March 31, 2011
It’s been about a week since I last wrote—mainly because I’ve been focused on preparing for deployment. These past 20 days of leave have been more than just a break—they’ve been a necessary pause to recover physically (thanks, Dr. Turner), prepare mentally, travel, and spend time with friends and family. I made every day count.
Tomorrow morning—Friday—I leave Camp Pendleton at 0400. From there, I’ll make my way to Бишкек (Bishkek), Кыргызстан (Kyrgyzstan), where I should be able to write a few updates before pushing forward.
Tonight, though, I’ll be at Buffalo Wild Wings. A new one just opened around the corner from my house, and it’s funny the way small comforts suddenly feel so significant—hot wings, porcelain toilets, decent internet, driving, the open road on a motorcycle, and the simplicity of a backyard Mexican fiesta. These things seem trivial until you know you won’t have them for months. So tonight, I’m leaning in—soaking up every last bite and sip before it’s time to go.
To those showing up tomorrow at 0300: I’m looking forward to seeing you. To everyone else—I’ll see you in November.
April 7, 2011
Just a quick note to let everyone know I’m doing well. I landed at Camp Leatherneck, Afghanistan, on the afternoon of the 5th. Almost immediately, I came down with something—a high fever that kept me in bed for two full days. Fortunately, our team is in a kind of operational limbo until around the 15th, so I was able to ride out the worst of it without any real work obligations. If there’s ever a good time to get sick in a war zone, this was it.
I’m still feeling the tail end of it—a light head cold—but I’m functional. The next few days will likely be filled with PowerPoint briefings and other administrative noise.
I’ve been officially assigned to Khan Neshin Castle, situated at the southernmost tip of the Helmand River before it bends west along the valley. I don’t yet have a mailing address—I’m waiting on our host unit, 2nd Light Armored Reconnaissance, to arrive before that becomes available.
The weather has been a surprise: mid-70s and light rain in the evenings. We showed up just in time to ease into the coming summer heat.
April 17, 2011
Yesterday, I moved from Combat Outpost Payne to a place called Fire Base 00—FB00 for short. This will be home for the next seven months, or at least until someone higher up decides to shuffle the deck again. Life here is rugged. The entire camp consists of two General Purpose (GP) tents—each housing around thirty people—and a small Command Post. We’re co-located with the Afghan Border Patrol, or ABP, and surrounded by two small villages.
What’s particularly interesting about these villages is that each belongs to a different tribe—and they speak completely different languages. Afghanistan isn’t shaped by nationalism the way the United States is. Here, loyalty runs through bloodlines and tribal affiliation. One village belongs to the Baluch—a mostly nomadic people who live in tents and make their living herding livestock. The other is Pashtun, a farming community. This time of year, their main cash crop is poppy, grown for opium and later refined into heroin.
Most of the heroin produced here is a crude, unrefined “black tar” variety. It moves through shadowy routes, gets processed, and ends up on the streets of Europe and elsewhere. The marijuana fields are just as extensive. What was once Afghanistan’s “breadbasket” has become Europe’s heroin and hash pipeline—and the profits help fund terror networks around the globe.
And yet, despite the harsh conditions, there’s something oddly peaceful about FB00. It’s bare-bones living, but simpler. Fewer rules. Less bureaucracy. We’re just out here doing our jobs. Meals consist of nothing but MREs and Government Rations. The heat is already climbing into the mid-90s, which forces you to think carefully about what’s truly essential on patrol—weapon, water, demo. The lighter the pack, the better—especially in the wet farmland and canal systems that cut through this region like veins.
I learned that the hard way. Tried to leap a canal and missed, landing waist-deep in mud and water. At 96 degrees, it actually felt pretty good.
When it comes to building trust, the local village elders are essential. A strong relationship with the town’s Mullah can mean the difference between an ambush and a tip about an IED. But diplomacy here moves at a very different pace. Americans are wired for speed, results, objectives. Afghans, by contrast, operate on in-sha-allah—God’s will, God’s time. After decades of war, their worldview doesn’t hinge on schedules or outcomes.
Meetings with a Mullah can stretch for weeks, sometimes months, even over the smallest of issues. And when he speaks, the whole village shows up to listen. During those gatherings, respect is everything. If an American disrespects the elder, the entire dynamic can shift. One slight, and the villagers might stop sharing intelligence—and start siding with the Taliban.
It’s a fragile balance, built one slow conversation at a time.
April 27, 2011
By the time I manage to send this out, nearly two weeks will have passed since my last update. I apologize. Connectivity here is unreliable at best, and when the technology breaks, it does so at the worst possible moments. I’ll circle back to that in a bit. For now, the best way to recount everything is chronologically.
On April 18, Apache Company, Light Armored Reconnaissance—the unit I’m directly supporting—launched an operation with the rather tone-deaf name “No IED Left Behind.” The mission centered on clearing explosive devices from a local schoolhouse. I left the relative comforts of FOB Payne—where showers and internet still exist—and embedded with the Army’s 309th Engineer Company, Route Clearance Platoon, to reach a small fire base named Torbert. It was named after a Marine engineer killed by an IED while sweeping the area for his platoon headquarters.
Once we arrived, the Army engineers began searching the area surrounding the Abdullah Khan Kalay schoolhouse. They found two devices. Both were disarmed and destroyed successfully. The school will be rebuilt in the coming months. The devices themselves were simple—nothing like what you’d see in a movie. There’s no standardized color-coding to wires out here. It’s all whatever scrap the bomb-maker had on hand—often Iranian lamp cord or other mismatched materials.
