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specialty schools were privates, Pfc’s, and lance corporals who were just starting their enlistments. Occasionally a corporal enrolled if he needed to change his MOS, but that was seldom the case for sergeants.
The instructors questioned Sgt. Moss about his enrollment. He stayed their curiosity with a confounding explanation. He told of how he had graduated from the School of Infantry four years prior, but decided to switch MOSs to join a newly forming LAV company.
He shared that he only really needed the academic portion of LAV
school, but volunteered to help his troops through SOI—to pass on his knowledge, to keep us motivated, and out of trouble while on leave. Practically speaking, he did not need the prerequisite ten days of infantry training, but our company required it. We joked that his orders came from “the department of redundancy department.”
I don’t know if the instructors believed his whole story, but they acted as if they did. They welcomed Sgt. Moss aboard and granted him the authority of a quasi instructor. His chevrons demonstrated to them that he was worthy of that responsibility. It was generally understood that the Marine Corps did not promote individuals to the rank of sergeant without rigorous screening and careful scrutiny.
But there were exceptions.
In garrison Sgt. Moss neither possessed the proficiency nor ex-hibited the conduct normally required of sergeants. His ineptitude was magnified by the rigid demands of the school environment. In the field, however, he functioned like a Rhodes scholar. No one was more motivated than Sgt. Moss to don his pack and rifle. But, in the rear, no one was more intimidated to lead. He knew the instructors expected more from him than he could deliver. His worst fear was that he would fumble, as he had during his promotion ceremony, and be ostracized by his fellow sergeants. His moment of truth would come sooner rather than later.
The instructors embraced the idea of having a sergeant aboard to whom they could delegate work. Before we even left our first formation, Sgt. Moss was overwhelmed with responsibilities. Among other things he was asked to attend an instructors meeting, teach a class, conduct an inspection, and . . . march the platoon. Sgt. Moss 112
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found himself struggling to ride that “new sergeant” bike again. Before he crashed, however, he installed a set of training wheels—me.
Sgt. Banks, our SOI troop handler, called out to Sgt. Moss, “Get that mob into the barracks to secure their gear!”
Sgt. Moss responded assertively, “Do you mind if I start breaking in our new guide?”
“No,” Sgt. Banks encouraged him. “Go for it.”
He went for it.
“Wee-ams . . . Front and center. . . .”
From that moment on I was the filter through which Sgt. Moss passed information and executed orders. He received the word from the SOI instructors, decided which parts of the orders he would carry out, and then delegated the rest to me. I welcomed the opportunity to assume the responsibilities of the guide. I liked being Sgt.
Moss’s right-hand man. It didn’t take long for the others to appreciate his leadership as well.
The Marines under Sgt. Moss’s charge led a charmed existence during the ten days of SOI. Lower-ranking Marines, like the corporal at the check-in counter, steered clear of him and us. Even the instructors, who would have otherwise micromanaged our training, deferred to his authority. Sgt. Moss milked it for all it was worth. We slept in late, finished early, and dodged as much work as possible in between.
We figured out just how lucky we were the following morning when our troop handler, Sgt. Banks, discussed the plan of the day with Sgt. Moss. The original plan required us to run three miles to a rappel tower, in full combat gear, along a dried riverbed. Sgt. Moss advocated on our behalf and nixed the combat gear. And after Dougherty suffered a twisted ankle on the riverbed, Sgt. Moss adapted our route accordingly.
We jogged in casually on the paved road that paralleled the riverbed, and arrived at the tower fifteen minutes late. The other three platoons had been broiling in the morning sun waiting for us.
The riverbed had left them with bruised feet, twisted ankles, and battered knees. They stared at us with contempt as they sat in their platoon formations, soaked and exhausted from running with their S P A R E P A R T S
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helmets, flak jackets, and gas masks. We loitered about conspicu-ously wearing only our camouflage utilities and sunglasses.
That was classic Sgt. Moss.
