I always wondered why he had enlisted in the Marine Corps. He wanted us to believe that the Corps provided him with an escape from the mean streets of Washington, D.C. I thought it was more likely that he had enlisted to gain leniency from a judge. He didn’t talk about his personal life very much, at least not with us light-green Marines. He preferred to associate with the dark-green Marines—his boys. But some things were more important than the boys. Graduation from SOI was one of those things.
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Poole, and me, had all earned slots in LAV school, and we planned to celebrate together. Following the Friday formation Sgt. Moss called us together to make plans. Sgt. Moss allowed Poole to decide where we should go, as he had spent all last weekend checking out the best places to party. Poole told us about a bar on a pier in a nearby town called San Clemente. He explained how it was only a short ride on the base shuttle bus, which dropped us off right in front of the pier. It didn’t take much to convince us.
“Beaches, bars, and broads!” Sgt. Moss concurred. “What more could we want?”
I was committed to being faithful to Gina, but was more than willing to indulge in the sand and the suds. We headed out to the bus stop, anxious to get to the bar and drink ourselves into stupors.
It felt good to put aside our differences and celebrate our accomplishment. The four of us had not been together outside of training since we arrived in California. It was a great moment of unity for us. I felt a kinship among the Marines at the bus stop that I hadn’t felt before. We had endured ten days of hardship, and each of us recognized we wouldn’t have made it through without help from the others.
While we waited for the shuttle we reminisced, sharing our favorite memories of the ten days past. Sgt. Moss bragged about how he had saved us from all the bullshit the instructors had planned for us. Dougherty boasted how he conquered Mt. Motherfucker, but graciously left out the part of how it almost killed me. Poole listed each of the weapons he had fired, and offered his commentary on the merits of each. I reminded everyone about Kung Fu Theater, and we all laughed until our insides hurt. Even Poole laughed, and for a fleeting moment he was one of us. Then the car arrived.
The tinted window lowered on the driver’s side and the dark-green Marine inside called toward us, “Poole! C’mom, Dog. We got to go!”
The Marines in the rental car were Poole’s boys. Poole abandoned us and ran over to the car. He talked briefly through the window and then looked back at us in indecision.
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we, too, were ready to go. Poole didn’t look back a second time. He climbed in with his boys and sped away. I was disappointed in Poole. I wanted him to be one of us. But he wasn’t then, and he would never be. If I knew then what I know now, I would have pushed him into the car myself. I might have even pushed him under the car.
We entered the classroom of LAV school at 0800 hours on Monday morning, after our big weekend in San Clemente, a bit overwhelmed and a bit hung over. On one side of the classroom there was a life-size replica of the driver’s compartment. On the other side was a replica of the turret. The driver’s compartment was littered with instrument panels, gauges, knobs, levers, and controls. The turret featured a gunner’s station that was linked to a high-tech computer.
The assembled main gun rested ominously in a gun stand, while an adjacent table displayed dozens of parts from its unassembled counterpart. We cringed at the thought of learning all of the names for the parts, not to mention their function. We sat in silence, totally intimidated by the steepness of the learning curve before us. That is, until we heard it. Chinese-speak.
Edsar stood at the front of the class and role-played the instructor. “Is der a Wong in here? Where Marine named Wong?”
Frye displayed his signature slow-motion martial arts moves, as they used their mouths to make exaggerated sound effects, in addition to making their out-of-sync speaking gestures. Playing along, he stated his character’s first name—“Sum Ting, Sir.”
Edsar gave us his best puzzled expression. “Whut chu mean, sum-ting?”
Frye replied with the full name this time, “Sum Ting Wong.”
Edsar pretended to misunderstand, “What wong?”
Frye stood and pointed to himself, “Sir, Sum Ting Wong.”
Edsar pretended to lose his patience and ran over as if to confront a disrespectful student, “For da last time, what wong!”
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Edsar’s tone and timing were perfect. “And for da last time I tell you . . . Sum Ting Wong!”