From Torbert, I was sent directly back to FB00, just 20 minutes away. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to stay for the post-mission BBQ. Headquarters had brought out smokers and hamburger patties from FOB Payne, but I was pulled out before it started. Apparently, the captain’s decisions trumped common decency. Back at FB00, I immediately tried setting up my VSAT—a satellite terminal that connects to both regular and classified internet. But it wouldn’t connect. A few emails to the support tech back at Leatherneck confirmed my suspicion: the unit was fried. “Your box is fu**ed,” he wrote back—comfortably from his air-conditioned office. Until I can return to Payne and swap out equipment, I’m off-grid.
Living out of the back of a truck in 100+ degree heat, with no running water, no toilets, no showers, and clouds of biting insects, is rough. Meals are strictly MREs. There’s no relief except sleep, and even that is interrupted.
On April 22, Red Platoon kicked off a security patrol at 0620. I volunteered my team—better to be outside moving than wasting away waiting for a 10-line EOD request. We didn’t find any IEDs, but we did spend time among the local population. During a break, I had a long conversation—via translator—with members of the Afghan Border Patrol (ABP). One of them claimed that 200 years ago Afghanistan controlled both Iran and Pakistan, and that today, they just need modern weapons to take them back. India, he added, was a friend. I’m not sure where that version of history came from—possibly a mix of nostalgia and myth—but it made for fascinating lunch conversation.
Goats, by the way, are kept on the roofs of homes here—to keep them from wandering off. These are usually milk goats, so having them upstairs saves a few steps during morning chores.
Poppy season is at its peak. Whole families, including children, are out harvesting. As the petals fall, the pods are scored for their sap—the raw material for heroin. Migrant workers flood in to take part in the harvest. The economy here moves with the seasons, and opium is king.
Children as young as seven are put to work farming or herding. It’s a jarring sight, but here, it’s normal.
The ABP are our main local security partners in southern Helmand. While often lacking in discipline, they understand the region in ways we never will. Their presence on patrols is vital. They also bring tea. On this patrol, a young boy approached and offered hot chai. It was 100 degrees out, but in Pashtun culture, declining hospitality is deeply insulting. So we drank.
Later that day, locals prepared a meal of beans, tomato paste, and bread. It was simple, filling, and a welcome break from MREs. A second dish of split peas arrived later. I preferred the beans. The only Americans who ate were my team, our Afghan interpreters, and the ABP. Most of our troops still avoid local food, but I think they’re missing out on something essential.
I also saw my first real hedgehog. Tiny, harmless, and confused—more ball than beast. I moved it away from my sleeping area and couldn’t help but think about Sonic the Hedgehog on Sega Genesis. Funny how memory works out here.
On April 26, intelligence came in about a high-value target nearby. But the platoon hesitated, and by the time we moved out, the target was gone. We did find 25 kilos of heroin—well over the legal threshold of 10 kilos. But within minutes, half a dozen “owners” appeared claiming portions of the stash. Technically, that made it legal again. The whole pile was released. I imagine my friends in law enforcement back home are cringing.
Tomorrow I’m scheduled to return to FOB Payne. A hot shower is calling my name.
One last note before I close—
There’s a dog living at FB00 now. An Afghan stray who adopted us. He goes out on every patrol, start to finish, and stands watch at night in front of the EOD truck. He wakes up every hour or so, patrols the perimeter, then lies back down. At first, his barking drove me nuts. But now? He’s comforting.
Both Viktor Frankl and Elie Wiesel wrote about the presence of God—or meaning—in small, unexpected places. A dog. A flower. A stranger offering tea. Whether you call it God or beauty, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is noticing. And here, in a place filled with war and loss, I’ve started to notice again.
May 5, 2011
There hasn’t been much kinetic activity since my last update, but I’ve still got a few stories worth sharing. I was planning to wait the full two weeks before putting this together, but with three pages of notes and anecdotes already stacked, it made sense to send this one out a bit early.
Over the past several days, I’ve made a point of studying Afghan history—both out of personal curiosity and as a way to better understand the people around me. A comment from one of the Afghan Border Patrol (ABP) guards sparked it: he claimed Afghanistan was once a major world power. Not quite accurate—but not completely unfounded, either.
Afghanistan, as a modern nation-state, is a relatively recent invention. The borders we now recognize were largely shaped by colonial interests—specifically the British Empire during the 19th century. Their goal was to establish Afghanistan as a buffer between British India and Russian expansion in Central Asia, part of what later became known as The Great Game. The geopolitical tension between those two empires resulted in three Anglo-Afghan Wars (1839–42, 1878–80, and 1919). The British didn’t conquer Afghanistan, but they did leave their mark—most notably in 1893, when they negotiated the Durand Line, the artificial boundary that still defines the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. This line split Pashtun tribal areas in two, igniting a dispute that persists to this day.
Interestingly, the British even extended their territorial influence northward across what’s now modern-day Tajikistan, and they deliberately claimed a narrow corridor—the Wakhan Corridor—to block Russian access to China. That 50-mile finger of land remains one of the strangest geopolitical artifacts in the world.
The result was a country cobbled together from deserts (like Helmand), mountain ranges (like the Hindu Kush), and valleys filled with dozens of ethnic groups who never asked to share a flag. Among them: Pashtuns, Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras, Nuristanis, Brahuis, Turkmen, and Baluchis. These groups not only speak different dialects—they often speak entirely different languages. Unification was never going to be easy. In fact, the name Afghan itself is believed to derive from a Persian term meaning “warlike” or “unruly”—likely a reference to the Pashtun tribes.