Tension mounted as the tenth day of training drew near. The instructors reminded us daily of our shortcomings and warned that some of us weren’t going to make the cut for LAV school. Half of infantry training was physical endurance. We either ran or humped everywhere we went. Dropping from either would put us in an unsatisfactory status. The other half of infantry training was demonstrating ability to safely and effectively operate the basic infantry weapons—the M16, the M203 grenade launcher, and the SAW machine gun. Failing to follow safety rules, or to hit targets, were sure ways to get removed from the LAV school roster.
The stress brought out the best in some and the worst in others.
It brought out the best in Edsar and Frye.
They were our platoon’s comedians, and they brought much-needed comic relief. Edsar was short and stocky, Frye was tall and lanky, and together they were larger than life. Perhaps it was because it was our first glimpse of them—or maybe it was simply the circumstance—but their first show made them instant celebrities in the barracks.
The usual calm just before lights-out that night was anything but quiet. Laughter echoed throughout the squad bay as Edsar and Frye took center stage, circled by Marines.
I found Dougherty and asked him what was going on. He was laughing so hard, I had trouble understanding him, “They—they call it . . . Kung Fu Theater!”
It didn’t take me long to understand. Edsar and Frye were role-playing two kung fu warriors. Their skit captured the cheesiness of martial arts movies, satirizing the gratuitous fight scenes and the poorly dubbed English voice-overs.
It also didn’t take me long to laugh. Edsar and Frye crouched and circled each other like kung fu warriors. They talked to each 114
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other in Chinese-speak, but their mouths moved out of sync with their words. Their timing was perfect.
Edsar overexaggerated a few karate chops and one sweeping kick at Frye. Then he added his out-of-sync dialogue: “Jarheaded one . . .
you will not make it to da school of the LAV unless you survive da school of da 03-dum-dum.”
He was calling 0311 infantry school “03-dum-dum” because Marines with low aptitude scores were limited to infantry MOSs. It was an unspoken understanding among Marines, and to hear it in that context was outrageously funny.
Frye complemented his partner with some of his own kicks, punches, and slow-motion maneuvers. “Oh, dog of the devil . . . I will wear da pack of da grunt . . . and a hundred pound of gear . . .
and hump a thousand mile for dat honor!”
Then they exchanged a volley of blows and blocks, leading to a climax in which they both fell to the floor in a tangled mess of arms and legs as the rest of us fell to the floor from gut-wrenching laughter. Edsar and Frye were hysterically funny. They kept us laughing all summer, ironically, it turned out, considering the legacy they were destined to leave.
Dougherty was the closest thing I had to a “best friend” in the Corps. He embodied all that was good about the reserves. He was a college student and scholar whose intellectual perspectives paralleled my own. He was also an athlete whose physical fitness enabled him to carry his—in addition to others’—weight during the demands of infantry training. Most significantly, Dougherty was one of the most selfless people I had ever met. He was the reason I survived my first infantry hump up Mount Motherfucker. Anyone who thinks that is a crass name for a hill has never humped it. As we approached its base I realized that our first infan
try hump was going to be memorable. The winding path before me stretched for miles upward along its face. It was the highest mountain within sight along S P A R E P A R T S
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the eight-mile trail, and I had serious doubts about my ability to make it to the top after only the second mile.
I was saturated with sweat under my thirty-pound pack. A dull ache had started across my shoulders under the compression of my flak jacket. My war belt had dropped and the caps from my canteens dug into my lower back, which rubbed two patches of raw skin that began burning like fire. My Kevlar helment felt like an oven that baked my brains. Worse, its sweat-soaked straps had stretched, so its rigid rim rammed the bridge of my nose with every other stride up-hill. I also felt a strange twinge on my back where my right pack strap crossed under my shoulder blade. But that was the least of my worries at the time—I was starting to feel nauseous.