It took some Marines longer than others to catch on. But once the anticipated fight started, laughter filled the room. Every Marine in our class was entertained by the show, except one—Cpl. Chin. But then again, not much humored Cpl. Chin. Perhaps he felt overshad-owed by Sgt. Moss’s authority. Perhaps he was bitter about being stuck in school with a bunch of reservists. Or maybe he just didn’t appreciate a sophomoric satire of his culture. Whatever the reason, Cpl. Chin had distanced himself from everyone and remained a loner throughout LAV school.
Cpl. Chin studied, ate, and spent his free time in isolation. He reminded me of some of the Asian students I knew in school—serious, studious, and stoic. It had always bothered me that my Asian class-mates outperformed me academically, especially in college. I wondered what they had that I didn’t. The Marine Corps answered that for me—they had discipline. I began LAV school determined not to be outperformed—especially by Cpl. Chin.
Now that we were in an academic environment, I felt more confident and comfortable. But Sgt. Moss was like a fish out of water. His rank did little to help us with our studies. It was one thing to lighten our load for a combat run—preparing for exams was another. In fact, our roles had reversed. I had the power because I knew how to study.
I welcomed the opportunity to tutor Sgt. Moss and the others. In fact, I probably mastered the material because of all of the tutoring.
By midcourse I had received kudos from the instructors for earning the highest class average. That was the impetus for my determination to graduate with the highest class average. My blinders were on. My sights were set. It would be a personal victory for me, as well as a symbolic victory for reservists.
I didn’t consciously choose to race Cpl. Chin. But once I got into a study groove I worked like a monk in a monastery. I copied the chapters from our text into my notes over and over. I lay awake at night reciting all of the LAV nomenclature in my head. Sometimes I S P A R E P A R T S
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even stayed awake all night assembling and disassembling the main gun in the lab. My determination kept me buried in my books for the next four weeks . . . and on weekends. I resisted the temptation to go back into town with the boys. It was a lot more productive for me to stay behind and study.
My attitude changed on the sixth Friday of LAV school when I learned that I was one of the Marines scheduled to be promoted from the rank of private first class to lance corporal. Before the ceremony Sgt. Moss briefed Hunter and me on the close-order-drill procedures to be carried out by the promotion detail.
I couldn’t believe it. Sgt. Moss was the last person I’d have thought capable of coaching us on how to conduct ourselves during a promotion ceremony. What I didn’t know, however, was that Sgt.
Moss had prepared. He had studied the close-order-drill manual so that he could keep me from embarrassing myself as he had a few months prior.
His instructions were perfect. When I finished leading the detail to the back of the platoon, after we received our promotions, he signaled me with a thumbs-up gesture. I don’t know who was more proud—me for getting promoted, or he for teaching me how to perform in the ceremony. The pride of achievement was more powerful than my obsession
with getting the best score in LAV class. So I succumbed to peer pressure and headed out for my second night on the town—this time in San Diego. We left with our heads held high. We returned with our heads in our hands . . . thanks to Lance Cpl.
Hunter.
Hunter was an active-duty Marine who didn’t mind associating with reservists. In fact, he fit into our group well. He was too mild mannered to care about such divisions. As far as he was concerned, we were all Marines. I liked that about him. Everyone liked Hunter—especially the women. His southern charm complemented his boyish good looks.
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We stopped at the first bar we saw and wasted no time downing a few rounds of Coronas. We commiserated about the rigors of the past training, and discussed the challenges of the next two weeks to come. Then Hunter took over. He was a naturally funny person.
He kept us in stitches with his hysterical impressions of the Marines in our class . . . and the instructors. Hunter was the life of the party.
During one of the lulls of laughter Sgt. Moss raised his bottle and offered a toast, “To Wee-ams and Hunter . . . the Corps’s newest lance corporals. Let’s have a night to remember!”
The toast prompted Hunter’s slurred suggestion, “You wanna remember tonight . . . I saw a tattoo shop down the street!”
