W H E R E Y O U T H A N D L A U G H T E R

G O

N AVA L I N S T I T U T E P R E S S

Annapolis, Maryland

W H E R E Y O U T H A N D

L A U G H T E R G O

L t C o l S e t h W . B . F o l s o m , U S M C

With “The Cutt ing Edge” in Afghanistan

Naval Institute Press291 Wood RoadAnnapolis, MD 21402

© 2015 by Seth W. B. FolsomAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61251-871-8ISBN: 978-1-61251-872-5 (eBook)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

∞ Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).Printed in the United States of America.

23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1First printing

Maps created by Charles Grear.

The opinions or assertions contained in this work are those of the author and are not to be construed as official or reflecting the views of the U.S. Marine

Corps, the Department of the Navy, or the Department of Defense.

For the fallen . . . and the survivors

C

sang: [sã] French, noun1. blood: en sang (“covered in blood”)

Persian, adjective [sung-geen] : سنگین1. heavy, burdensome, or cumbersome

sanguine: [sang-gwin] English, adjective1. cheerfully optimistic, hopeful, or confident: a sanguine disposition;

sanguine expectations. 2. reddish; ruddy: a sanguine complexion. 3. (in old physiology) having blood as the predominating humor

and consequently being ruddy-faced, cheerful, etc. 4. bloody; sanguinary. 5. blood-red; red.

vii

Author’s Note xi Cast of Characters xv Marine Corps Rank Structure xvii Prologue xix

Part One—The Blade Is Sharpened

1. Dog Chasing a Car 3 2. Rerouted 9 3. End of the Honeymoon 14 4. Building Bridges 23 5. Mission Rehearsal 29 6. One Giant Minefield 36 7. Kill TV 45 8. Marching Orders 56 9. Troop-to-Task 62 10. Family Men 72

Part Two—The Blade Cuts . . . and Bleeds

11. Five Kinds of Crazy 85 12. Southern Strike 103 13. Lord of the Flies 119 14. Known Better in Death 130

C o n t e n t s

viii Contents

15. All-Around Bad Days 139 16. A Marine a Week 148 17. Luck, Distance, and Geometry 154 18. Eastern Seal 163 19. What Happens to Bad Boys 171 20. Actions and Consequences 180 21. Hearts and Minds 184 22. You Could Die Any Time 191 23. Dodging a Bullet 197 24. Snow Days 205 25. Time to Make the Donuts 213 26. Illuminating the Darkened Path 219 27. Taking Back the Night 227 28. The Good Guys 233 29. Dynamic Arch 240 30. Deluge 248

Part Three—The Blade Is Sheathed

31. Restraint 261 32. Moving North 269 33. Green on Blue 275 34. Brothers in This Fight 283 35. The Sand Monster 291 36. A Thousand Ways to Die 300 37. No Finish Line 307 38. Personal Association 314 39. Time to Go 322 40. A Great Cost 331

Epilogue 345 Glossary 349 Acknowledgments 355 Index 357

H E L M A N D P R O V I N C E , A F G H A N I S TA N

S A N G I N D I S T R I C T M A P

xi

A u t h o r ’ s N o t e

Every now and then one of my Marine Corps colleagues approaches me in a mild state of shock and says, “I didn’t know you wrote a book.” I never know how to react. After the publication of my first book my responses to such challenges were generally sheepish, almost apologetic. It was as if I—an active-duty infantry officer—had committed some grave sin by putting pen to paper. After my second book was published, similar feelings of latent ostracism by my fellow service members returned. By recounting my experi-ences in command, by including my foibles as well as my successes, by telling my story, I had somehow crossed an invisible threshold past the point of no return—I was now a “published author,” a title frequently underscored with overdramatic verbal emphasis or the employment of “air quotes.” My online audience was frequently less kind. One angry pipe-hitter, who refused to identify himself by his real name, said my first book was a “creative work of fiction from an author and a legend in his own mind.” Something tells me the dude didn’t actually read the thing. Another anonymous blogger even accused me from the virtual safety of the Internet of being “a writer, NOT a Marine.” I am actually both. Trust me, it’s quite possible to be a Marine who also writes; neither profession is mutually exclusive.