That tribal mindset still defines much of the culture here. The idea of Pashtunistan—a greater Pashtun homeland stretching across Afghanistan and Pakistan—isn’t some nationalist fantasy cooked up in a think tank. It’s a living idea, especially in areas like Peshawar, which technically belongs to Pakistan but is still considered part of Pashtunistan by many here. Cultural borders mean more than political ones, and that logic underpins much of the tension we see today. It’s the same principle that helped tear apart Yugoslavia, and it continues to frustrate efforts at forging a unified Afghan identity.
For anyone looking to better understand this dynamic, I recommend Peter Hopkirk’s The Great Game—an engaging, if lengthy, look at the imperial power struggles that shaped the region. Stephen Tanner’s Afghanistan provides a broader, chronological history and is more digestible if you’re looking for a primer.
But history only takes us so far. We’re here now, and the challenge before us is to build a sense of Afghan nationalism that isn’t rooted in fear or forced submission. That’s easier said than done. More than a few locals have told me they preferred life under the Taliban. I asked First Sergeant Mhammad Amqhan Khan of the ABP for insight.
He explained that during the Soviet occupation, the Mujahideen became heroes—fierce defenders of Afghan independence. After the Soviets withdrew, the Taliban claimed that legacy. Harsh as they were, they imposed order, and for many villagers, that was enough. Today, the Taliban continue to sell themselves as protectors of Afghanistan, framing coalition forces as just another round of foreign invaders.
That’s the information war we’re losing.
Khan, for his part, is deeply frustrated by how the world views his country. “People think Afghanistan is a home for terrorists,” he told me. “But Osama bin Laden was found in Pakistan.” He believes most Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters originate outside Afghanistan. His hope is that through education and community engagement, that narrative can change.
He’s convinced that Afghanistan’s future depends on two things. First: schools. Education is the foundation. Second: unity through that education—breaking down the tribal barriers that divide the country. Without that, he says, Afghanistan will remain fractured.
May 1
I traded a twenty-dollar bill with 1st Sgt Khan and asked him to pick up some supplies at the local bazaar. For the equivalent of $20, I got red onions, tomatoes, chili peppers, eggs, tea, cooking oil, and a flat of Pepsi. That haul made for a pretty decent omelet in my JetBoil and a welcome break from MREs. I’ve got plans to buy a goat next. Khan says he’s a great cook—knows how to prepare goat kabobs and goat steaks. I’ll report back.
I received my change in Pakistani rupees. We’re only about 50 miles from the border, but still—this is like someone in San Diego getting pesos at a gas station. Another reminder that cultural boundaries trump national ones around here.
May 2
Red Platoon got a tip that a 55-gallon drum filled with explosives was buried near a local bridge. The rumor has been floating since my 2009 deployment—this mythical IED barrel that keeps slipping through everyone’s fingers.
We rolled out to investigate. The first thing I saw? A bunch of kids riding bikes across the bridge. Then a local car zipped across it at 45 miles per hour. Not exactly the behavior you’d expect around a buried bomb. Still, we swept the area. Found nothing. The captain later decided the drum must have been moved. Of course.
May 3
The generator went down. At first, I thought someone had unplugged my power. Then I traced the issue to the source—and found the generator stone dead.
Enter the platoon gunny, carrying a hammer like a medieval mechanic. He started pounding random components inside the generator. “This fixes some things sometimes,” he said. When that failed, he climbed inside and tried to rewire it. One of the internal batteries exploded—spraying a cloud of acid. Fortunately, he only suffered a minor burn, but the generator was toast.
Thankfully, there’s a backup that can power the radios. That bought us time until a mechanic arrived with a new battery. It’s a reality out here: limited resources. Water, fuel, and food come every five days. Spare parts? Those are a luxury.
May 4
A sandstorm rolled in, blocking out the sun. That was followed by a quick rain shower. Now it was hot and humid. I crawled under the MRAP and tried to get some sleep.
May 5
Time moves slow day to day, but weeks seem to disappear. I’m on my third Mefloquine tablet—six weeks deployed. The best part of returning to Payne last week was fixing my VSAT, which means I can talk to the outside world again.
Word is that my section leader may have scrounged up a tent and an air conditioner. If either makes it here, I’ll be thankful. It’s already hot, and the locals say summer hasn’t even begun.
A few last notes:
You can find our location on Google Earth by searching “Sar Banader, Afghanistan.” While our area of responsibility extends far beyond it, this little village is home for now.
The sunsets here can be beautiful when the dust hits just right. But I still think the best ones are in New Mexico. That state earns its nickname—Land of Enchantment.
My MRAP is more than a truck. When parked, its interior becomes our workspace. On the move, every item must be strapped down. Space is tight, but it works.
And about that legendary 55-gallon drum of explosives? We may have found it. Being used for irrigation. Empty. No explosives. So it goes.
Lastly, First Sergeant Khan told me we’re brothers now. Not metaphorically—actually brothers. We’ve shared chai, fought toward the same goals, and earned each other’s trust. In Afghan culture, those gestures carry weight. They don’t say things they don’t mean. Unlike Iraqis—who tend to be more flamboyant in their relationships—Afghans are understated. If they call you family, they mean it.
If you’re curious about this aspect of Afghan culture, I recommend Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson. It’s a controversial book for other reasons, but one thing it gets right is this: in Afghanistan, sharing tea is never just about tea.
May 13, 2011
No sooner had I hit “send” on my last newsletter than a new mission cropped up—one that turned out to be, if nothing else, wildly entertaining. That’s one of the perks of being in an EOD unit, especially one detached from higher headquarters: the flexibility to choose our own missions. When census tasks pop up, you can bet my team won’t be found trudging through the heat collecting demographic data. But when someone says, “Hey, want to help ground a Taliban ferry?”—you better believe I’ll be waist-deep in the Helmand River before they finish the question.
