, but we were responsible for getting there. The first part of the plan went well. We reached an outpost where we left two vehicles we wouldn’t need for the recon and continued on. The grunts advised that they didn’t normally take minerollers through the city. Minerollers are contraptions with wheels that we push in front of the vehicles to trigger IEDs before they hit the vehicles. They work. We don’t like rolling without them. We elected to take them against the grunts’ advice.

My first clue should have been the part where I saw a vehicle’s wheel start to dip into a canal as it tried to make a tight turn with the mineroller on it. I did my best not to have a heart attack, and all our vehicles made it past the turn safely. All the vehicles made it through four tight turns without rolling over or falling into a ditch, and then we reached a turn over a bridge where the bridge was too narrow for the mineroller. Yeah.

So we ditched the minerollers and flew down to the site with just the vehicles. It felt like riding a bike without gloves on--I feel naked when I do it; an essential piece of equipment that I rely in to keep me safe is missing. But we got down there, and back, without incident. After that, we got to go through those four tight corners again, and then it was open desert back to a really bumpy road to a slightly less bumpy road, where we could spend the night and then head back the next morning. Except...

We were headed back in open desert when I received a call over the radio from the Marines that owned the AO asking if we had a wrecker, which is used to recover vehicles that have gotten bogged down in deep sand or fallen into canals. We had a wrecker with us, so they asked if we wouldn’t mind heading about 600m out of our way to recover two of their vehicles that had gotten stuck earlier in the day. I thought about it for a minute—there was the possibility that we could get stuck in the same sand, and we were already behind schedule from the tight turns that afternoon. But few units have the recovery assets that we have, so we went out there to help them out.

I was glad we did, too. I found out later that the Marines had been out there since morning, and it was around 1800 by the time we caught up to them. We got one of our vehicles stuck getting out to them, but by the time we had recovered their two vehicles, we had also recovered ours, so our mission was accomplished fairly quickly. We didn’t make it as far as we’d planned that night, but we did make it to a FOB around 2300, so we decided to rest and move out again the next day.

There’s more to come. Thanks for all the e-mails and messages while I was gone. I have received a couple questions about whether I’m planning on doing National Novel Writing Month again this year. Unfortunately, I have decided that I will not be able to. I love writing, but I don’t forsee myself having the energy and free time this year to write at the level that I expect of myself. So I’m sorry...I’ll try again next year, but I’ll definitely be thinking of you all as you do!

*Grunts: Infantry Marines

A Long and Healthy Hate

Lest you think I joined the Marine Corps because I wanted to live out one of my favorite TV shows when I was a teen-ager (I didn’t), allow me to recall another episode of M*A*S*H for you. In this episode, Hawkeye discovers that one of the patients he had just operated on is 16. The kid begs him not to tell; Hawkeye agrees. Hawkeye changes his mind later in the episode when another patient dies in the OR. The show ends with Hawkeye bringing one of the MPs into the recovery room, telling him that the patient is 16, and ordering him to take him to the nearest authorities. The kid rails against him, eventually telling Hawkeye he’ll never forgive him for sending him home. Hawkeye couldn’t care less, telling him, “Let’s hope it’s a long and healthy hate.”

We received a version of that speech from our Battalion Commander this evening. He’s been telling Marines to use their door locks for the past couple months, but it appears that some Marines are continuing not to use them—whether out of forgetfulness, fear of drowning, or for some reason or another. We use the locks because they keep the door from blowing open during an IED blast. If the doors are open, Marines are vulnerable; if they stay closed, it’s safer for everyone. The fear of drowning comes into play because many of the roads we drive on are between canals. However, given how low the water is right now, it’s not a serious concern.

Back to the speech--the CO told us that if it took sending Marines home with adverse paperwork, or with one less stripe, he could care less. If Marines weren’t going to use their door locks, that’s what would happen. And if that Marine hated him for the rest of their life, he didn’t care; at least they would be alive.

I have no interesting observations to offer tonight, I was just amused to see real life mimic TV. We’re gearing up for our last mission; we’ll probably head out late next week. Until then, I have plenty of awards to write. :-)

Thanks, KVAL!