Not long after I assumed command of 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines (3/7), one of the first rumblings I heard in the unit was the whispered caution, “He writes books.” Once my men warmed up to me, some even flat-out asked, “Are you going to write a book about the Cutting Edge?” Others asked cautiously, “What are you going to write about me?” I answered questions

xii Author’s Note

regarding a potential book with “We’ll see”—an evil phrase I gleaned from my parents, one my two daughters have similarly come to loathe—or, more simply, “I don’t know”—because I honestly didn’t know. If I had assumed command with the intention of writing a book about my exploits, my entire tenure as a battalion commander would have been a fraud, a fabrication—something it will no doubt be characterized as anyway by the same nameless dude on the Internet who insisted I was a writer and NOT a Marine. Had I begun command with plans to write a book, subconscious decisions might have been made and actions might have been taken based on how I thought they would look in print. So I pushed the idea of writing a story about my Marines from my mind as far as I could. And, truth be told, once I found myself in the canals and alleys of Sangin with my men there was little con-sideration on my part for what lay ahead in the future. Simply put, I wasn’t altogether sure I would survive to tell the tale.

So, contrary to popular belief, I have never reported to a new unit in the Marine Corps with the goal of writing a book about it. For me, writing is a way to reconcile my experiences, to make sense of the senseless, to find answers to difficult questions. Most important, though, is that writing has been a way to tell the story of the Marines who have served alongside me. But to tell their story, I must tell my own first. And so, as with my two previous works, the primary source of my writing for this book was my daily journal. Journaling has been a hobby for much of my life, and the times I have been most diligent about maintaining the practice have been during the most stressful periods of my life. As it so happens, the most stressful times—which have also been among the most rewarding—have been during combat deployments with my fellow Marines. My research for this work also drew heavily from a notebook I carried that contained details about every single patrol I conducted with my Marines, as well as a copy of 3/7’s command chronology of the deployment. I drew biographical and unit information about my Marines from a combi-nation of my personal interaction with them, administrative rosters, and the men’s own brief autobiographies, which they were required to write before deploying to Afghanistan.

At the height of 3/7’s deployment to Afghanistan the battalion’s rosters included more than twelve hundred Marines, Sailors, soldiers, contractors, and government civilians. It is impossible for me to tell the story of every single man and woman who served under my command, and yet I believe

Author’s Note xiii

this story captures a broad section of our reinforced infantry battalion as we struggled together in that miserable place. This is not a work of fiction, but rather my recall of events as they happened. Accordingly, my recollections of incidents and conversations are only as accurate as I could record them in my journal and my patrol book. I’m sure some people who were there with me will say I got it all wrong; I’m also sure quite a few who weren’t there will scream it as well.

And so, with more than twelve hundred versions of the truth about the Cutting Edge’s 2011–12 deployment to Sangin, the story contained in these pages is but one of those versions. As with my previous books, I have sought to preserve as many actual names as possible. To do otherwise would be a disservice to the ordinary young men and women who were thrust into remarkable circumstances and performed even more remarkably. The task of keeping all names intact, however, inevitably proved impossible. I men-tion more than one hundred Marines and Sailors in this book. Even in the age of the Internet and social media, contacting each and every one of them proved to be a futile task. Obtaining permission from all of them was simi-larly frustrating. And so, in keeping with the wishes of some—and using my better discretion with others—I have changed or removed certain names to protect the privacy of those individuals. Others were unfortunately—but unavoidably—omitted in the final editing of this book.

As always, any mistakes or opinions contained in this writing are my own.

xv

LtCol Seth Folsom—Battalion Commander, 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines (3/7)

SgtMaj Rafael Rodriguez—Battalion Sergeant MajorMaj Michael Fitts—Battalion Executive OfficerMaj Patrick McKinley—Battalion Operations OfficerMaj Alton Warthen—Senior Afghan AdvisorCapt Evan Brashier—Headquarters and Service Company CommanderCapt Michael Simon—India Company CommanderCapt James Lindler—Kilo Company CommanderCapt Colin Chisholm—Lima Company CommanderCapt David Russell—Weapons Company CommanderSgt Michael Durkin—Platoon Commander, Battalion Jump PlatoonLtCol Tom Savage—Battalion Commander, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines (1/5)Col Eric Smith—Regimental Commander, Regimental Combat Team-8

