It bothered me that the only time I had ever fired my rifle was in a sterile rifle-range environment. My qualification as an expert did little to build my confidence as a warrior. The range was a highly 158
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structured environment, with stationary targets, and instructors who hovered over my shoulder. I knew that was not realistic combat training and I wanted more. I wanted to know how to use my sights without the aid of distance markers . . . to fire at moving targets . . .
to exchange magazines on the move. My inexperience with my rifle was embarrassing.
Our third day of rifle training added insult to injury. It was actually not rifle training at all. It was rifle cleaning. It was supposed to be, anyway. Once we arrived and disassembled our rifles, however, we discovered that our rifles’ butt stocks did not contain cleaning gear, as was normally the case. I was flabbergasted that we were not able to clean our rifles after firing them. Marines did not carry dirty rifles—it flew in the face of all that we had learned in boot camp and the school of infantry.
The next three days were scheduled as platoon-level training days. Despite my initial trepidation the quality of the crewmen training was much improved—thanks to Sgt. Krause. I knew he had heard plenty of complaints after our last experience on the athletic field. We were lucky that he listened. He used his sergeant clout to secure a battalion training classroom that featured a gunner’s training simulator like the one at LAV school. It was the next best thing to having the LAVs. We eagerly took turns cycling through the gunner station in pairs. The drawback was that only two Marines could train at a time, which resulted in a lot of unproductive wait-time.
We took a break from gunnery training on our second Sunday to prepare for our deployment ceremony. Capt. Cruz touted it as one of the most significant events in the history of the Marine reserves.
He explained that more than twenty thousand Marines would be massed in formation for review by the commandant of the Marine Corps. Then he put the numbers in perspective for us.
“Marines! That makes you part of the largest fighting force to assemble at Camp Lejeune since World War Two!”
The gravity of Operation Desert Shield and the looming war was unreal to me until I stood before the commandant, dressed for combat, bayonet fixed, among the twenty thousand other Marines poised and ready to fight.
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The commandant’s words were harrowing. “There is a lot of talk in the world and in the media about the reasons for this war . . . and how long it will last. I’m here today to clear that up for you . . .”
Both questions had kept me awake at night, so I was all ears. I expected politics. I anticipated motivational hype. I braced for Department of Defense rhetoric. What I got was classic Corps.
His words penetrated the armor of our flak jackets and thumped our hearts. “You’re going because I tell you to go—and you’ll stay as long as I tell you to stay.”
His words awakened the conflict that lay dormant within me. I felt inspired, yet frightened. I wanted to take a hill . . . and hide behind it. I felt loyal, yet rebellious. I wanted to fight for the cause . . .
and run for my life.
I recall leaving the parade grounds that afternoon convinced that the commandant was out of touch with the realities of the reservists.
I felt that way because he spoke repeatedly about how well prepared and well equipped we were. His comments were either based in dis-honesty, denial, or ignorance. I hoped it was the latter, as at least that provided hope for amends. It troubled me to hear our commandant talk of our undeniable readiness. I denied our readiness, and I was not alone—other Marines were just as concerned as I was.
During evening dinner the chow hall buzzed with chatter about gear—more specifically, our lack of it.
I was focused on securing NBC caps and rifle-cleaning gear.
Others talked about the need for compasses. They were number three on my list of priorities. The scuttlebutt from overseas was that Marines routinely got lost making head calls in the zero visibility of dark desert nights. Other Marines emphasized the need for tinted goggles and sunglasses to protect our eyes from grinding sandstorms and blinding sunlight. Still others focused on our uniforms, and for good reason. The green-and-black jungle patterns contrasted sharply with the brown desert landscape, making us highly visible targets for Iraqi soldiers. Our standard uniforms were anticamouflage.
It seemed as if we lacked the very things the Marine Corps told us we needed. Our survival would depend upon our ability to drink 160
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water, clean our rifles, navigate the terrain, see the enemy, and avoid being seen. Yet we lacked the gear and equipment to perform these tasks effectively, if at all. The commandant’s speech was a wake-up call to all of us. It sounded the alarm that time was running out, and we forwarded the alarm to Sgt. Krause.
Sgt. Krause recognized our collective anxiety and made arrangements for us to visit battalion supply the very next day. We spent training day thirteen waiting anxiously in long lines in the volumi-nous warehouse, like hyperactive children in Santa Clause’s work-shop. Our zeal did not last long. The elves delivered their bad news over and over as we moved from one distribution point to another.
“All out in this bin . . . No more of those left. . . . All we have are these unserviceable ones.”
At the end of the day we returned to our barracks with half-empty seabags filled with the leftovers from units past. Some of us received goggles with tinted day lenses, and some with clear night lenses. It was rare to have both. Some Marines had desert camouflage trousers, others had jackets, and some even had covers. Few of us had complete sets. None of us had desert boots. I considered our time at supply to be another wasted training day. So, too, did Sgt. Moss. But he had an answer to our questions about gear—
Saigon Sam.
