But this was no ordinary drill weekend—and the routine I was about to begin was anything but usual.
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On the floor lay the contents of two standard-issue seabags. Then it hit me—everything I would need to survive in the desert, and possibly combat, would need to fit into those two seabags. I sorted through all of it systematically, categorizing as I went: uniform items, field gear, and hygiene supplies. Then it was time to count everything, list the things that were missing, or short, and throw away the excess. When I was in my zone, there could only be even numbers of things, which is why my seventh pair of socks went into the trash.
I cursed the hygiene bag that had been issued to me at Parris Island because it wouldn’t hold two of everything, and as I forced the zipper closed it tore at the seams, sending everything to the concrete floor. Now my toothbrushes were on the floor, soaked in cologne and shards of glass, and I wondered what I had been thinking bringing glass cologne bottles anyway. I heard the sound of a shaving cream can, rolling away and then coming to a stop under a rack across the squad bay. Then I shook the toothbrushes, crawled under the rack to retrieve the can, and congratulated myself on having a backup hygiene bag.
Uniforms were a no-brainer because the CO’s letter listed the required clothing for deployment. I would need five green skivvy shirts, so I added a sixth, and folded them like Drill Instructor Sgt.
Wagner had taught us. After failing to get them all folded into the same-size rectangles, I imagined his voice ordering me to dig on the quarterdeck. Finally I got the shirts folded and into the bottom of the seabag. But after the bag was filled, I saw an extra green skivvy shirt on the rack, which made me wonder whether all six had made it in. So I dumped the bag and started over.
After many unsuccessful attempts at getting all of my field gear into the seabags, I began to disassemble everything. I yanked, twisted, pushed, pulled, squeezed, and poked. Reluctantly, it all came apart: snaps, buttons, buckles, zippers, clips, flaps, and draw-strings. Then, like an intricate puzzle, I put all the pieces inside. After both bags were packed, I told myself it would be OK to go to bed after checking the CO’s list once more.
That last check made my heart sink. How could I have missed it?
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I read it over and over to be sure. We needed to fall into formation wearing our field gear the next morning at 0700. That gear was at the bottom of a seabag.
There would be no sleep this night.
23 NOVEMBER 1990
The 0700 formation was a zoo. Capt. Cruz called the formation to the position of attention as usual, but it was difficult to concentrate. The area around the formation was louder and more cluttered than I had ever seen it. Cars and trucks littered the field around the formation. Friends called to Marines from the distance, cheering and whooping. Mothers, wives, and girlfriends wept, hugged, and wept some more. Fathers shook hands, saluted, and snapped photos of their boys heading off to war, as many of them had done a generation before. And then there were the children—the little brothers and sisters who watched and waved, in all of their innocence, as their heroes became larger than life. I was sure many of them were hearing the yellow footprints call for the first time.
When I think back to that moment, I remember wishing I’d had a little brother. I wanted him to watch, and wave, and cheer. I wondered if he would have heard the call the way I had . . . and if so, I wondered if he would have answered. Like every generation before me I stood in that formation believing that our sacrifice would help to keep those children from having to go off to war when they grew up . . . that our effort would make the world a safer place. It didn’t dawn on me that every generation before me had been wrong about that.
Even Capt. Cruz was distracted by Cpl. Keith’s buxom girlfriend, who showed her support by lifting her shirt and flashing us from the passenger seat of his convertible. The formation was so chaotic, we could not differentiate the present Marines from the UA Marines. After consulting with a few platoon commanders, Capt.
Cruz decided to move the formation to the big classroom.
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were able to begin the business of processing for deployment. The first order of that business was determining unit strength, which meant counting the number of Marines that were present. I could tell by Capt. Cruz’s agitated demeanor that we were not going to deploy at full strength. It was a real disappointment, given that our unit had scored 100 percent attendance during the last MORDT.
But that had been practice. This was real.
Each platoon had at least one Marine who was considered UA, all of whom had hokey stories that justified their absence. The stories surrounding the UA Marines spread throughout the big classroom like wildfire. I suspected that most were phony, as every Marine in the unit had reported in ready, willing, and able during the previous month’s MORDT. There was not enough time for lightning to strike that many Marines in that brief period of time. There was at least one Marine, though, who had a legitimate, albeit dishonorable, excuse for not reporting to duty. He was in the hospital recovering from an alleged hunting accident that had left him with one foot.
Most of us were appalled by the cowardly acts of the UA Marines. Some of the Marines who did show up carried ingenious, shameful ideas in the pockets of their minds like get-out-of-war cards. They were the traitorous sleepers of our company. A few Marines played their cards before we left Camp Upshur, requesting exemption for such bogus things as dying relatives and uncoopera-tive employers. Others would hold them until we landed in Lejeune.
I was at peace, though, and card free. I had played my hand, made my decision, and pledged my commitment. That didn’t make me any less afraid. It gave me the intestinal fortitude to swallow my fear. There was a lot of swallowing that day in the big classroom.
During the next sixteen hours we rotated through eleven stations, just as we had practiced during the MORDT. The tedium of it all was barely tolerable. Most of the time was spent waiting in lines.