(RCT-8)BGen Lewis Craparotta—Commanding General, Task Force LeatherneckMuhammad Sharif—Sangin District GovernorColonel Ghuli Khan—Sangin District Chief of PoliceColonel Muhammad Mir—Sangin District Chief of PoliceLieutenant Colonel Hezbollah—Kandak Commander, 2-2-215 ANA KandakLieutenant Colonel Saboor—Kandak Executive Officer, 4-1 ANCOP KandakColonel Nazukmir—Kandak Commander, 1-4 ANCOP Kandak

C a s t o f C h a r a c t e r s

xvii

Enlisted RanksPvt: PrivatePFC: Private First ClassLCpl: Lance CorporalCpl: CorporalSgt: SergeantSSgt: Staff SergeantGySgt: Gunnery SergeantMSgt/1stSgt: Master Sergeant/First SergeantMGySgt/SgtMaj: Master Gunnery Sergeant/Sergeant Major

Officer Ranks2ndLt: Second Lieutenant1stLt: First LieutenantCapt: CaptainMaj: MajorLtCol: Lieutenant ColonelCol: ColonelBGen: Brigadier GeneralMajGen: Major GeneralLtGen: Lieutenant GeneralGen: General

M a r i n e C o r p s R a n k S t r u c t u r e

xix

P r o l o g u e

Our armored vehicle bounced along Route 611, churning the rocky, unpaved road beneath us into a billowing curtain of dust as our convoy of MRAPs (mine-resistant, ambush-protected vehicles) rumbled south from Patrol Base Alcatraz. In the previous year, Coalition forces had cleared 611 through the Sangin District and paved it as far north as FOB Inkerman. But the development project had abruptly ended there. Traversing the unproved route the rest of the way from Inkerman to Alcatraz, through the Upper Sangin Valley and onward to Kajaki District, was painfully slow for good rea-son. No pavement meant IEDs—big ones that could easily split our armored vehicles in half.

A fine mist of brown grit drifted down from the gunner’s open tur-ret hatch into our sweltering troop compartment. Some merciful soul had cranked up the air conditioning unit to the max, but it did little to bring down the temperature inside the vehicle’s cabin. The dust clung to my gear—already filthy from trudging around the moon dust of Alcatraz—and caked into globs on my sweaty face and neck. I leaned toward Maj Pat McKinley, my operations officer, sitting across from me.

“This sucks!” I shouted above the vehicle’s whine. He smiled slightly and continued to peer out the MRAP’s porthole, a silent reminder to me that this wasn’t his first rodeo in Afghanistan.

McKinley and I had accompanied LtCol Tom Savage, the leader of 1st Battalion, 5th Marines (1/5), to a conference our regimental commander had scheduled at Alcatraz. He had organized the meeting to get all of his

xx Prologue

subordinate commanders in one room so he could talk with them face-to-face as preparations for Operation Eastern Storm continued. Spearheaded by 1st Battalion, 6th Marines (1/6), Eastern Storm was the Coalition’s bid to clear the route from Alcatraz and the Upper Sangin Valley all the way to the Kajaki Dam. It would be a complex, dangerous undertaking, and the regiment was reinforcing 1/6 appropriately to ensure their success. A day earlier, McKinley had asked to accompany me. He expressed interest in meeting the operations officers from the other battalions, but he had another, more personal, reason for going: his younger brother was a Marine in 1/6. Given the uncertainty of the operation ahead, there was no way I could refuse his request.

The vehicle shuddered roughly again, sending a jolt up my spine that started at my ass and ended somewhere inside the base of my skull. I hated MRAPs, and I couldn’t wait to transition to an MATV (MRAP all-terrain vehicle) once Savage and I completed our turnover. Sitting in the MRAP’s rear compartment reduced my situational awareness to almost nothing, and I preferred the all-terrain variant’s forward-facing rear seats and its price-less ability to diminish the body-rattling shock of off-road travel. Others had warned me that the MATV couldn’t absorb an IED hit the same way the MRAP could, but I was willing to take the chance.

The afternoon heat began to take its toll, and despite the jarring move-ment south my eyelids started to droop. Savage leaned forward, examined the computer screen to his front, and then elbowed me. I strained against my seat belt’s shoulder harness to read the alert that had popped up.

Message to Geronimo-6 and Blade-6. IED strike to Blackiron (B/1/6).

1 x FWIA [friendly wounded in action] double-amp. Casualty is from

I/3/7.