Saigon Sam was a military surplus shop just outside of Camp Lejeune that catered to Marines—especially Marines preparing for service in Southwest Asia. I should have looked to Sgt. Moss sooner.
I had learned firsthand that he was a connoisseur of retail military gear during that snowy patrol last December. We headed out that night for our first assault on the shelves at Saigon Sam’s store.
I didn’t like that we needed to buy our own gear, but the items we sought were not luxuries as far as I was concerned. They were necessities, and Saigon Sam’s manager knew it. There was a special aisle stocked with the items that our base supply lacked. I left with as much gear as my wallet allowed. Then I visited the bank, cleaned out my savings account, and returned to buy more. It was my first of many trips to Saigon Sam’s store to feed my new obsession with survival gear.
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Each week the list of accoutrements that I perceived to be necessary grew, and each weekend I stormed Saigon Sam’s shop in an anxiety-induced buying frenzy. I wasn’t alone. The news of Saigon Sam’s bounty spread quickly. Marines swarmed the Desert Shield shelves like pirates around a treasure chest. Worse yet, we perpetuated each other’s paranoia. No one wanted to be the Marine who missed out on that special piece of gear that everyone else had.
The gear lust was the military equivalent of “keeping up with the Joneses.”
Before leaving Camp Lejeune I would spend more than five hundred dollars purchasing combat paraphernalia. Among my most valued possessions from Saigon Sam’s were my wraparound sunglasses, red-lens Mag-Lite flashlight, wrist compass, ass pack, and my Ka-Bar knife. Some thought Saigon Sam’s store exploited our vulnerability. I didn’t feel that way. I felt the ability to buy my own gear gave me power over my own fate, which had become a priceless commodity.
In retrospect I believe that it was money well spent. During my time in the desert I used everything I bought. In fact I would depend on my Saigon Sam gear more than my issued gear. Some of my purchases simply made desert life more bearable. Some wou
ld improve my ability to perform. And some of them may have even saved my life.
The same sort of gear lust was happening at the company and battalion levels as well. Gunny Brandt was upset that we had no water bulls assigned to our company. Water bulls were cylindrical water tanks that attached to the hitch of a truck. In remote desert locations, away from rear areas, they would be our only source of water to fill our canteens. Gunny Brandt was not content to wait until we arrived in Saudi Arabia to secure water bulls for our company. So he did what any gunny would do in that circumstance—he stole them. He described his action as “an unauthorized acquisition.”
Gunny Brandt bragged that the two water bulls came from an active-duty admin unit that had more than they rated. Admin units were notorious for hoarding gear. We relished the acquisition as a 162
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victory for the infantry and for the reserves. Even Gunny Koffman was impressed with Gunny Brandt’s resourcefulness.
Training days fourteen and fifteen were spent loading the LAVs onto a ship at the port in Wilmington. It was a bittersweet endeavor.
It depressed us to separate from our vehicles. They defined us as Marines. Without them we were simply ground-pounding grunts.
On the other hand, I recognized that we would need our LAVs in Saudi Arabia more than we needed them now in North Carolina. It was exciting to think forward about unloading and operating our vehicles in the Gulf. I hoped that they would be waiting for us when we arrived in Saudi. I had no idea then how unrealistic that was, and what the implications for us would be.
We started training day sixteen more motivated than ever when we saw that there were two LAVs parked on the athletic field. I had to rub my eyes to make sure they were real. Sgt. Krause explained that they were static displays only, and could not be driven. Ordi-narily that would have agitated me, but under the circumstances two static vehicles were the equivalent of striking training-aid gold.
The LAVs provided a much-needed reprieve from the humdrum nature of our prior platoon-level training. They afforded us opportunities to orient the scouts with its features and gear, as well as practice troop positioning and deployment. More importantly for us, they provided the opportunity to perform gun drills.
Lance Cpl. Nagel was more enthusiastic than I was about them.
Effective gun drills required nonexplosive dummy rounds for uploading, downloading, and clearing jams. It was no shock to any of us that the LAVs did not come with dummy rounds. Without them our gun drills were limited to assembly and disassembly of the main gun. The partial gun drills were somewhat beneficial to the scouts, who had never worked with the LAV’s weapons. For the crewmen, however, they offered little more than bloody knuckles and plucked nerves.
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time. The crew competitions were the highlight of training to that point. I still disliked Nagel, but I was impressed with his initiative.
He could show leadership potential when he applied himself.
After two days of gun drills our proficiency plateaued and the novelty wore off. That was true for the other platoon-level training as well. We were thoroughly tired of and bored with hip-pocket classes. There was not a lot of variety. Our core classes included Armor Identification, Call for Fire, and Radio Communications. As we completed training day seventeen, our morale was at an all-time low.
Capt. Cruz and Gunny Koffman recognized our low morale, but also realized the limited resources with which we had to train. There was no other battalion-level training scheduled, no other inocula-tions to inject, no other gear to issue, and no other parades to attend. The hip-pocket classes were all that we had left, and we had exhausted their effectiveness. Our company was so depressed that Capt. Cruz met with his officers and senior NCOs to intervene. He announced his plan at the final formation on Sunday, 16 December.