I had no inhibitions about tattoos. Both my father and brother had them, and I had always considered them rites of passage into adulthood. I didn’t hesitate. We finished our sixth round of beers and headed down the street to Tiger Jimmy’s tattoo studio. The waiting area was filled with Marines scanning the walls and books for that perfect tattoo.
I approached a Marine who was examining his new eagle, globe, and anchor emblem in the mirror. “Do you like it?”
He proudly shoved his upper arm in my face, offering the same slurred speech as Hunter. “This is the best place in San Diego to get a tattoo.”
That was all I needed to hear. Two hours later I walked out of Tiger Jimmy’s with a Marine bulldog on my right shoulder. I joined Sgt. Moss and the others who were still undecided about their commitment to tattoo that night. We decided to find another bar to continue the party, and walked the San Diego strip.
All of the bars had long lines of people waiting to enter. After we’d passed several, Hunter had his second brainstorm. “Let’s go to TJ—I bet you don’t have to wait to get into bars down there!”
The Mexican border was only a short drive south, and Tijuana not much farther. Marines thought of the border as the threshold into the promised land of sin. The word was that you could get drunk, high, and laid for twenty bucks. I had no doubt that was where Poole and his buddies were.
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border. Sgt. Banks had warned us about TJ in his orientation speech before our first weekend liberty. He urged us to avoid Mexico, and to report any Marines who went. He scared us with horrific stories of abusive incarceration by Mexicali policemen, violent robberies and assaults, and deadly venereal diseases. Sgt. Banks’s warning scared the hell out of me. But it incited Hunter.
Hunter continued unsuccessfully to try to convince us to go to Tijuana. Sgt. Moss reminded everyone that our platoon was scheduled for guard duty starting at 0600 reveille on Sunday morning, which was less than six hours away at this point. We considered it acceptable to get four hours sleep before duty, but Hunter didn’t see it that way. He considered the goal to simply make it back to base before he was scheduled for duty. The alcohol clouded his judgment and made him angry.
As he headed away from the safety of our group he cursed us.
“You’re a bunch of pussies! A fucking bunch of pussies!”
It wasn’t until noon the next day that anyone realized Lance Cpl.
Hunter had not returned. Hunter was scheduled to relieve Wright for guard duty at 1200 hours, but never showed. Wright woke Sgt.
Moss, who was sleeping off his hangover after his shift.
“Sgt. Moss, Lance Cpl. Hunter is UA! I can’t find him anywhere.
His rack is still made—We don’t think he came back last night.”
Sgt. Moss was worried. He called us together for a formation, which confirmed that Hunter was missing. Worse yet, Dean reported a rumor that a Marine had been jumped and robbed last night in San Diego. Bender confirmed the rumor. Sgt. Moss had heard enough. He organized a search team of Marines to head into San Diego to find Hunter and bring him back. At best he was stranded in town without money for the shuttle. At worst . . . well, we didn’t want to consider the worst.
I remained on guard duty, monitored the phone, and waited for word. At approximately 1500 hours Sgt. Moss called to check in.
I reported, “No word here yet. The barracks is empty. . . .”
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Sgt. Moss asked me again to confirm Hunter’s suspected location. I replied, “Dean and Bender both heard San Diego. . . . They didn’t say exactly where in San Diego.”
Just then a disheveled Hunter walked into the quarterdeck area, brandishing a black eye, purple nose, and swollen lip. He moaned through the pain in his face, “Actually, it was Oceanside.”
I looked up in disbelief, leaving Sgt. Moss in the silence of dead air.
Hunter continued past me and collapsed in his rack.
I put the handset back to my mouth, “Sgt. Moss, you’re not going to believe this. . . .”
Hunter was a fortunate Marine. If he had been a cat he would have lost one of his lives that night. He would need the remaining eight for what fate had planned for him.