It was October 3, 2011. My unit, 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines—3/7, the “Cutting Edge”—had been on the ground in Afghanistan for only a matter of days, and we had just taken our first serious casualty. Savage slowly shook his head.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, the message catching me off guard. Major McKinley looked over inquisitively. His face tightened as I relayed

the message, but he said nothing and continued to stare aimlessly out the side

Prologue xxi

window. The wounded Marine was from India Company, which McKinley had commanded the previous year in Sangin. Our unspoken feelings were mutual: What the hell are we doing riding in this shitty vehicle when we need to be on the ground with those Marines right now? Neither of us said much for the remainder of the trip back to FOB Jackson.

As our convoy rolled through the outpost’s main gate I hopped out and rushed to the command post with Rafael Rodriguez, my battalion sergeant major. I burst onto the operations floor and grabbed the first Marine from 3/7 I saw.

“Who was it?” I asked.“Lance Corporal Fidler, from India 2-3,” he replied. “The MEDEVAC

went off without a hitch. He’s in surgery right now.”Mark Fidler, a twenty-two-year-old rifleman from Lebanon, Pennsylvania,

had joined 3/7 after a tour at the Marine Barracks in Washington, DC. He was on one of his first patrols in Sangin’s Southern Green Zone when he was wounded.

“How bad?” I asked.“Double-amp; an above-the-knee and a through-the-knee, as well as a

ruptured eardrum and massive gluteal trauma,” the watch officer replied, reading from a well-worn dry-erase board mounted on the wall. “He’s in pretty bad shape.”

“What happened?”“He was walking a ‘left seat-right seat’ patrol out of PB [patrol base]

Almas with one of 1/5’s companies down south,” he said. “The squad got him out of there pretty quick after he got hit.”

“Aw, Christ,” I said, turning with Sergeant Major Rodriguez to leave. “We aren’t even two weeks into this thing.”

The battalion staff was subdued during the evening meeting. With the news of Fidler’s catastrophic wounding, the reality of what we were doing had finally sunk in. For the Sangin veterans in the room it was redolent of the battalion’s deployment to the district a year earlier. For the uninitiated it was nothing less than a complete overload to the system—a grim reminder that this was no longer a simple training exercise. I looked around the conference room.

“We knew this was coming, just maybe not this soon,” I told them. “We can’t let it distract us from what we need to do, and how we need to

xxii Prologue

do it. Remember, attention to detail isn’t just an administrative requirement around here. It’s an operational imperative.”

After the staff meeting Sgt Michael Durkin, my Jump Platoon com-mander, followed me into my office.

“Brought your blast panties,” he said, holding up two packages shrink-wrapped in plastic.

I opened one and removed the silken undergarment. The stretchy black fabric made the protective “blast boxers” appear like biker shorts. They looked comfortable for a long bicycle ride, but not necessarily for a long, sweaty foot patrol. And they were nothing compared to the cumbersome Kevlar diapers we would eventually be compelled to wear.

“What the . . . ,” I said, shaking my head. “How in the hell are we gonna patrol in these?”

“Gotta protect the boys, you know,” Durkin laughed.“Yeah, tell me about it,” I replied soberly, reflecting on the terrible

injuries the buried bombs had been known to inflict on those unfortunate enough to trigger them.

Durkin walked out to prepare his Marines for the next day’s patrol with Lance Corporal Fidler’s squad, and I turned to my equipment to do the same. Earlier in our turnover Lieutenant Colonel Savage had given good advice.

“Whenever there’s an IED strike I do my best to get out and patrol with that squad as soon as I can,” he had told me. “It gets the men back in the saddle and keeps their heads in the game.”

My thoughts wandered as I cleaned my rifle and prepared my cumber-some gear. I was learning quickly that time alone was not necessarily good for me, and thinking too much had its downsides. As I strapped tourniquets to my body armor and rechecked my first aid kit I kept imagining the moment Lance Corporal Fidler stepped on that bomb, and how his life had turned inside out in an earsplitting, blinding flash. One of my Marines had already suffered a gruesome fate. And then my own realization shocked and sad-dened me: I inherently knew he would be the first of many.

Part One

The Blade Is SharpenedMarch 2011–September 2011

Arthur: What does it mean to be king?Merlin: You will be the land, and the land will be you. If you fail, the land will perish. As you thrive, the land will blossom.Arthur: Why?Merlin: Because you are king.

—Excalibur

Here I was safe, but tomorrow I would be there. In that instant I realized that the worst thing that could happen to me was about to happen to me.

—William Manchester, Goodbye, Darkness