It was exactly what we needed.
Captain Cruz announced that he would evaluate our training over the next five days, which included more involvement of the platoon sergeants and platoon commanders. He told us that he accepted responsibility for improving the training schedule, but that in exchange he expected to see enthusiasm, initiative, and motivation.
I was skeptical until he dangled the carrot—four days of liberty during the coming Christmas weekend.
Normally liberty was not such a powerful incentive, but those four days would not be just time off. They provided us with the totally unexpected opportunity to spend the holiday with our loved ones before we shipped out. The news sent a shock wave of enthusiasm through the company. The promise of time with our families rejuvenated our spirit. It carried us through the next five training days with ease.
Sgt. Krause and Capt. Bounds delivered what Capt. Cruz had promised. They supercharged the training schedule with hands-on learning and practical-application exercises. They presented the skills as if we were in combat, which shifted our training into high 164
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gear. Instead of reading call-for-fire commands from handouts, we called on radios, and blew up targets on a desert sand table. Instead of using our armor identification pictures like flash cards, we planted them at scaled distances and spied them through binoculars and gun sights. We even used the radios in the LAVs to practice our radio communications procedures. They were no longer the same old hip-pocket classes—they were hip-pocket classes on steroids. The five days flew by.
Our company was dismissed on Friday, 21 December, at 1800, which marked the completion of our twenty-third training day. I raced to the phone center to call Gina. She confirmed she would arrive at Camp Lejeune late Saturday, along with her father and my mother. I could not wait to see them. Gina and I talked about the visit as long as I could. There was a line of impatient Marines waiting to use the phones, and the last call for mail had just been sounded.
While I waited in line to receive my mail, I listened as Gunny Brandt and Gunny Koffman debated the merit of granting us liberty so close to our deployment. Gunny Koffman believed a weekend with our families would be good for morale. Gunny Brandt, however, believed that time with our families was a mistake. He argued that family visitation set us up for an emotional fall, and wasted four training days.
At the time I sided with Gunny Koffman. I could not see how time with loved ones could ever be a bad thing. I had forgotten the lesson I had learned in the phone booth on the rifle range.
I treasured the twenty-four hours with Gina and my mom as if it was the last time I would ever spend with them. For all I knew it could be. Sunday evening approached quicker than I would have liked. Their visit was a blur, and was over before I knew it. We choked back tears as we snapped our last photos. Then came the dreaded good-bye. This time the windows in the car weren’t tinted, and I made the mistake of looking onward as the car pulled away. I watched Gina press her hand to the rear window and force a smile through her tears. I forced one as well until she was out of sight. I gushed with emotion as I turned and walked back to the barracks. I S P A R E P A R T S
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cursed the Corps for having made me say good-bye yet again, and prayed to God there would be another hello.
Gunny Brandt was right. The family visit had been a bad idea. It softened me just when I needed to be at my hardest. The visit was an emotional tease that I didn’t need. None of us needed it. It started an avalanche of emotion that left many of us buried in depression.
The avalanche worsened as we started training-day twenty-eight.
During the morning formation Capt. Cruz made the announcement that we all knew was coming, but none wanted to hear—our transportation to the airport was confirmed for midnight. The announcement was devastating. But ready or not it was time to go. The calendar
didn’t lie—it had been twenty-eight days to the hour.
There was no denial that we had little to do but wait. The LAVs were aboard ship. Our bags were packed. And the buses were on their way. Gunny Koffman, however, did not believe in idle waiting. So in the absence of any meaningful training he released the company for liberty until 1800. Gunny Brandt challenged that decision as well. I heard him arguing with Gunny Koffman after the formation.
Gunny Brandt was adamant. “You can’t tell these boys they’re shipping out to war . . . and then cut them loose! A lot of shit can go down in ten hours!”
Gunny Koffman didn’t get it. A lot of shit did go down in ten hours.
Neither Dougherty nor I paid much attention that our room-mate, Poole, had been gone since the morning formation. Marines were scattered around the base taking care of last-minute details.
Some made last calls to Saigon Sam’s store, some called home, and some packed their gear. Dougherty and I loitered in Sgt. Moss’s room and talked nervously about our departure. It was hard to believe that the time had come. Until the morning formation we had frequently used the expression “We are going to war . . .” but now we were literally going.
It was unsettling. For me the worst part was waiting—it allowed my mind to wander forward to combat and backward to home.
Neither was very therapeutic. I was relieved when the call was 166
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forwarded to fall in for the 1800 formation. It forced me to focus on the present.
Once in formation, Sgt. Moss leaned forward to count the Marines in First Squad. The correct count was ten Marines. Sgt.
Moss counted nine. Then he stepped forward to count again. Nine.
Then he walked to the end of the squad and physically touched every Marine on the shoulder as he counted aloud. The count remained nine.
Sgt. Krause grew impatient. “Sgt. Moss, fall in and give your report!”
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