Every region in Afghanistan is parceled out to a specific Coalition Force unit, and those zones are then subdivided among their subordinate elements. The boundaries—usually following natural features like rivers or canals—are coordinated at the platoon level, and while not formally publicized, they’re no secret. Locals and Taliban alike observe our patrol patterns and figure out our borders in a matter of days. This matters during poppy harvest season. Taliban tax collectors move freely between these zones, skirting responsibility and exploiting our boundaries. They’ll wait for one patrol to leave an area, then use a ferry to cross into the next AO, confident that no one will pursue them across an unofficial line.
At 1900 on May 5th, the Red Platoon sergeant wandered over to our corner of the fire base—Skid Row—and asked if we’d like to help remove a ferry from the Helmand River. I asked the obvious question: “Why not use C4 and just send the boat to the bottom?” Turns out, someone already pitched that idea, and “higher” denied it. Their reasoning: if we simply ground the boat, we could use it as a bargaining chip with local civilians who also rely on the ferry. Practical, I suppose—but definitely less fun.
Still, a mission involving boats, rivers, and ABP driving Ford Rangers was more exciting than most. At 0445 the next morning, May 6th, I brewed coffee while waiting for the usual Red Platoon delay. We finally rolled out at 0555. The ferry was easy to spot—an aluminum patchwork, spot-welded together, with a cut-up yellow jerrycan used to bail water mid-transit. Ingenious in its own way.
The riverbank was muddy—no surprise—and impassable for vehicles. We rigged ropes from the ferry’s bow to the hitch of an ABP Ford Ranger. Even though the boat was light and the truck had 4WD, hauling it up the six-foot riverbank proved difficult. Halfway up, the rope snapped. Luckily, the platoon had some steel tow cables in their LAVs. We swapped them in and tried again.
Just then, a local man rode up on a donkey. When asked where he was headed, he replied, “Across the river.” The sergeant answered, “Probably not today.” The man gave a grin, turned his donkey around, and rode back the way he came.
Eventually, the boat made it over the bank and into the desert. For some reason, the image of a spot-welded ferry being hauled by a Ford Ranger still makes me laugh. Later, we learned the Taliban may have been trying to set up a hasty ambush during the recovery. That night, we heard distant AK fire—more symbolic than tactical. The Taliban are known to inflate their actions to look more impressive on their internal reports. Still, it was a reminder that presence doesn’t always mean action, but action can come at any time.
May 10–12
I headed back to FOB Payne on the 10th for a short “rest and refit.” As always, it was a relief—air-conditioned tents, a real chow hall, mail. I got some minor maintenance done on the MRAP (brakes and serpentine belt), and dropped off a few comms systems for repair. Even picked up some mail—huge thanks to Adam for the care package.
On the 12th, I hitched a ride back to FB00 with a headquarters element. En route, we were redirected—apparently, FB00 had just been engaged by enemy forces. It turns out the sporadic gunfire on the 6th had, in fact, been Taliban. On the 12th, they escalated, directly engaging both Marines and the ABP. The firefight lasted about ten minutes. There were no coalition casualties, and the ABP made three arrests—including one mid-level Taliban commander operating in our area.
The timing was significant. With the poppy harvest over, seasonal laborers are now free to take up arms. The fight might have been short, but the capture was meaningful. Enemy forces in our AO are now more limited, not only by personnel, but also because 3rd LAR has worked hard to disrupt supply chains—seizing caches along the Pakistan border. That has made a measurable difference. Fewer materials mean fewer IEDs and fewer direct engagements. Fewer doesn’t mean zero, though. The events of the 12th were a good reminder to stay sharp, even when things seem quiet. If we’d been back at FB00 that day instead of at Payne, we would have been in the middle of it.
Closing Notes
The team’s doing well. We’ve started to put together a few comforts—small improvements that go a long way. Yesterday we finished constructing a tent, and we’re expecting an air conditioning unit within the next week and a half. We also strung up some sun netting, which helps drop the temperature by 30 degrees. It makes the difference between 100 and 130 on the thermometer. Surface temps, of course, climb even higher in the direct sun.
Our satellite comms system is still working great, which means I can stay in touch with my all of you reading this. I’m sure things will start to heat up operationally, but I’m fortunate to be surrounded by capable Marines.
A quick thanks to everyone who’s written back. I appreciate your replies more than you know. These newsletters serve a dual purpose: they keep you updated, and they help me process what’s happening out here. I know they’re rough—usually written in one sitting, typed straight from my head, then sent without editing. So, if you notice an awkward sentence or jumbled paragraph, now you know why.
May 21, 2011
May 18 – The battle space around FB00 officially transferred from 3rd LAR to 2nd LAR. The shift in personnel brought with it a noticeable shift in attitude. After four months in-country, 3rd LAR had grown familiar with their area of operations. That familiarity had its upsides—they were measured and appropriately cautious in places like Sar Banader—but it also bred complacency. At FB00, they had grown sloppy: poor hygiene, trash scattered around the camp, and a general feeling of entitlement that had settled even on the lowest-ranking Marines. Gear maintenance was inconsistent. Some had stopped shaving. The camp looked and felt tired.
2nd LAR, by contrast, arrived with energy—too much of it, maybe. Their lack of experience in the area translated into aggressive posturing and a zealous appetite for engagement. From the moment they took control, it was clear many of them had one thing in mind: earning a Combat Action Ribbon (CAR) and proving themselves “in the fire of combat.” That mentality might look good on paper, but it rarely wins friends among the locals. Pointing a rifle at a man for “suspicious behavior” doesn’t do much to build trust—especially when that behavior is something as simple as digging in his field. What looks like farming to an experienced eye often gets misread by fresh boots as enemy action.