The CBS affiliate in Eugene sent out a reporter that embedded with some of my Marines as they made some improvements to a Forward Operating Base (FOB) up north. This is the story that she wrote:



And you can see their pictures here:



I wanted to make it up there but was unable to due to a separate mission running simultaneously (the one where I had dinner with Mr. Assef). I especially wanted to make it up there because the day they flew up there, we received word that Corporal Griffith, at the time Lance Corporal Griffith, had just been selected to receive a meritorious promotion to Corporal. Because it was a meritorious promotion through our home battalion, 6th Engineer Support Battalion, we had to wait for the Commanding General to sign the promotion warrant back in the states, and then for the warrant to be sent out to Afghanistan. My Platoon Sergeant and I wanted to fly up there to promote him, but instead we had an officer stationed up at the base do it.

Corporal Griffith distinguished himself from our first mission here on deck in Afghanistan. He does construction back at home, and from the start he's been applying his skills--showing the other Marines what needs to be done and leading small teams in various aspects of the construction. When our command asked who we wanted to put up for a meritorious promotion to Corporal, he was an easy choice.

I have an awesome platoon, and right now I am in the process of writing awards for about half of them. All the re-writes are painful, but I think I'm getting the hang of it, and they certainly deserve it.

In other news, Happy 17th Birthday, Rebecca! I'm so proud of you, and can't wait to see you soon.

Silly String

Without further ado.

I come back from taking a Marine to the hospital (not mine, and he’s fine; not injured, just some medical difficulties) to find my desk, chair, and computers covered with silly string. One of my co-workers just received a care package from home, and I knew it had silly string in it, so I knew exactly who the culprit was. One of my Sergeants showed me a picture taken a few minutes earlier of my platoon sergeant, also covered in silly string. Very amusing. I began cleaning up, gathering all the silly string in a pile on my desk.

I knew exactly what I was going to do with the silly string, except that once I got to my co-workers office with my pile of silly string detritus, I realized that his keyboards were spread out over his desk, and that they would make a better deposit location than just a single pile on his desk. So I returned the silly string. My platoon sergeant and one of our other co-workers were in his office and started laughing as soon as they saw what I was doing. I completed my task, walked back to my desk, and sat down. My platoon sergeant came back and sat down on the couch.

Sure enough, my co-worker appeared in my office door moments later with two cans of silly string. “I have more of these,” he promised, aimed, and pushed the nozzles.

“Got it.” I ducked my head and waited for it to be over. Spray, spray spray spray, wait, spray, wait, wait, spray...finally it was over. “I have more of these,” he reminded me again. “Roger,” I said as I started pulling silly string off my head. “Love you,” he called out in the sing-song-y voice that all the guys around here use when they’re playing around. “Love you, too,” I answered through recently un-gritted teeth.

One of my squad leaders, who had been sitting at the desk right in front of me, crawled out from underneath the desk, and we all started laughing again.

“Dumping all that silly string on his desk was totally worth it,” I told him a couple minutes later as I had cleared the area right next to my body and was starting to reach out to the gear behind me.

He laughed. “You keep telling yourself that, ma’am.”

Ten minutes later, I walked into my co-worker’s office again. Again, I was holding a handful of silly string, except this time it was all nicely piled up, formed in pretty oval shape, with no tiny bits of dusty string. “I have a nice new chia pet that I wanted to share with you,” I said, and deposited it on his desk.

Your tax dollars, hard at work.

We have one mission left before our replacements arrive and we start spinning them up on how things work out here. Roughly two months from now we will be back in Camp Pendleton, turning in our gear and wishing we were instead in Oregon/Michigan/Indiana/Illinois/Pennsylvania/Washington. Wherever home is.

I've been hear long enough that the gentleman that runs the morning grill knows exactly what I want for breakfast--omelet with everything, no jalapenos, please. This morning he didn't even bother to confirm with me, just nodded, said good morning, and started cooking. Is it nice to have a fresh omelet every morning? Yes. Would I rather have my own kitchen, where I could sleep however long I wanted and still eat a nice breakfast, and didn't have to pull my hair back into a bun just to walk to the kitchen? Most definitely. I don't mean to complain--there are perks. But I'm ready to be home again.