Fortunately for me, I went through the process with Sgt. Moss and Dougherty. Though part of me missed the structure that Sgt. Krause brought to his platoon, none of me missed Nagel, Draper, or Poole.
Our first stop was supply, where Staff Sgt. Bader made sure we had a complete issue of uniforms and field gear. After supply we 144
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moved on to medical stations for shots, physicals, and prescription lenses. Then there were forms, forms, and more forms. When I saw the Last Will and Testament form I hesitated and looked around for Staff Sgt. Church.
One of the admin sergeants hurried me along, “What’s the matter there, Dorothy? Not in Kansas anymore?”
I cursed him under my breath. He was a member of the active-duty Inspector and Instructor staff who, by Marine Corps directive, remained at the reserve unit during and after mobilization. I found it absurd that the active-duty I & I Marines stayed back while we reservists deployed. They were the ones with all the experience. They were the self-proclaimed “real Marines.” It didn’t make sense to me, but there was nothing I could do about it. That was how the reserves worked.
Sunday began and ended on the Ramp. I was especially motivated because Dougherty and I were assigned to Sgt. Moss’s vehicle. It felt good to be together again, even though we didn’t see Sgt.
Moss as much as we had during LAV school. He spent most of his time in platoon sergeant meetings and officer briefings. While we missed the extra hands and his sense of humor, Dougherty and I were more than capable of assuming all of the responsibilities for prepping the LAV. We immersed ourselves in the process and, as was common for crewmen, developed a sense of vehicle ownership.
It did not take long for the LAV to become our LAV.
We spent sixteen hours prepping our LAV for the road march and, as best we could, for co
mbat. First we unloaded, cleaned, and inventoried all of the internal and external gear. We went to excruciating lengths to beg and barter with our fellow crewmen to get a complete set of gear and tools for the LAV. Then we performed every preventive-maintenance check and service in the manual. We filled fluids, lubed the chassis, inflated the tires, replaced bulbs, and changed filters. Finally, we disassembled, cleaned, lubed, and reassembled the main gun and machine gun.
The procedure was backbreaking work, but it made us inti-mately familiar with the nuances of our vehicle. We knew that the S P A R E P A R T S
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engine leaked oil slowly and needed to be topped off during each fuel stop. We knew the cable connector that linked our radios to the power source was stripped, which made it the first thing to trou-bleshoot if we lost our communications. And we knew the HE chute for the main gun had bent pins and required insertion on a forty-five degree angle to properly install it. Knowledge of these quirks was critical to keeping the vehicle running, the radio working, and the weapons system operational. We knew that in combat, failure of any one of those systems could prove fatal. That was why Dougherty and I spent all day and most of the night checking and rechecking the vehicle. It wasn’t until the first light showed on the horizon that we felt assured that our vehicle was prepared for the trip.
Our thirty-five-vehicle convoy lunged from Camp Upshur at 0700 hours on Monday, 26 November. We were motivated to get to Camp Lejeune and start training. The first seven hours of the trip went exactly as planned. Actually, they went better. None of us had counted on the overwhelming public support that we received from the people along the route. Passengers waved, drivers beeped, and pedestrians cheered. We felt like celebrities, and the attention we received kept our spirits high.
At approximately the halfway point, however, the vehicles started to have maintenance problems. We knew whenever there was a problem because Capt. Cruz called on the radio for all vehicles to pull off to the shoulder of the highway. It was a monumental task, as the column stretched for more than a mile. During the second half of our trip we stopped a dozen times to service disabled vehicles. Our mechanics made roadside repairs whenever it was practical. When repairs were too laborious, the vehicles were towed.
By the time we arrived at Camp Lejeune, half of our column was towing the other half. The fourteen-hour journey taxed our crewmen, mechanics, and vehicles to their limits.
We limped onto our new ramp at Camp Lejeune at 2100 hours, barely moving. Our first priority was to park and the second was to sleep. Capt. Cruz held a brief formation to orient us to our new space, which had formerly been the home of the active-duty LAV
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unit known as 2nd Light Armored Infantry Battalion. At first it seemed intrusive to park on their ramp and sleep in their racks, but they no longer needed either. These Marines and their LAVs were already en route to Saudi Arabia.
The following morning brought several surprises. The first was the news that our LAVs were not available for training. The CO explained that the priority was to transport the vehicles to Saudi as soon as possible so they would be waiting for us when we arrived.
After being serviced, they were locked, tarped, and staged for shipping.
The most serious implication was that our crews could not practice gun drills. Gun drill procedures would allow us to practice the skills that we had missed in LAV school, such as loading ammunition, simulating a jam, and clearing the jam. I was very concerned that we would not be able to work with the weapons systems. It meant that we would have to wait until we arrived in the desert to learn the skills we needed. I had no problem with on-the-job training, but I had a big problem with training under fire.