Still, discipline improved overnight. The MRE wrappers and water bottles disappeared. The hygiene station was scrubbed down—at least as well as anything can be cleaned at FB00.
As part of the battle space handover, outgoing units typically conduct a familiarization patrol, essentially acting as guides for their replacements. At that point, operational control passes to the new unit. Rather than ease into the AO, 2nd LAR made a beeline for “the jungle”—a densely vegetated area near the Helmand River where 3rd LAR had taken small arms fire on the 12th. It was clear they were hoping to provoke contact.
After two hours without a single shot fired, the patrol moved to a terrain feature I call “EOD Hill,” named for the way a tree at its peak resembles the EOD badge. The hill offers a commanding view of the area, and reports suggest IEDs have been planted around it. That wouldn’t surprise me. The Taliban often bury devices in key terrain—like the schoolhouse we cleared back on April 18. My team swept a safe path to the summit, observed the surroundings for half an hour, then began the walk back. En route, one of the 2nd LAR Marines collapsed from heat exhaustion. Yet another reminder that you don’t force your way into unknown terrain without a plan—or without pacing yourself.
Since the 18th, a patrol has headed into the jungle almost every day. My guess? The pace continues until someone gets hurt. Then the pendulum will swing in the opposite direction. That’s often how war works: lurching between extremes. But success depends on knowing when risk is justified—when the juice is worth the squeeze. Disarming a device in a school? Worth it. Marching up a hill just to leave it 30 minutes later? Probably not.
May 19 – As if on cue, the weather changed. The moment 3rd LAR rotated out, we entered what locals call the “120 Days of Wind.” The mornings went from crisp to warm, and the afternoons are now dry, windy, and full of sand. Everything gets coated in dust. Each evening, the Helmand feels like a giant hairdryer blowing straight into your face.
May 21 – We finally had an EOD mission after nearly six weeks of quiet. At 2330 on the 20th, I was woken up by an excited corporal—one of the patrols had spotted an IED on a bridge. We geared up fast. Within the hour, we were ready to roll.
Then the order came from LAR Battalion HQ: Stand down. Night operations were not authorized. We’d have to wait until first light.
The decision did more than frustrate the patrol, who now had to babysit the device overnight. It also limited their movement, as half the platoon was pinned behind the bridge. Tactically, delaying the mission was a bad call. My team is trained to work in darkness, and night ops provide a major advantage: reduced visibility for enemy spotters. When the enemy can’t see, they can’t detonate. Of course, the risk is that I can’t see either—and wires or secondary devices are still very much a danger.
Fortunately, lunar illumination has been excellent the past few nights.
I was woken again at 0300, which was unnecessary—ten minutes is all I need to kit up, and we weren’t scheduled to depart until 0400. I got up anyway, ate some Cheerios, and at 0415 we started the 45-minute hike to the site.
We got to work immediately. By 0505, the device was rendered safe and ready for disposal.
But before I could blow it, I needed permission from higher. That’s standard—mostly to deconflict airspace and ensure no aircraft are overhead. But that wasn’t the issue this time. The response I got? Wait until 0800. The locals are still asleep.
As in, we can’t detonate because it might wake someone up.
That caught me off guard. I can’t recall another time in Marine Corps history where explosive operations were delayed because of local sleep cycles. Then I remembered: most of us out here operate under NATO’s ISAF mandate—not the U.S.-specific Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF). The OEF mission is counter-terrorism and allows more freedom of action. ISAF, on the other hand, focuses on security and stability—its rules are far more restrictive when it comes to “kinetic” operations. That’s how we end up with guidance like: Don’t blow things up while the town’s still in bed.
I didn’t agree, but my opinion didn’t matter. “Roger that,” and move on.
At 0645, I was granted early clearance. The locals were stirring, cars were starting to gather near the outer cordon, and normal patterns of life were emerging. “Fire in the hole!” I yelled three times, the charge was fired, the IED destroyed, and we returned to base where I filed the report.
Not two hours later, we heard two more detonations nearby—both outside our AO. That meant no response from my team. But even at a distance, they were close enough to hear and feel. They didn’t require our attention this time, but they mark a pattern. Activity is ramping up. It’s only a matter of time before something crosses into our AO again.
Until then, our job is to advise the current unit and hope they take our counsel seriously.
27 May 2011
This week is Payne week for my team. Every couple of weeks we rotate from FB00 to FOB Payne to enjoy a few small luxuries—hot chow, working showers, and laundry facilities. Unfortunately for us, 2nd LAR is still working out the kinks, and what’s normally a 45-minute trip ended up taking over five hours. A combination of equipment failures and an inability to navigate even basic terrain turned a routine convoy into a drawn-out affair. Hopefully, with time and experience, 2nd will become as confident and dialed into their area of operations as 3rd was by the time they rotated out. That said, the convoy did manage to bring some high-value cargo—about fifteen boxes of mail and a handful of letters. Special thanks to Adam, Xavier, Michelle, and (on behalf of Mike) the Lesterick family for the love and support. Mike and I are both looking forward to eating something that doesn’t come in a tan pouch. Email might be faster, but for me nothing beats a handwritten letter when it comes to lifting morale. It’s a tangible reminder that someone out there is thinking about you—and those reminders go a long way out here.