Love you all! See you soon.

Muhammed Assef

Well, I've been back for a few days now, but I've been waiting to get a picture from one of my Marines before I told this story. I promise the silly string story is still coming, but this will have to do for now.

The third day of our mission, I was invited to attend dinner with the FET team stationed at the COP (combat outpost) we were staying at. FET stands for Female Engagement Team--a team of two female Marines that go out on patrols into the city with male Marines, whose sole purpose on those patrols is to speak to the women of the city. These teams are scattered over the city, a couple Marines on each base, and having them on the COP is convenient for us because it means the Marines at the COP already have billeting and head facilities for females established.

Our patrol consisted of about twenty people total, including civilians from Civil Affairs, translators, and local Afghans. I couldn’t tell if the Afghans were police, army, or something different, but they carried weapons (local nationals are not allowed to carry crew-served weapons), and the Marines were okay with it. It took maybe fifteen minutes to get where we were going; 800m total. We crossed many fields, each with deep ruts between each row of crops. We also crossed several canals. They’re typically just too wide such that you might be able to jump it, but weighed down with your gear you’re not sure if you want to try. And then there was the canal where the far side was probably six feet, with a 70 degree slope. One of the Afghans gave me a hand up, which I needed.

We arrived at Mr. Assef’s home and were invited into a room with a large rug in the center, and cushions lining the outside. Mr. Assef is a tribal leader close to the outpost, so the civil affairs group (CAG) talked to him for a while about some of the issues his people have had recently. One of the issues he raised was people stealing water in the north part of Marjeh, which the CAG promised to discuss with their bosses. Once business had been discussed, dinner was served. They began with another large rug that covered the center of the room, more like a tablecloth than a carpet, although don’t imagine a red and white checkered plastic tablecloth that you can clip over the picnic table at the rest stop on the interstate. This was dark blue/purple vinyl on one side, and the other side was dark brown and had a flower pattern embossed on it.

Men began placing dishes on the tablecloth--marinated lamb, a huge platter of basmati rice, another huge platter of chicken covered in red spices, small plates of sliced tomatoes, chili peppers, and small red onions, and a heaping platter of naan. Mr. Assef took the platter of naan, stacked several pieces, and ripped them in half, each half still larger than a dinner plate. The halves were then passed around the room. The Afghans shared silver platters of rice with a chicken wing each; Americans were served on cardboard trays that we get in the chow hall. We were also given utensils, again the same ones we get from the chow hall. I decided to imitate the Afghans and ignored my silverware, doing my best to avoid using my left hand as much as possible.

The last item served was milk, served in large bowls. The Afghans scooped the milk using white ladles, returning the ladle to the bowl after each time they drank. One of the Afghans close to me offered me the milk in a cup, and I accepted it; the Americans sitting next to me admired my bravery. The milk tasted sour, similar to plain yogurt but more sour. It tasted something like a yogurt drink I’d had at a middle eastern restaurant once, although without the spices. I drank the milk, along with the Pepsi they’d given me, throughout the meal. Once we were done with the main course, they put out fresh pomegranate halves and quartered apples. I had one of each, and on a whim tried placing pomegranate seeds and rice inside a chunk of bread and eating them together. It was quite good.

After the tablecloth had been removed, Mr. Assef asked the FET team if we would like to meet his family. We were lead across a field, into a courtyard, and then into a room in his house. His family filtered into the room; his wife, sons and daughters, sons’ wives, and a lot of children. A couple of them spoke a little bit of English, but other than that we mostly sat and looked at each other. One of the men asked me if I liked tea, and I said yes. He told someone to bring tea, and I immediately hoped it had been boiled (as I write this a day and a half later, I still haven’t gotten sick, so it must have been). A young boy, maybe 7 or 8, served myself and the Sergeant that was with me, pouring probably a quarter of a cup of sugar into the cup before pouring tea in each. It was chai—delicious, even without the amount of sugar in it. They also brought out a bowl of more food—there were almonds in their hulls, pistachios, some kind of yellow kernels that didn’t taste like corn, and a few chewy candies. I had an almond and a couple pistachios, but was mostly full.

