The Great Divide
OFFICIALLY, THE CAG mission is defined as “Reconstruction, Economic Development, and Governance” — in other words, nation-building. The idea that Marines have been assigned such a Sisyphean geopolitical chore struck me as ridiculous. After all, leathernecks aren’t sent to Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government for classes on how to create societies; they go to boot camp at Parris Island, where they’re taught to kill enemies. And the idea that Marine reservists would be handed the task seemed flat-out silly: weekend warriors on a massive plumbing-to-politics Habitat for Humanity mission in Iraq’s Wild West sounds like the premise for a sequel to the movie Stripes: “Am I to understand that you men are under orders to build a democracy in Al Anbar on your own?” Men respond: “That’s the fact, Jack.”
But this isn’t new. The U.S. military has been executing Civil Affairs-type missions for a couple hundred years, dating back to the U.S.-American Indian wars, when Army General Winfield Scott dared to work with the Cherokees to plan the “Trail of Tears,” rather than just point a rifle at the natives and order them to get moving. U.S. forces replicated Scott’s diplomacy in Haiti and the Philippines, and during World War I. Yet it wasn’t until 1940 that the Marines codified their Civil Affairs procedures. The Marine Small Wars Handbook states, “The motive … is not material destruction,” but rather “the social, economic and political development of the people.” Armed with the handbook, U.S. military officers took the lead in rebuilding post-WWII-occupied Germany and Japan, stabilizing the new governments and economies. Military CAGs have played a role in every U.S. war, small and not so small, ever since, with varying degrees of success.
After the IDF attacks, I found Timmy in CAG HQ; he informed me of an intell report warning of a potential gas attack.
“I don’t have a gas mask,” I said, terrified.
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “You’d be dead before you could get it on.”
THE HELICOPTER RIDE to Asad was wonderfully uneventful. Asad is a Manhattan-size installation in northwest Iraq. It’s got a Burger King, a Subway sandwich shop, a few mess halls, its own fire department, and a little mall — the “Haji Mart,” as Marines call it — that smells of incense and sells Xboxes and bootleg DVDs. There’s even a car dealership, which probably makes a fortune selling to homebound troops. Imagine the sales pitch: “You served your country well, sir. Now treat yourself. We could have an F-150 waiting for you when you get back home.”
For the troops, Asad is a necessary oasis; for me, it was a frustrating waste of time. And the mission Tim was taking me on didn’t sound like much of a mission at all. He informed me that first we’d go see a battle-damaged mosque that his CAG Marines had repaired (technically, it was on the base), and then we’d stop by a solar-panel project CAG has installed at an Iraqi school in the village of Arwan. As the executive officer of Det Four, one of four CAG detachments, Tim was something of a player-manager. His duties included monitoring Det Four’s budget and making battle-damage payments to Iraqis and payments to families whose innocent loved ones were mistakenly killed by U.S. troops. The going rate for an Iraqi life is about $2,500.
That’s when Sergeant Brian Wheelock begged me — out of Tim’s earshot — to go with him and a few of his Marines to Hit. Once I thought about it, I thanked him and said, “I promised my wife I’d come home. I don’t have three testicles like you Marines. I have two boys. … ”
Wheelock, an accountant back in Massachusetts who’s in his mid-30s, with red hair buzzed short, cut me off. “Sir,” he said politely, “I understand. I have a wife, two-year-old twins, and an infant daughter I haven’t seen.” He told me his wife named their newborn Abigail Hope. She figured in times like these, you’ve got to have hope. “Tell you what,” he offered. “When I get back, I’ll tell you everything. It will be just like you were there with us.”