I’ve also got some new gear to test. I received a hand-crank washing machine which, while not yet field-tested, shows promise. I also got my hands on a hand-pump personal misting device that might help keep body temperature down on patrol—especially as the heat continues to climb. Mike received a bug zapper which, if nothing else, should keep us entertained, and a pair of canvas bota bags that claim to cool water using evaporative properties. Up to now, we’ve been relying on “sock water”—wrapping bottles in wet socks and letting nature handle the rest. I’ll run all of these items through their paces and provide a proper review and usefulness rating in the next issue.
3rd World Medicine
Deployments are full of moments—some violent, some mundane, and many that simply highlight the patterns of everyday life among local nationals. One of the most pressing needs in the third world, I’ve come to realize, is access to quality medical care. One evening, as I was walking back to my tent, a patrol returned through the gate in a rush, escorting two Afghan men—one elderly, the other carrying a small child. With nothing better to do, I followed them into the joint Afghan Border Patrol (ABP) and Coalition Forces (CF) tent to see what was going on. The child, no older than four, turned to face me, and I immediately saw that his face was covered in blood. I asked the father—through the interpreter—what had happened. He replied matter-of-factly, “He got kicked in the face by a donkey.” Of all the things American parents might worry about, I doubt that scenario cracks the top thousand. What shocked me more than the injury was the child’s composure. He wasn’t crying. Not a tear.
In the background, corpsmen from Light Armored Reconnaissance (LAR) and the Border Advisor Team (BAT) were already gloving up and organizing instruments. They moved quickly, and within a minute they were flushing the wound. The situation escalated quickly from routine first aid to an emergency requiring a medical evacuation. The donkey’s kick had torn through the skin and severed muscle tissue, exposing the child’s skull from two centimeters above his left eye, across the bridge of his nose, and down toward his cheekbone. Had it landed even a centimeter farther left, the boy would have likely lost his eye.
The corpsmen prepped Lidocaine to numb the area. That’s when the tears came. Getting kicked in the face by a donkey? No problem. See a needle? Full meltdown. Some things transcend culture—kids hate shots. It was then I noticed that translation had shifted: the corpsman would speak to a U.S. Marine, who relayed it to the interpreter, who then passed it to the father—who finally translated it to the child. I asked why the interpreter wasn’t talking to the kid directly, and he replied, “He speaks Baluchi.” So we had a three-way translation going: English to Pashto to Baluchi. The father, who lived near a Pashtun village, had learned both languages out of necessity. His son, though, only spoke Baluchi—a language our interpreter didn’t know.
Meanwhile, the LAR platoon commander was in the command operations center (COC), working to request a MEDEVAC. At first, it was denied. But after stressing the severity of the injury—and the potential loss of vision—he got approval. He came into the tent with good news: the bird was en route. But instead of relief, the father refused. He wouldn’t take his child on the helicopter. He said he had a wife and six other children depending on him and couldn’t justify leaving them behind. No appeal to reason worked.
That’s when the BAT lieutenant turned to culture. In Pashtun culture, being invited into someone’s home or tent is a sacred honor. And with that honor comes responsibility. There’s a Pashto saying: “There is no thank you among friends.” It’s not just an idiom—it reflects the deep moral code of Pashtunwali, where gratitude is never owed for something done out of duty or friendship. The lieutenant reminded the father that he was our guest—and as such, bound by that same obligation to honor our request. That worked. The father nodded. He agreed. The helicopter landed, and both were flown to the trauma facility at Payne.
The Engineer
Calling an EOD tech an “engineer” is probably worse than dropping any known profanity in the English language. Sure, military engineers serve their purpose—some have even turned the tide of major battles throughout history—but let’s get one thing straight: in today’s warzones, there are engineers, and then there are EOD techs. It’s like comparing someone with a learner’s permit to Ricky Bobby. There are drivers, and then there are racecar drivers. Engineers often walk around thinking their one-week intro course on explosives makes them equivalent to an EOD tech—someone who goes through a nine-month crucible just to earn the badge, followed by dozens of advanced schools covering everything from nuclear weapons to homemade chemical explosives. EOD isn’t a supporting role. We specialize in things that go boom, and we’ve been doing it since World War II. We blow stuff up to make the world safer—yes, even for the children. The job is inherently dangerous, highly technical, and, admittedly, kind of sexy. That draws attention. People want to be associated with it. And that’s fine—until they start claiming proximity equals proficiency. That’s when we get annoyed.
But rant over. On to the story.
The Afghan Border Patrol (ABP) is mostly made up of men from the surrounding districts. A few come from neighboring provinces, but the majority are local—really local. Garm Ser and the surrounding countryside don’t have electricity or running water. Homes are built from mud the same way they were in Alexander’s time. Mud’s used for walls, for water channels, even to mark graves. So when ABP troops come to an American base and see electric lights and cold water, it’s no surprise they want a piece of that magic.
They had a generator—one that had been sitting idle since the fire base was first built. But their actual power setup? A bunch of 100-watt inverters rigged to 12-volt truck batteries from their Ford Rangers. Next to the generator was a chaotic pile of wires, five distribution panels, and a few personal transformers meant to switch voltage to either 110 or 220, depending on the socket. I asked the BAT if anyone knew what any of it did. Blank stares. So I stepped in.
Now, I’m not a licensed electrician, but I know how to read a schematic. I’ve done enough home electrical work to be dangerous—or helpful, depending on your point of view. Luckily, the generator still worked. I won’t bore anyone with the wiring diagrams or what kind of connectors I had to salvage from half-broken gear, but I managed to piece together enough usable components to create individual power circuits for each tent. Each had its own breaker—essential, especially when you consider the kind of 3rd-world contraptions people like to plug in. At the end of the day, I was able to give the ABP something they hadn’t had: light at night, and fans in the heat of the day.