More family members kept coming into the room; eventually the open space in the room disappeared as they filled it. One of the men motioned if he could put henna on the Sergeant’s hand, and then one of the women went to get it. I’ve seen the orange henna stains on the hands of other Local Nationals, mostly when I was up doing some of the reconnaissance missions I was tasked with over the summer. It turns an orange color and is supposed to last about a month before it fades off. They enjoy putting elaborate designs on their hands, and then also around each finger tip (it’s unclear to me why the finger tips...). This is the design they put on my hand.


I took out the laminated picture I carry around of my family. One side has all seven of us kids standing by our stockings last Christmas, and the other side is Mom and Dad. It was a big hit, and I told one of the men that spoke a little bit of English who all of my siblings were.

Too quickly it was time to go. We walked back to the COP, back through the fields and the ditches, the full moon making the trip easy. I called back to my company staff to find out there had been some confusion while I was gone. A Marine from our COP had been killed while on patrol earlier that day (a different direction from where we went), and somewhere up the chain someone had thought I was on that patrol. I assured them that I was fine, but it was back to reality.

Again

Well, I'd hoped to have a funny story about silly string for you, but I'm still waiting for the picture, so I'll postpone for now.

Things have been pretty crazy around here for the past twenty-four hours. We were sitting in a 1700 brief for a mission that was supposed to kick today when one of the Staff NCOs in the Battalion walked in and announced that the mission was rolled 24 hours, and that the security team was instead taking our Battalion CO in the opposite direction. Then there was a lot of additional Class IV material to get loaded yesterday night and this morning, and the security team taking us tomorrow rolled in early evening...

Anyway, I'll be out for the next week and a half or so, and I don't know what kind of access to the internet I'll have (hopefully none). I'm looking forward to getting off Leatherneck for a little while, and I should have the silly string story when I get back.

Love you all, and happy birthday to David. :-)

Half-Mast

The flag in front of our company office flew at half-mast today. I would have loved to get a picture and post it for you, but the camera I brought with me succumbed to the heat about a month after we got here, so you will have to be content with the mental image of our flag flying at half mast in front of a raw wood building where Marines carry out the work that was triggered by the events that are so prevalent on everyone's minds today.

I don't really have any deep insights to offer for you today, no philosophical musings about life, the military, the Taliban, politics, what have you. What I do have for you is this: the things we do here make a difference. Yes, it's true that some Afghans support the Taliban, but it's also true that many of them support the Taliban only because they are coerced to do so, and that others risk their lives to help Marines. Marines, Afghan Soldiers, and other Coalition Forces are still engaged in a fierce fight and losing their lives, but we are fighting in the Helmand River valley--the birthplace of the Taliban; their home turf. You can't get much better for taking the fight to the enemy! And we'll keep fighting for as long as our Commander-in-Chief tells us to.

I've been thinking lately about how I've joined the group of millions of young (and not-so-young) men and women throughout our nation's history that have been called away from their homes and families to defend someone's freedom, and how proud I am to be in this group. Yes, I miss my family--I got up at 5 this morning so I could call home and sing Happy Birthday to my brother (love you, bro!) before they all had cake and ice cream and retired for the night. (Okay, so I walked back to the barracks and went back to sleep for another hour and a half once we were done.) Yes, I get tired of the dust that gets everywhere, and the chow hall having the exact same thing week in and week out, and working seven days week in and week out, and I'm counting down the days until we go back to the states. But if someone had given me a time machine before I'd gone to OCS, and I had known exactly what it was like out here before I even joined the Marine Corps...I would still do exactly what I did.

Semper Fidelis.

All Kinds of Craziness

"All kinds of craziness"--something one of my Sergeant Instructors liked to say when I was at Officer Candidate School, and something that certainly applied today. For the past three months, my platoon has been the only platoon in the company based out of Camp Leatherneck; the rest of the company has been based out of a FOB farther south of here. Recently, that changed.

Now, instead of just my platoon plus two additional Marines for company staff, we have most of the company staff, plus another platoon and a half up here, recently arrived by both plane and convoy. So we've essentially tripled the number of people working out of the same 32'x64' office--craziness!

