For Marine combat reservists the personal struggle with reintegrating into society is a perpetual cycle of mental and emotional turmoil.
The cycle involves the weakening of the combat-ready mind, body, and spirit during the four weeks of soft civilian life that precede each drill weekend. On that one Friday of the month the combat reservist must shift from civilian gears to military gears. For the reservists whose specialties resemble civilian careers, such as office workers, the switch is a smooth transition that mildly interrupts their civilian lives. For Marine infantry reservists, however, that anxious drill Friday eclipses all that is civilian. There is no clutch to ease the shift. The ride accelerates progressively through a sleepless Friday and Saturday, climaxes in the darkness of Saturday night, and crashes on Sunday afternoon. The reintegration back to the civilian world begins on the postdrill Monday and lasts, more or less, until the next drill Friday. Then the cycle begins again.
As the April drill weekend approached, my struggle with reintegration was at its worst. I decided to take action to break the cycle on the Thursday before drill. I skipped Sgt. Krause in the chain of command and made a phone call directly to our platoon commander, Lieutenant Street. I informed him I had a chronic knee injury that was aggravated by the rigors of training. He was surprisingly sympathetic, and advised me to get a medical examination. Instead S P A R E P A R T S
101
of reporting to drill on Friday, I reported to Bethesda Naval Hospital. I entered with the goal of securing a medical discharge.
I was convinced that the orthopedic condition that affected my left knee, called Osgood-Schlatter’s syndrome, was going to be my ticket out of the Marine Corps. It’s a condition in which the patellar tendon pulls the bone away from the tibia, making a painful bony protrusion just below the knee. I’d had surgery to correct the condition a year before boot camp, and had managed to hide it from the doctors at the military entrance processing station. The truth was it was no longer painful, but the protrusion was still noticeable. I wanted out of the Marines badly enough to go through with the charade.
After examinations by several doctors, and a brief counseling session, I was provided with documentation affording me light-duty training status until a fit-for-duty determination could be made. At worst I figured that meant I would stay back in garrison when the others went to the field. But I was counting on the best-case scenario—
a medical discharge. I should have known that neither way out would be as easy as it sounded.
A few days after the April drill I received a letter from the commanding officer of Weapons Company. I eagerly opened it, sure that there was a farewell letter in consideration of my pending medical discharge. There was not. On the contrary it was a letter of disciplinary action charging me with unauthorized absence. I read the letter repeatedly to decipher its meaning. Unauthorized? I guessed that Lt.
Street forgot to inform the CO of my excused absence. The letter closed with the threat, “Failure to meet with the commanding officer prior to next drill will result in further disciplinary action that may include discharge under other than honorable conditions.”
I was in shock after reading the letter, but figured that it would be resolved with a phone call to the CO. My fingers trembled as I pressed the digits. Having a confrontation was bad enough. Having it with the base commander was overwhelming. Staff Sgt. Church answered the phone, but didn’t entertain my plea for forgiveness.
Instead she transferred me directly to Capt. Cruz.
He was all business on the phone. “Williams, did I authorize your absence from drill?”
102
B u z z W i l l i a m s
My reply didn’t answer his question. “I called Lt. Street before drill and he told me I could report to Bethesda for a medical exam, sir.”
Capt. Cruz didn’t pull punches. “Williams, there is only one person in this unit to authorize absence, and you’re talking with him.
So I am going to transfer you back to admin so you can make arrangements to make up the drill you missed. Understood?”
I knew better than to challenge his authority. “Yes, sir.”
Before the transfer he added, “And, Williams . . . I hope this is the last I hear about this lame injury. I expected more from you.”
The time on hold seemed like an eternity. Capt. Cruz’s words had hit home. He knew I was lying, and he’d dropped the ultimate guilt bomb. He had sounded just like my father, who used the same tactic to hold me accountable to the highest standards of behavior, manners, and integrity. One of his reprimands would send me wallowing in a guilt-ridden funk for days. I had lived to make him proud. Deep down I knew he would have expected more of me too.
I reported for duty to make up the missed drill at 0600 the next morning. I could not wait to resolve my quandary. I was virtually stuck, and unable to think clearly about my decision to follow through with the medical discharge. I reached into my pocket to feel for the papers from Bethesda. One granted me light duty status for thirty days. The other was a form to be completed by the CO that would be used to determine whether my medical condition made me unfit for duty. I was still reeling from the guilt trip after my last call to the CO. Facing him was going to be even more difficult. I didn’t know if I would have the courage to give him the papers. I wanted out of the Marine Corps, but I wanted an easy out. Somehow I didn’t think Capt. Cruz was going to make it easy.
Staff Sgt. Church greeted me at the admin front desk and processed my paperwork for the makeup drill. She informed me that the CO would meet with me at 0800, and asked me to wait for him in the boardroom adjacent to his office. The solitude was not help-ful. It amplified the conflicting voices in my head. One told me to throw the papers in the trash and swear my commitment to remain S P A R E P A R T S
103
aboard. The other told me I was only one uncomfortable confrontation away from ending the monthly misery.