The last week of LAV school was spent preparing for three high-stakes evaluations—the written exam, the driver’s test, and the final inspection. As I studied I could not help but recognize the chasm between the knowledge I had and the knowledge I believed I would need. I knew enough to function back at Camp Upshur, where the LAVs were used for little more than an armored transportation service. But I knew there was more to being an LAV
crewman.
I might not have if it had not been for the live-fire demonstration we observed during our first week in LAV school. I was waiting anxiously to see the LAVs in action. We were informed by the voice on the loudspeaker that the active-duty LAV crewmen who operated the LAVs had returned from the recent combat in Panama. It showed.
The bleachers shook and our hearts skipped a beat as the main gun of the LAV fired its first burst of 25-mm rounds downrange.
The LAV’s engine screamed as it hit the hill before us, launching all eight wheels into the air. As the LAV made a U-turn back toward us, its turret traversed, keeping the barrel trained on the target vehicles S P A R E P A R T S
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in the distance. The vehicle slowed as the chain gun pumped high-explosive rounds into a truck, vaporizing it into a ball of flame.
Then the barrel rose and thumped its next volley into a tank that was barely visible in the distance. I could make out the bright yellow and orange flashes as the armor-piercing rounds penetrated the hull.
On its third pass pop-up targets appeared, simulating an attack by enemy troops on foot. The vehicle commander mowed down the first row with his machine gun mounted atop the turret. Then the gunner’s machine gun, mounted alongside the 25mm main gun, came to life. It sliced back and forth, leveling every target before it.
While the last targets were being destroyed, smoke canisters ejected from both sides of the LAV.
The rear hatch opened and infantry scouts poured out under the concealment of billowing green smoke. Three dived to the ground on the port side, and three on the starboard side. They disappeared from sight and became one with the earth. Then we heard the familiar popping sounds of their M16 rifles as tracer rounds pierced the green haze. The streaks of red-orange tracers targeted a set of bunkers in front of the LAV. The scouts took turns rushing forward, firing their rifles, and dropping to the groun
d. More pop-up targets appeared. One of the Marines fired his machine gun, another assaulted with his grenade launcher, and a third sent a shoulder-fired missile into the bunker complex. Throughout the assault the LAV
moved in unison with the scouts, supporting their fire and offering them a safe harbor for their regress. During the grand finale the LAV’s guns joined the scouts’ assault and the bunkers exploded into oblivion. The scouts reentered the hull as quickly as they had exited, and the LAV sped off into the distance.
The crowd applauded wildly. It had been an impressive demonstration. For some it was little more than a fireworks display, but for me it was a revelation. It showed me the combat potential of the LAV under the command of a well-trained, experienced crew. I watched the demonstration in awe of its capabilities. It was an impressively deadly machine . . . in the right hands. I looked forward to acquiring that level of expertise.
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about every part on the LAV. I could also perform basic preventive maintenance, checks, and services on the diesel engine. And I could drive the LAV. Driving was emphasized so much, we joked that the course should have been called “LAV driver school.”
With respect to driving the training was first class. I could confidently navigate the LAV through deep sand, up near-vertical in-clines, over jumps, and along steep side slopes. I could use the winch to pull the LAV from the grips of a mud bog, the tow bar to pull a disabled vehicle to the Ramp, and the propellers to make amphibious entries into and exits out of the water. I felt highly trained in the driver’s seat. In fact, there was only one part of the driver’s test in which I faltered—the blind drive.
This test required me to drive while blindfolded, relying solely on the verbal guidance of the vehicle commander through my headset. It was extremely difficult to step on the accelerator and trust that the voice in my helmet would keep me from crashing. I completed the course, but my consistent hesitation cost me three points. Actually, those three points were the only points I failed to earn during the entire course. The blind drive was my Achilles’ heel and nearly cost me victory over Cpl. Chin. In the end we both finished the course with 99.4 percent class averages and shared recognition as dual honor-graduates. I did not know at the time that my next blind drive would be in combat—only, then there would be more at stake than an academic honor.
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