Dougherty didn’t look as fatigued as the rest of us. Unlike most reservists he had retained his boot-camp level of fitness. He jogged along the column, helping Marines along the way. We relied on our buddies to assist us, as most of our gear was on our backs and un-reachable. There were straps to adjust, canteen covers to fasten, and loose gear to secure. Those tasks were my responsibility as guide, but since I could barely take care of myself, Dougherty had assumed that role. I thought about asking him to hump beside me to help me along, but pride kept me silent.
The third mile of the hump was much more grueling than the first two. There were stretches of road so steep that I could reach out in front and touch asphalt. I thought back to how my short legs had managed to carry me through the ten-mile hump along the flatlands of Parris Island, but they were quickly failing me in the mountains of California. It wasn’t a matter of motivation. I wanted desperately to get to the top of the mountain, but my body had other plans.
I was thinking about my experience during forming night when I felt the splash against my legs. I knew all too well what was happening. The vile heaving sounds from Pfc. Dean’s guts behind me gave it away. My water had been trying to come up since mile one, and I had been fighting to keep it down. The polite thing to do was to stop, face outboard, and direct the trajectory of our body fluids away from the others. But we knew better. Infantry Marines did not 116
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just stop in the midst of a troop movement. Humps were not leisurely strolls. On the contrary, they were forced marches approached with life-and-death urgency. Even as students we understood that reality.
We knew in combat we could find ourselves humping to rescue fellow Marines under fire, to rendezvous at a strategic location, or to beat the enemy to a crucial objective. The hump needed to continue under any circumstance, and all Marines needed to keep pace. Any gap between Marines wider than an arm’s length elicited barks from the troop handlers: “Close that gap! Tighten it up! Longer strides there, you!” Marines who failed to keep up received more aggressive incentives—slaps in the helmet, punches in the shoulder, and kicks in the ass.
The worst-case scenario was if a Marine fell out during the hump. Our leave-no-man-behind doctrine required the fallen Marine, and his gear, to be carried for the duration of the hump. We trained as if we were in combat, and in war we wouldn’t call for an emergency transport until we arrived at our destination. Our instructors told us we were only as strong as our weakest link, and no Marine wanted the stigma of being the weakest link. Stopping was never a conscious option. And even those who passed out awoke ostracized as nonhackers. That is why I tolerated Dean’s vomit spray from behind, and why I forwarded my own into Pfc. Bender in front. It was also why I ignored the throbbing pain on my back under my right pack strap.
By mile five I had fallen back to the end of our column to join the ranks of the weakest links. Dougherty positioned himself as the last Marine of our platoon and policed our pace. Anytime one of us slowed to the point where we touched him he pushed us forward, screaming all the while, “Suck it up! Move out! Get the fuck up there!”
By mile seven Dougherty and I were the taillights of the platoon.
I trudged onward, forcing myself forward one painful step at a time, while Dougherty pushed and pulled me along. I heard the condescending threats approach from the rear. My lethargic pace had allowed the guide from the platoon behind us to close in. I understood S P A R E P A R T S
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that once he passed us I would be officially considered a nonhacker.
Dougherty was determined to help me avoid that embarrassment, and he did. Ultimately he and I completed the hump with our platoon, but he damned near carried me for the last mile. His selfless-ness was unlike any I had ever experienced. Words cannot express how I felt toward Dougherty when we reached the top of the mountain. I was beside myself with humility, gratitude, and admiration.
The return hump down the mountain was not nearly as taxing as the ascent, and we arrived back at the squad bay with inflated egos from our accomplishment. My celebration, however, was short lived. As the adrenaline drained from my body the pain in my back became excruciating. I confided in Dougherty and called him over to my wall locker to check out my back. When I pulled off my skivvy shirt I heard the shock in his voice.
“Holy shit, Will . . . It looks like a baseball under your skin.”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond. He returned a few minutes later with Sgt. Moss and Sgt. Banks. Sgt. Banks took one look at the tumor splitting my skin and hustled me into his office. His urgency alarmed me. Before I had time to consider my options I found myself at the hospital, facedown on an operating table.