That little improvement meant the world to them. And now they call me “The Engineer.” Coming from them, I’ll accept the title. One of their lieutenants told me he believed I was genuinely trying to help the Afghan people, and he said he respected that. I appreciated the sentiment, though the truth was more nuanced. Sure, I helped them. But honestly? I started the project because I was bored and needed something to do. The result may have been generous, but the initial motivation was selfish. Still, that comment stuck with me—because out here, intent carries a lot of weight.
I’ve heard locals say they don’t want our help. They just want to be left alone. But after that conversation, I realized many Afghans do need help. The issue is why the help is being offered. If it’s delivered as a checkbox on a military mission, they want nothing to do with it. But if it’s given sincerely—if they sense it’s coming from a place of genuine human concern—they’re far more willing to receive it. The interpreter put it best: “Tell an Afghan to follow you to Heaven and he will refuse. Ask him to follow you to Hell and he will never leave your side.” Around here, actions matter. But intentions matter more.
Closing Notes
Things continue to be slow in our AO. As I mentioned in my previous editions, I fully believe the hard work performed by the entire 3rd LAR Battalion has had an impact across Helmand Province. While a slow AO is frustrating and definitely boring, it does signify that things are finally going “right” in our sector of Afghanistan. After all, the mission of NATO’s ISAF is in the name – “Security Assistance.” When bullets are not flying and when IED’s are not being found it is a sign that security and stability is finally being provided to the local populous, and that the U.S. mission is working. I failed to mention one fact in my last newsletter. Immediately following the disposal of the IED about a week ago now, local nationals were clapping, giving the “thumbs up” sign, and saying, “America Good!!” These comments and signs are huge. A year ago this sight would have been beyond foreign. Furthermore Afghans by nature are a stoic people, and displays of affection are a testament to the daily hard work put in by Marines in the area.
FOB Payne offers many great things. An amazing chow hall, showeres, and a laundry facility. Payne also offers us the ability to reconnect with the other EOD techs from our shop.
Me and SSgt Boatwright, the platoon sergeant for Red Platoon at FB00. Boatwright and I served together in Iraq back in 2005. Our careers took different paths after he went to recruiting duty and I went to EOD school. It is a small Marine Corps, and now we are working together in Afghanistan at the same Fire Base.
The meeting was extremely dramatic, solely because it was lead by the ABP Lieutenant, Lt. Daoud (sitting at the desk top left). Lt. Daoud is not literate and interpreters frequently complain that he repeats himself too much. It was his idea that Marines sit on one side and ABP sit on the other while he gave a monologue on how monumental the occasion was (which lasted approximately 30 minutes). Regardless of how monumental or miniscule the meeting actually was, in the long run the security of Afghanistan will ultimately depend on the success of our ABP counter parts. While training illiterate and uneducated Afghans is frustrating and time consuming, it will pay exponential dividends in the future.
Closing Notes
Things continue to be quiet in our AO. As I’ve mentioned in previous editions, I genuinely believe the hard work of the 3rd LAR Battalion left a lasting impact across Helmand Province. While operating in a slow AO can be frustrating—and frankly boring—it’s also a strong indicator that something is finally going right here. After all, the mission of NATO’s ISAF is right there in the name: Security Assistance. When bullets aren’t flying and IEDs aren’t being discovered daily, it suggests that some degree of security and stability is actually being provided to the local population. That, in itself, is a success.
I forgot to include this in my last newsletter, but it’s worth noting: right after we disposed of that IED about a week ago, several local nationals started clapping, giving thumbs-up, and shouting “America good!” That might sound small, but it’s huge. A year ago, that kind of public approval would’ve been unthinkable. Afghans, by nature, are a stoic people. Displays of affection—especially toward foreigners—are rare. Which makes gestures like that a genuine testament to the daily efforts put in by Marines here on the ground.
FOB Payne continues to be a welcome reprieve from the field. It offers hot chow, running water, showers, and laundry. Just as valuable, though, it gives us a chance to reconnect with the rest of our EOD section. There’s a photo floating around of Gunny Glau—our section leader—SSgt Lacey (also known as “Muffin Top” from FOB Khan Neshin Castle), and Sgt Lesterick playing a hand of hold ’em. A little downtime goes a long way.
I also ran into SSgt Boatwright, the platoon sergeant for Red Platoon at FB00. He and I served together in Iraq back in ’05. Since then, our careers went different directions—he went to recruiting duty and I went to EOD school. Now, years later, we find ourselves working side by side again in Afghanistan. It’s a small Marine Corps.
We recently had a meeting led by Lt. Daoud, the ABP lieutenant. It was… dramatic, to say the least. He’s not literate, and our interpreters often complain that he repeats himself too much. Still, it was his idea to have the Marines sit on one side and the ABP on the other while he delivered a 30-minute monologue about the historic significance of the occasion. I’m not sure how monumental the meeting actually was, but theatrics aside, the security of Afghanistan does depend heavily on the success of our ABP counterparts. Training men who are often illiterate and uneducated is slow, difficult work—but in the long run, it’s one of the most important things we can do. It’s an investment that will pay dividends long after we’re gone.
05 June 2011
Heuristics
02 June – My daily routine usually involves swinging by the ABP side of the fire base in the evenings for dinner. June 2nd at 1945 was no exception. Mid-visit, I overheard some radio chatter—bits and pieces about a vehicle, IED components, and a local national testing positive for explosive residue. I set my plate aside and started digging into the details. The story grew as I asked more questions: wires, rubber tubing—items sometimes used to insulate pressure switches from the elements out here. Since the patrol that discovered the vehicle was still outside the wire, I threw on my boots (I wear my rainbow sandals as often as possible) and gathered up the team gear.