There were plenty of reasons to want out. I dreaded the three-hour drive, I hated Nagel, and I loathed the misery of the field. And then there was Gina.
I didn’t like to admit it, but one of the forces driving my desire for a discharge was my insecurity about my relationship with my girlfriend. I was completely infatuated with her. She was the center of my universe, but I felt the Marine Corps would eventually pull us apart. Gina didn’t give me any reason to be insecure. I manufactured my own doubt. She had waited for me through boot camp, but I wasn’t sure she could wait through a second summer of separation.
I knew she was starting her freshman year of college, and there would be more opportunities than ever for her to meet new guys.
My anxiety was interrupted as another Marine stepped into the doorway to the boardroom. Before I looked up I heard him call out,
“Wee-ams!” and I knew it was Sgt. Moss. He explained that he was processing the paperwork for his summer duty assignment. I con-fessed that I was making up a drill weekend. I found it easy to talk openly with Sgt. Moss.
He laughed when I told him of the trouble I was in. “Hell, you ain’t a Marine until you have a page-eleven entry in your record,” he said, referring to how disciplinary action was documented on page eleven of our service record books. “Mine carry over onto page twelve!”
Sgt. Moss was able to put things in perspective for me. I had thought of the page-eleven entry as punishment. He thought of it as a benchmark for coming of age as a Marine.
“So where are you going this summer?” I asked.
“To LAV school with you,” he said.
“I’m not sure that I am going.”
That led us into a lengthy discussion. I purged my conscience, sharing all of the details of my situation. First I explained my thoughts on leaving the Corps. I showed him my papers and expressed my anxiety about confronting the CO. I talked about the 104
B u z z W i l l i a m s
dysfunctional leadership of Nagel, the disparity between the scouts and crewmen, the futility of training, and my
angst about leaving Gina. He validated my concerns for all of the above, and even added a few complaints of his own.
Then I explained the reasons I wanted to remain aboard. We talked about the phone call with the CO, my guilty feelings, and the integrity instilled in me by my father. Sgt. Moss added his commentary in between my rambling, which gave me a different perspective.
He had a way of reminding me of the pride I had once felt being a Marine. And he described LAV school in a different way than I ever imagined it.
I learned that it was located at Camp Pendleton, California. That meant little to me until he explained why Camp Pendleton was considered one of the best duty stations in the Marine Corps. He talked of the sandy beaches of San Diego, the nightlife of Los Angeles, and the forbidden fruits of Tijuana. I had had no idea that there would be time for anything outside of school—I had thought it would be like revisiting boot camp.
Most importantly, he asked me if integrity was as important to Gina as it was to me. I had always assumed she would be happy if I was discharged. But he helped me to see that I wouldn’t really be earning a discharge . . . I would be quitting.
His genuine interest and concern was exactly what I needed to help me think through the decision. When Capt. Cruz finally called me into his office, I was more anxious than ever.
Sgt. Moss sent me in with a smile.
“I know you’ll do the right thing,” he said.
I was in Capt. Cruz’s office for only a few minutes. It was just long enough to hear, face to face, the same message I had received from him on the phone. When I closed the door behind me, Sgt.
Moss was looking up curiously. I made sure he was looking as I ripped the papers from Bethesda and threw them in the trash. I shook his hand to say thanks and affirmed my decision with a simple comment: “See you in California.”
My trip to Bethesda cost me two days of classes at college, a stain on my Marine record, and a dent in my reputation. But during the S P A R E P A R T S
105
journey I gained a new self-awareness. I learned that I had an internal compass that pointed me in the direction of morality. I recognized the conflict created when my actions led me in a different direction from the one to which my moral compass pointed. I understood how that conflict eroded my self-respect and sanity. And I realized that I couldn’t live happily without either.
In a matter of months I would be in conflict again, and left to rely on my moral compass to lead me. But the next time navigating the crossroads of integrity would be much more confusing, the decision much more daunting, and the destination even more frightening.
FIVE
AS I STEPPED ONTO the TWA commercial jet in June of 1990, I nervously clutched my orders, anxious about what lay ahead in California. I knew this was not going to be a vacation. My seabag was a ball and chain that anchored me to the business at hand—LAV
school. I don’t think Sgt. Moss felt the same way. He was drinking cocktails and partying in the next row over. While I was sweating in my dress green uniform, he sat relaxed and reclined wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I was dressed for an inspection. He was dressed for the beach.
There were four of us on the plane from Weapons Company—
Sgt. Moss, Lance Cpl. Dougherty (who had recently been promoted), Pfc. Poole, and me. Dougherty and Poole, like Sgt. Moss, had had the foresight to dress in comfortable clothes. They joined Sgt. Moss’s party and were on their third round of drinks when we landed. Between the plane and the bus Dougherty and Poole managed to dive into a rest room to change into their uniforms. Sgt.
Moss told us he would wait until he arrived on base. I couldn’t believe how nonchalant he was about checking into school. I had spent two hours at home preparing my uniform and dressing, labor-ing over every detail. They threw theirs on in fifteen minutes and managed to look just as good. I envied their casual attitude, but kept myself locked inside the safety of my anxiety.