Sgt. Moss was concerned as well, but he was not able to help. He was no longer our platoon sergeant. This was because of another surprise—yet another reorganization of the company. Actually it was more than reorganization. It was a complete reconstitution that merged our company with Fox Company, an infantry rifle company from New York. Following the merger Weapons Company and Fox Company were no more. The newly consolidated unit was called Delta Company. We met as Delta Company for the first time on the grassy plot just outside our barracks. There was a lot of confusion and territorial tension. Delta Company needed only one commanding officer, one first sergeant, and one company gunny. Likewise, our platoons needed only one commander and one platoon sergeant each. Since our former companies already had these positions filled, our new company had two Marines vying for each leadership position.
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company gunny to Fox’s Gunnery Sgt. Koffman. Gunny Brandt did not handle his perceived demotion well. He was openly critical of the decision and let everyone know how he felt. Gunny Koffman shared many of his company gunny responsibilities with Gunny Brandt in the spirit of collaboration. Gunny Brandt, however, considered them charity assignments and refused all of the offers. The only duties he performed were those assigned by Capt. Cruz, but even then he worked under protest.
One such duty was the distribution of mail. It allowed him to have daily contact with every Marine in the company, and a forum to appease his need for power. Gunny Brandt established two thirty-minute windows for mail call. One was to receive mail and the other to send. Although it was not a standard practice, he required us to perform tasks to be eligible to receive our mail. The tasks were functions of his mood on any given day. If he was in a good mood, we only needed to trap the letters between our hands, like clapping a mosquito, as he waved them around before us. If he was in a bad mood, he required us to beg for our mail. Sometimes he would simply send us away without our mail and without explanation. It wasn’t only against Marine Corps policy—it was sadistic. Gunny Brandt had alienated most of the company before Gunny Koffman found out about his antics and fired him from the mail billet.
After the consolidation, I was assigned back in First Platoon under Sgt. Krause and a new platoon commander, Capt. Bounds. My reluctant return to First Platoon was tempered by the news that Sgt.
Moss and Lance Cpl. Dougherty were reassigned with me. Sgt.
Moss joined us as First Squad leader. Unlike Gunny Brandt he welcomed his demotion from platoon sergeant to squad leader because he was more comfortable with small-unit leadership.
Sgt. Moss, Dougherty, and I trained as a vehicle crew and formed an alliance. It was comforting to have a core group of Marines whom I liked and trusted. It helped me to navigate the stormy seas of the new tribal tension. The group dynamics of First Platoon had changed dramatically from the way I remembered them. Some members of the old tribe remained, like Nagel and Draper, who continued their subversive ways and butted heads with 148
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the newly trained crewmen. Poole, too, had joined us. It was no surprise to me that Sgt. Krause managed to fill his crewmen slots with school-trained Marines. Some of the other platoons, with less savvy platoon sergeants, were left with Marines in their driver’s seats and turrets who hadn’t been to LAV school. Even Capt. Bounds, our platoon commander, held a vehicle commander’s billet without any formal LAV training. He, like many others, would need to settle for on-the-job training.
While much had changed, there was still one dynamic that remained since our days at Camp Upshur—the division between the crewmen and the scouts.
The scouts that joined us from Fox Company did not assimilate easily into the fabric of our company or our platoon. Their company was splintered into many more fragments than ours was. They resented the new chain of command, misunderstood their new mission, and mourned the loss of their buddies. I understood their adjustment difficulties because of my black-sheep experience from boot camp after being fast-forwarded. I worked hard to welcome the scouts and include them when
ever possible, but it was difficult under Sgt. Krause’s command. He referred to the scouts as attach-ments and treated them like second-string players. Even the training schedule he developed focused on the crewmen and neglected the needs of the scouts. His bias resulted in a divided platoon in which the scouts aligned with Sgt. Lopez, a former platoon sergeant from Fox Company, while the crewmen aligned with Sgt. Krause.
The division between us didn’t last long, though. It faded in a matter of days as the absence of LAVs sank in. It was difficult, even for Sgt. Krause, to emphasize crewmen training without vehicles.
Their absence did little for combat readiness, but it did a lot for platoon unity. So, too, did our march to breakfast the next morning.
Our first full day of training as the newly formed Delta Company at Camp Lejeune was Wednesday, 28 November. Despite Gunny Brandt’s objections Gunny Koffman chose to march us to chow after the morning formation, as a company. Most of us shared Gunny Brandt’s reservations. The active-duty Marines on base walked to the mess hall casually in pairs or small groups. We S P A R E P A R T S
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wanted to do the same, to blend in and fly under the social radar.
Making us march was like making high school freshmen walk to the cafeteria in straight lines like kindergarten students.
Gunny Koffman didn’t care. He wanted to flex his company gunny muscle. All six platoons snapped to the position of attention and pivoted on Gunny Koffman’s command, “Riiight face!” Then more than one hundred Marines stepped off in unison. The gunny’s voice reverberated between the barracks as we marched, “Ya left right . . . left right . . . left right left.”
His cadence sounded like those of the drill instructors at Parris Island. The echo of his voice boomed loudly against the walls of the buildings that lined the route to the mess hall. The noise brought curious Marines out onto the balconies of their barracks to stare at us freshmen. I was mortified as they pointed and laughed.
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