It should be interesting. The company staff and one of the platoons is here to stay; the second platoon is here for a couple missions, and then will probably return to their base. But then they'll be back up for good at some point. Until now my platoon has had the whole building, now the Sergeant's couch they like to relax on is in my office, and the traffic in and out of my office is going to increase exponentially.

I received a question recently asking what sizes platoons and squads were, to better understand what I mean when I say that I only get to send a squad instead of the whole platoon on a mission. The best way to explain it is that the Marine Corps operates (for the most part) on the rule of threes: the optimal number of subordinate units to lead is three. Therefore, a fire team, the smallest maneuver unit, is three Marines plus a fire team leader, for a total of four Marines. Each squad has three fire teams in it, plus a squad leader, for a total of thirteen Marines.

A doctrinal platoon has three squads in it, for a total of thirty-nine Marines. Of course, then you start adding on your platoon staff--doctrinally, a platoon commander, platoon sergeant, and a platoon guide. Your platoon sergeant is your senior enlisted Marine, and handles the day-to-day details of what the platoon does. (Field day tonight, we need two Marines at so-and-so's office for a working party, first squad I need you guys doing X tomorrow, etc.)

Your platoon guide (I have two) is used differently based on what your platoon does. My guides are my construction foreman, responsible for the detailed planning of the missions--these are the construction materials we'll need, the tools we'll need, we're short X and I think we might be able to get it from these people... My last addition to my platoon is our corpsman, aka "doc". So my platoon has a total of 42 enlisted Marines, one sailor, and myself.

Now, in reality, even if I could take the "whole platoon" out on the mission I was talking about in my last post, it would not be the entire platoon. We have out here what we call "camp tax", which basically means that as soon as we got here, I gave up three (recently reduced to two) of my Marines to stand guard on base. I also gave up four Marines to support the company on the southern FOB, and then I have eight Marines that are on an additional security team. When they're not out, technically they belong to me, but I can't do much with them because I have to be ready to give them up at a moment's notice. (For a total of...fourteen Marines that I don't really control.)

So when I say "take the whole platoon out" I really mean only about two squads of Marines. It's a little frustrating to have my platoon reduced so sharply, but I know the guys I've given up for the security team enjoy getting off base, as do the Marines on the FOB down south.

In other notes: (1) I am again reminded of how important communication is. I just spent two days pretty upset over what turned out to be something I heard incorrectly. I'm very glad I finally went and talked to the person. And then: (2) I get to go out again on another recon, or "recce" (pronounced "wreckie"), as the British call it. But, I'll let you in on a little secret. Someone else is the mission commander, so all I have to do is show up and keep my eyes peeled. I don't even have to write the report afterwards. I'll help as much as I can, but...this one will be fun. End of little secret.

Thanks for the e-mails! I hope you are all doing well and look forward to seeing you when I get back.

Yes, it's that time again

The time where I load up blogger.com and cringe as I look at the dashboard--has it really been 20 days since I last posted? Yikes! I meant for this blog to be fun to read--frequently updated, interesting topics. Turns out building SWA Huts (SouthWest Asia, basically what we call the ubiquitous 16'x32' [or some multiple of those dimension] wood huts out here) is not all that interesting to write about. Actually, my platoon is almost finished building a 32'x96' SWA Hut, and they've knocked it out of the park.

Other than that, I did another reconnaissance. This one turned out to be more a circus than a reconnaissance--both the Navy's SeaBees and a Sergeant from the Army's Multi-Role Bridge Company came out on the recon, in addition to my Battalion Commander, Battalion Sergeant Major, and Company Commander. Let me just say--when they tell you you're the mission commander, and you're the lowest-ranking officer on the trip (we had an O-5, O-4, O-3, two O-2s, and myself, an O-1 for a few more months)...yeah, it gets a little frustrating.

We did get to hang out with the grunts for a couple of days. We had a squad attached to us that had been patrolling the area for the prior five weeks, and they knew the area quite well. They did an outstanding job holding security for us while we did our reconnaissance, as well as escorting us back and forth to our vehicles. At the third site, I was sitting on top of the ridge, when the Squad Leader excused himself to go bathe. I thought he was joking until I looked over the side of the ridge a few minutes later and saw his squad jumping into the river from the closest rock while a Major and a Navy Lieutenant (an O-3, the equivalent of a Captain in the Marine Corps) held security.