The ride from the airport to the base seemed like an eternity. It reminded me of the bus ride to Parris Island the previous summer.
107
108
B u z z W i l l i a m s
This time, though, there were no yellow footprints . . . and no drill instructors. I sprang from my seat as the shuttle bus stopped at the headquarters building. The first order of business on my agenda was check-in. I was focused on getting in and out quickly, and raced ahead of the group. That was my first mistake of the summer.
The corporal behind the counter was a small, squirrelly Marine.
He started right in when he saw my military ID card. “Pink! You gotta be shittin’ me!” He stepped backward and held the card for the other clerk to see.
The Marine next to him announced, “The reservists have landed!”
Marines all around shared a laugh at my expense.
As he examined my card closer his face grew serious. “Why do you have a hole punched in your ID card?”
I responded matter-of-factly, “So I can wear it around my neck . . .”
as I fumbled with my collar trying to locate my ID tag chain.
He looked at me curiously. “You’re joking, right?”
I remained silent.
He didn’t. This time he was louder as he leaned across the counter for dramatic effect, “Right?”
My silence telegraphed my ignorance. I was completely out of my element among the active-duty Marines. I was at his mercy, trapped in his game. For him, it was time to play with the clueless reservist.
He slammed his hand down on the counter. “This card is unserviceable! You can’t just punch a hole in your ID card. It’s government property, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do,” I replied sheepishly.
He walked away in a huff to collude with his buddy, and then returned with a smile on his face. “The good news is we can make you a new one. The bad news is you’ll have to earn it.”
I looked around for support, but neither Sgt. Moss nor the others were in sight. Left alone, I decided to play along.
“What do you mean . . . earn it?”
The corporal examined a piece of paper as if it were a price list.
S P A R E P A R T S
109
“I think a brand-new pink ID card is going to cost you . . . one hundred push-ups.”
The Marines behind the counter laughed. The Marines waiting in front of the counter stared. There wasn’t much choice, really. I was a Pfc. He was a corporal. I had to follow his orders—that was how the Marine Corps worked. So I stepped out of line and started paying for my new ID card, with sweat and embarrassment.
It wasn’t long before a voice sounded above the crowd. “Get on your feet, Wee-ams.”
I stood up to see Sgt. Moss standing tall before me, hands on his hips. His uniform was drill-instructor perfect, and his sergeant stripes stood out among the dozens of school-age Marines.
I was as surprised as the rest at his commanding presence.
“What’s going on here?”
I explained.
Sgt. Moss responded more assertively than I had never seen before. “You have to forgive the corporal, Williams. I am sure it sucks being stuck behind that counter, like a little bitch, serving all of the real Marines in the infantry.”
The crowd raised a collective “Whoa” as the corporal’s face turned the color of my ID card.
Sgt. Moss enjoyed the approval of the crowd. He leaned across the counter and jabbed his finger into the corporal’s chest. “Make him a new card. Now!”
I had my new ID card in minutes.
As we left, Sgt. Moss warned everyone within earshot, “Don’t fuck with my Marines.”
It was déjà vu for me, with Sgt. Moss substituting for my brother Lenny. I could almost hear Lenny warning the neighborhood bullies, “Don’t fuck with my brother!”
After turning the corner into an empty hallway, we stopped and looked at each other for a reality check. Sgt. Moss had astoni
shed himself as well as me.
“Can you believe I pulled that off?”
I couldn’t. He slapped my hand to celebrate the successful bluff.
110
B u z z W i l l i a m s
Watching Sgt. Moss test his new stripes was like watching someone learning to ride a bike. The summer promised to be a wild ride.
Before we arrived at Camp Pendleton, no one had ever explained to us that we had to earn our way into LAV school. We learned that we were not officially enrolled into the next LAV class until we successfully completed the first ten days of infantry training. If we failed to complete this prerequisite, then the Marine Corps made us 0311
riflemen by default. For me that meant I would be sent home to return to Weapons Company to train as a scout. I thought back to the December drill. The prospect of completing my six-year obligation as a scout made me nauseous. I didn’t want to ride in the back of the LAV anymore. I wanted to be a driver—or gunner—and one day, maybe even vehicle commander.
During our ten days in the School of Infantry each of us would pray that we might earn a coveted slot in the next LAV crewmen class. The Marine School of Infantry picks up in intensity where boot camp ends. Active-duty Marines were only ten days removed from boot camp, and at a heightened state of readiness. They were easily identifiable, with their shaved heads, lean frames, and steely attitudes.
Reservists were nine months removed from boot camp, and most of us were less than ready for the rigorous training for which we were headed. We, too, were easily identifiable in comparison to those Marines straight from Parris Island—soft in mind, body, and spirit.
Nonetheless the rigor of infantry training did not discriminate, nor did the infantry instructors known as troop handlers. The training was grueling. It sucked equally for all of us. Over the course of the summer the “boots” softened and the reservists hardened. Ultimately we would meet somewhere in the middle.
Word spread quickly that there was a sergeant-student aboard, which was highly unusual. Most students in military occupational S P A R E P A R T S
Spare Parts Page 13