The local anesthetic numbed my back and shoulders, but not so much that I couldn’t feel the sensation spread along my shoulders and neck as blood flowed freely around to my front. It pooled under my chin in bright red contrast to the white sheet. The sight of all that blood scared the hell out of me, but I lay silent and still until the cutting, poking, and pulling ceased.
Afterward the surgeon explained that the trauma of my pack strap during the hump had agitated a cyst that had existed unno-ticed under my skin. He used a mirror to show me the golf-ball-size crater in my back just to the left of my right shoulder blade. What really bothered me, though, was what I learned next. I would need to keep twelve inches of gauze padding inside the wound to keep it open and permit healing from the inside out. There were two implications: I would have an open wound on my back for two weeks, and I would need the gauze changed twice daily.
I panicked, knowing that Sgt. Banks wouldn’t let me miss all that 118
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training. I was sure when he found out I would be sent home. But thanks to Dougherty he never found out.
The first time Dougherty changed the packing in my back was the worst. It was painful to have a foot of cloth pulled from the inside of my body. It was even worse to have more reinserted. Then there was the blood, the puss, and the ungodly odor.
Dougherty handled himself with the professionalism of a true corpsman . . . and not just once. He repeated the procedure twice every day for the next two weeks of training. In all of my days, in the Marines or as a civilian, I have never experienced a more saint-like individual than Dougherty.
In contrast to Dougherty I had never experienced a seedier individual than Poole, who reflected the dark side of the reserves. Poole never fully bought into the concept of being a Marine. He was too busy being black to be a Marine. Most of us had learned in boot camp that being a Marine superceded all of our personal biases.
Poole didn’t get it, and few of us trusted him because of it. At his best he was a conflicted Marine. At his worst he was a militant, racist thug.
When in uniform he did what he had to do to get by—no more, no less. I always felt that was a shame because he had the potential to be a great Marine. Like Sgt. Moss, Poole demonstrated his potential more in the field than in garrison. He was amazingly accu-rate at firing small arms and, fortunately for me, highly skilled with demolitions.
Poole and I were paired during our first demolitions exercise, which required that we each insert a blasting cap into a detonation device. The blasting caps looked benign to me, like thin metal ciga-rettes. The instructor taught us how the relatively small explosion of a blasting cap detonated other more explosive material, like TNT or C-4. But the instructor also told us that “small explosion” was powerful enough to blow off our fingers if we mishandled them, which left me paralyzed with anxiety. My hands shook when I handled my S P A R E P A R T S
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blasting cap. Poole daringly played catch with his. It wasn’t until the last step in the procedure that I realized I had inserted my blasting cap into the device backward. Poole looked the other way, leaving me no other option than to call the instructor over for help.
Marine instructors are not known for their therapeutic assistance.
“That’s your problem, Crazy, not mine!” he said. “If you want to pass this station, I suggest you figure out how to unfuck that blasting cap . . . or shit a new one.”
Poole felt sorry for me as I stood there fumbling tediously with the cap, ready for my fingers to blow off at any second. He snatched it out of my hands and pulled it free with one tug. He returned it with a disgusted look on his face. I was embarrassed, but grateful.
Moments like that were few and far between, but nonetheless they showed his potential as a Marine—and a person. I wanted to like Poole, but he never gave me the chance.
To be Poole’s buddy you had to trash-talk about drinking, drug-ging, packing, and pimping bitches. You had to call police officers
“Five-O,” and politicians “the Man,” and idolize Malcolm X. And it helped to be dark green. But more importantly, you had to reject Sgt. Moss and his authority. Poole considered Sgt. Moss a buffoon, and openly disregarded his orders. He seldom used Sgt. Moss’s rank when addressing him, preferring instead to call him “Moss.” In the Marines, failing to use rank, especially when addressing a senior Marine, is considered disrespectful and grounds for disciplinary action. Fortunately for Poole, Sgt. Moss figured the best course of action was to ignore him.
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