Coming up, I get to send another squad out to do another COP (Combat Outpost) build. These ones are fun--the Marines get off base for a little while, and they get to make life a lot nicer for some Marines that are living in run-down buildings. I wish I could take the whole platoon on this one, but we only get to send a squad.

We're halfway done! It's difficult to believe we're already at this point. Time flies, of course, except when it grinds to a halt. I look back at what I was doing a week and a half ago and am boggled that it's already been a week and a half. And then there are days that don't seem to end regardless of what you do. I'm finally starting to feel like a not-boot Lieutenant, with a tiny little bit of experience under my belt. Not a whole lot, but enough that I don't feel fresh out of school any more. As frustrating as the last recon was, I did learn quite a bit.

I apologize that I don't have a terribly interesting topic tonight. Those SWA Huts, I tell you...fascinating.

Mantathalon

What is a mantathalon? you might ask. Well, in the words of our Communications Officer, it is Mantastic! I'm sure that helps increase your understanding, doesn't it? Our Battalion Commander requests to know if women are allowed to participate in the manthalon and is assured that they are.

Basically it boils down to a running (created?) feud between our communications and supply sections. The powerpoint explains that comm dominated in ultimate football, supply eked out a victory in basketball (slides designed by the comm-o...surprised much?), and that the Oki Panda Mantathalon was inconclusive. Thus, another manthalon must be held in order to determine which section is the true champion.

The mantathalon consisted of seven events over a week, including strength, speed, agility, endurance, intelligence, and skill capped off with a team challenge last Sunday night. The team challenge was a thirty-minute seven-on-seven grappling match, with the winner determined by shop that forced the most taps. Each Marine had a safety observer to ensure they would not be injured and small joint (wrists, ankles, fingers, etc.) manipulations were not permitted. A good number of the officers and staff NCOs in the Battalion turned out to watch the match in addition to the rest of the comm and supply shops.

The Marines started off with a lot of energy but tired quickly. They would grapple, going 2 on 1, 3 on 1, even 4 on 1 when they eliminated their opponents, until one entire side was out. They would gather on their side of the mat and lean heavily on their hands, trying to catch their breath before the next match. The director of the match would point at each side and ask if they were ready, then signal for them to start again.

Thirty minutes is a long time to grapple, but they stuck with it. Spectators would occasionally offer suggestions, but mostly just watched and enjoyed the entertainment. When time was finally called, the Marines collapsed on the mat. Supply had won the grappling match, but comm had the overall lead in the contest, and the XO presented the trophy, a ridiculous-looking belt, to the comm shop.

The match was like a picnic with friends...a short time on a Sunday evening to relax before plowing head-long into the week.

A Day on the River

Reveille was at 0400. I slept in the turret the night before, alternately folding my feet under my legs and draping them out the front; metal screws poked into my back if I shifted wrong. No pillow, no pajamas, just take your boots off and go to sleep. Not the best sleep I’ve ever had, so when reveille sounded, I didn’t mind too much. When I woke up it was difficult to see; fifteen minutes later I could easily see the vehicles on the outside of the perimeter.

We did a brief for the personnel heading down to the river and left around 0500. By the time we got to the first site, the sun was up over the horizon, and the local population was up and moving around. We drove into town with our MRAPs (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) and 7-ton vehicles; the security team pushed out to provide overwatch while the mineroller swept the approach to the river. A few minutes later, the overall mission commander informed me that the site was ready, and that we could dismount and perform our reconnaissance at the first site.

The river was a lot cleaner than we were expecting. When we briefed the mission, our CO and the Colonel above him that we briefed were very concerned about the Marines going in the water, worried about what diseases they would contract by going in the water. We got there, and it was just like looking at a river back in Oregon—cleaner, even. The rocks were growing algae and there was no trash on the river bank. The Marines waded in.