Twenty minutes later, a Hilux pickup rolled through the gate escorted by six local nationals and a squad of ABP. A quick look in the bed of the truck revealed about 50 feet of Iranian-style lamp cord—an item commonly used in IEDs. I began searching the truck bed while Sgt. Lesterick checked the interior. Among the items we found: fresh fruit, clothing, some tools, and a solar panel. That last item changed the game. What had started as a potentially dangerous situation quickly turned out to be completely benign.
One of the hardest lessons to teach Marines—especially infantrymen—is the concept of heuristics: using context and clues to form a reasonable picture of a situation. Antivirus software does the same thing—flagging threats not explicitly defined in its database. Sure, Iranian lamp cord is used in IEDs. But paired with a solar panel? Odds are it’s for homemade power in a mud hut, not a roadside bomb. Heuristics is essential in Afghanistan. It’s more important to develop the situation and apply common sense than it is to just be a proficient marksman. Counterinsurgency—or COIN—requires more brain than brawn. Don’t get me wrong—marksmanship still matters—but most of the time, success out here hinges on how well you think, not how fast you shoot.
The ABP spent about forty minutes questioning the locals, then apologized and sent them on their way. No drama. No escalation. Just a decent call, made with context.
COIN is messy. The lines between enemy and friend blur quickly, and the same goes for right and wrong. It makes striking the balance between respecting local culture and maintaining security incredibly difficult. That balance is key if we’re going to build any real trust with the population. As I said, heuristics matters. Lamp cord on its own? Suspicious. Lamp cord with a solar panel? Probably just a man trying to light his house. Making decisions in a vacuum can shatter an already fragile relationship. Fortunately, in this case, the locals seemed to understand that a little friction sometimes comes with the territory when security is on the line.
New Equipment and Inefficiency
There have been a few upgrades at FB00 that are making life a little more bearable. Chief among them: an industrial refrigerator. It arrived recently and was promptly stocked with beverages. After a 120+ degree foot patrol, there’s nothing better than grabbing a bottle of ice-cold water. Until now, we’ve relied on the “sock water” method—slipping water bottles into wet socks and hanging them in the shade. As the water evaporated, it would cool the contents by about 30 degrees. In theory, it works. In practice, it meant we were drinking water at roughly 90 degrees. The system also had a limited capacity, constrained by available socks and the finite number of shady spots. Now, thanks to this refrigerator, the entire camp’s water supply can be chilled—sometimes to near freezing.
In addition to the fridge, a 900-gallon fuel bladder and a fourth generator were delivered. That last one was a head-scratcher. As I mentioned in an earlier newsletter, the ABP already have a generator big enough to power the entire fire base, yet they’re only using a sliver of its capacity. Instead of tapping into that, the decision was made to run four smaller generators alongside it. It’s a textbook example of inefficiency. Each generator consumes fuel, and none operates at peak efficiency. That means we’re burning through resources and creating unnecessary maintenance issues. Even if the Marines don’t want to share the ABP’s generator, swapping the four small ones for a single, appropriately-sized unit would make far more sense. But I’m not in LAR, and my opinions, while occasionally solicited, are rarely acted on.
What’s more concerning is the general lack of initiative when it comes to troubleshooting. For two weeks I watched the platoon struggle with poor radio comms between the platoon COC and the company COC. One morning, I decided to look into it. The fix? Raising the antenna about 15 feet onto a guard tower. Problem solved in 10 minutes. Another issue was fixed by turning up the volume on an external speaker. Yet another, by cleaning corrosion off battery contacts. None of this is rocket science. But what’s on display here is one of my biggest frustrations with the military—being satisfied with mediocrity.
Change in Operations
At one point, LAR policy changed EOD’s role from proactive patrol integration to “response only.” That was recently revised again—now I can join patrols at my discretion, so long as I’m not specifically tasked by Battalion Operations. It’s a small shift with a big payoff. Staying physically conditioned in this heat matters, and the best way to do that is to actually go on patrol. No amount of gym time compares to carrying 60 pounds, vaulting canals, and walking 10 miles in the Afghan summer. Let that slide, and you risk becoming a liability when things get real. Beyond fitness, working patrols gives me first-hand battlefield awareness, something maps and radio calls can’t replace.
I’ve started partnering more closely with the Border Advisor Team (BAT). Their missions are more unconventional and usually more interesting. Working with them also reduces LAR’s dependency on me. I stay useful, I stay sharp, and I stay engaged—without becoming someone’s backup plan. It’s a win across the board.
Closing Notes
All’s well at FB00. Life here is gradually improving, even as the desert heat intensifies. I’ve been in-country more than two months now, and still haven’t settled into a solid routine—aside from the biweekly trips to Payne and setting aside time for prayer on Friday and Saturday nights. The difference in Helmand’s security climate compared to a year ago is dramatic. The days fly by, and I can’t believe we’re already working through month three.
I just enrolled in an online class that, once completed, will leave me with only five more to go until I finish my degree. I’m excited. Not only is it something to help pass the time, it’s progress toward something bigger.
Before I sign off, a quick story: Mahboob Shaw—the father of Lt. Daiood, the 1st ABP Company Commander—has temporarily stepped into his son’s role while he’s on leave. Shaw is deeply respected by both the ABP and the village elders. He’s a hard man to describe. Imagine a Jedi Master mixed with an old-school gangster. He speaks softly, rarely, but when he does, people stop and listen. The kind of presence that commands a room without needing to raise his voice. You almost expect him to wave his hand and say, “These are not the droids you’re looking for…”