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.