Immediately to the right of the approach were some cliffs overlooking the river. As the Marines waded around in the water, the local nationals gathered on the cliffs to watch. It was mostly men and children; I don’t remember seeing any women in the village. They were all dressed in traditional Afghan garb—long robes with trousers underneath and thick turbans swathed on their heads. The men all had bushy beards; some of the children had smaller caps on. They had no chairs but squatted comfortably as they watched us, sitting back on their heels. I don’t know how they do it—I know my legs would go numb if I tried for longer than a few seconds.

We completed our reconnaissance at the first site and made our way up to the second site. It looked much like the first with cliffs on either side of the approach to the water, except the closest compounds were a few hundred meters to the south. I did actually see a couple of women at this site, albeit from a distance. They are easy to recognize because they have veils instead of turbans and their clothes are more brightly colored. The veils I saw did not appear to resemble the heavy burqas I’ve seen in pictures that Saudi women are forced to wear; they were the same color as the women’s clothes. We also saw a flock of goats grazing near the base of the cliffs on the river.

The third site was the same—cool, clean water with few local nationals around. By mid-morning, the air was getting hot, so the cool air coming off the river felt nice. I did see one gentleman a few hundred meters north of the site. The overall mission commander had a translator speak with him, and learned that he was waiting for a ferry to take him to the other side of the river so he could go to the market.

It’s been pretty hot here lately. The past couple of days have been in the mid-110s during the day time, and no lower than low-80s at night. We’re all looking forward to September, when it should start cooling off around here.

Thanks for all the comments and e-mails! I always love hearing from everyone back at home. I’ve adjusted to life here, and don’t miss the states quite as much, but it’s still very stressful out here, and hearing from you makes my day that much brighter.

Welcome, Judah!

So, the big news of this week (as I’m sure you all know by now) is that Amy had her baby, and I am now a proud Aunt! I now have a picture of Judah posted by my desk here in my office, and my screensaver scrolls through what pictures I have of him. I wish I could be in Oregon right now, but I am getting by with pictures.

Probably the largest sacrifice that Marines (or anyone in the armed forces) makes is their time with their families. (The second-largest one is sleep…but sleep can be caught up on. At least in my job.) I know several Marines that are on their fifth deployment, each spanning at least 7 months. These Marines have spent more time away from their families than with their families in the past few years. One of my Marines’ wives will give birth to their first child while we are here, and I know there are more in our Battalion in that situation. Some Marines receive “Dear John” letters from their girlfriends (I hated that movie), others will come home to find their spouses have left them for someone else. (Very sad, but I personally know Marines this has happened to.) The old joke that if the Marine Corps wanted you to have a wife it would issue one is just that—a joke—but there is that nugget of truth hidden in it. The Marine Corps is very hard on families and relationships.

Depressed enough yet? Makes my whining about not being there for the first days of my nephew seem paltry. Overall I’m doing well, though. I’ve gotten plenty of pictures e-mailed, just got a letter in the mail, and am anticipating a couple of packages in the next few days.

Our pace has slowed down slightly since the first month and a half that we were here, but we still have missions here and there. Last weekend the news of the weekend was the river reconnaissance we did. I took a couple of Marines that are familiar with military bridging (from a different platoon in my company), and we went to a few locations on the Helmand River to determine suitability for bridging. The river was actually fairly nice, if fairly and fast-flowing. Before we went out there we were worried about how clean it would be, but it looked as clean (possibly cleaner) than any river in the US. And certainly cleaner than some of the beaches in LA.

Once I got back, I got to sit down and fill out all of the river and ford reconnaissance forms, and put together a brief for the unit that requested the recon. It was actually kind of fun, once I got started, figuring out the way to best brief it. Most of the briefs I do follow a pretty standard format and are designed to brief what will happen, not what has happened. This was just different enough to be fun, and by the time I delivered the brief I had gotten comfortable enough with the people I was briefing so as not to be nervous.

A logistics officer recently mentioned to me his observation that engineer school seemed to prepare its students well for briefing. I would have to agree; we did at least four formal briefs, and a couple of other informal briefs. When I got here, I actually went back to some of those briefs I did at school to figure out how best to brief my actual missions.

I hope that’s a random enough collection of thoughts for tonight. I do actually think about posting more often, but nothing I do seems interesting enough to talk about. And I can never say much about the things that are interesting.

Until next time.