Spare Parts

by Buzz Williams

  Miller was right. After the course my nightmares slowed, and eventually stopped.

  The diagnosis course was another eye-opening experience for 290

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  me. This semester was the first time I had heard the acronym OCD

  (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). Obsessions, I would learn, are repeated thoughts—and include the irrational need to have things in order. Compulsions are repeated behaviors, and also include the act of repeatedly organizing and ordering objects. Reading about OCD

  behavior was like reading about myself, and it made me want to learn more about the condition. After class I talked with Dr. Miller about my bizarre behavior in the Corps—the mortar rounds that had to be stacked, the endless Scud drills in Tent City, and even my predrill rituals with my wall locker and footlocker.

  Dr. Miller called my behaviors “OCD tendencies,” which by my time in graduate school did not interfere with my life enough to war-rant a full OCD diagnosis. In my case the symptoms increase with stress, which explained why they peaked during boot camp, LAV

  school, the war, and then monthly just before drill. He guessed that OCD had been a part of my personality since childhood, and probably always would be, ebbing and flowing in response to the stress in my life.

  At age thirty-five I’m still managing my OCD tendencies. The strategy that works best for me is called “replacement,” and involves trading more time-consuming and cumbersome rituals with quicker, simpler ones. So instead of organizing and inventorying everything in my house, my focus narrows to just keeping the desktop clear in my study. And instead of poring over every detail of my dress and grooming, as I had for years (courtesy of Drill Instructor Sgt. Talley), my focus becomes the Marine Corps eagle-globe-anchor tie clasp I wear each day at work. Wearing it makes up for anything about my appearance that is unsatisfactory by Marine standards.

  By the time I earned my counseling degree in May of 1998, I was finished with nightmares and flashbacks, and had my OCD behaviors under control. The counseling program, with all of the coping strategies and self-awareness that it provided, was partly responsible. Another factor was time. By then seven years had passed since S P A R E P A R T S

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  the war, and three years since my last drill. The event most responsible for helping me move past the war, though, was the birth of my son, Tyler. Becoming a father would eclipse the war in significance, giving me a new sense of purpose, and a better reason to wake up in the middle of the night.

  During the summer of 1998 I was offered a position as a counselor in a public school. What I learned, though, was that leaving Kennedy Krieger was not so easy. It would mean, among other things, leaving my lifeline to the Marine Corps—which was how Dr.

  Miller described my affiliation with the Young Marines program. He helped me realize how being commanding officer of a Young Marines unit satisfied my need to stay connected to the Marine Corps, as well as to fill the role of the “big brother” I had lost. I declined the public school offer and remained with Kennedy Krieger.

  My work with the Young Marine students at Kennedy Krieger School earned me recognition as a National Teacher of the Year, as well as a promotion to assistant principal of Kennedy Krieger’s new high school. My new role didn’t allow enough time to run the Young Marines program alone, so I began searching for a full-time Young Marines coordinator. In September of 2000 I found her—

  First Sergeant Vivian Price-Butler. The first sergeant had more than twenty years’ experience in the Marine reserves and, like me, had been activated for the Gulf War in 1990. Under her leadership the Young Marines program would expand its scope to include students from first grade through twelfth, and become one of the foundations in our school system for maintaining order and discipline.

  By her third year First Sgt. Price-Butler had become an institution at Kennedy Krieger, and a favorite among students, faculty, and parents.

  But in the winter of 2003 the first sergeant’s reserve unit was gearing up, organizing MORDT stations, and spending their drills in the classroom getting war briefs. No one at school knew that, and she didn’t talk about it. Nevertheless, as I watched the news, and listened to President Bush’s press conferences, I recognized the pattern.

  Thoughts of the Gulf War began creeping into my head. Then the day came that I had known was coming—the day the first sergeant 292

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  handed me her orders to report for active duty in the Persian Gulf, and hugged me good-bye.

  To our students the first sergeant’s activation meant an interrup-tion in their schedules. To our staff it meant the need to find substitutes to assume her teaching responsibilities. For me it meant a return to the trenches.

  During January 2003 the President was on television every evening, via sound bite or satellite, warning Saddam, warning the world, and instilling fear in us all. His voice sounded eerily like his father’s had thirteen years before, during my war—that other Gulf War. It was never my intention to watch the coming war unfold on television, because I knew it would uncover thoughts and feelings that had taken me years to forget. But occasionally, an image or a headline would seduce me into staying tuned. I would tell myself that watching for a minute or two couldn’t do any harm. Little did I know that the minutes would become hours, and the hours would become days, and that the harm would be a painful return in mind and soul to my war gone by.

  Staring at the television like a zombie, I wouldn’t hear my five-year-old son, Tyler, asking me to play with him. Nor would I hear my toddler, Sophia, crying for a bottle, or a diaper change, or a hug after a fall. And I wouldn’t hear Gina asking for help with the kids or the house or the yard. Watching the war unfold on television was like taking a virtual trip back in time, back into the Marines, back into combat. And with that trip came all of the emotions that had taken me so long to forget.

  One news clip showed a Marine hugging his wife good-bye at Camp Lejeune, which reminded me of the sadness I had felt saying farewell to Gina. Another showed troops with starched cammies and fresh faces filing onto planes that would take them to war. Then a day later, the news would show those same troops arriving in a tent city halfway around the world, with wrinkled cammies and anxious faces. I knew that anxiety well, and was now experiencing it again.

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  In the days that followed, the news stories became progressively more intense and combat oriented. Although all news about the military buildup was interesting to me, I focused on stories covering grunts and armor. They weren’t hard to find. On television during any given night that winter there were troops training in the desert—humping, digging, and shooting, on foot and aboard vehicles, in the daytime and at night. I watched enthusiastically, hoping to hear the roar of the LAV’s diesel engine, the whine of the turret traversing, or the thump, thump, thump, of its main gun firing. But I wasn’t prepared for the variety of emotions I would experience when I finally did.

  In the beginning of the ground war I was jealous that those troops were getting the glory and respect that I had once enjoyed.

  Then, when I saw the improvements in their weapons, gear, and vehicles, I grew resentful—especially the thermal night sights that were far superior to the passive night vision sights that we had used. I should have felt happy to be watching the action from the safety of my home, and grateful that others would be fighting while I remained with my family. But I felt neither happy, nor grateful.

  Mostly I felt angry.

  I was angry that our troops had to go back to the desert to take care of business left unfinished by the war I had fought. Angry that Delta Company was deploying without me and my expertise as master gunner. Angry that a new generation of warriors might get slaughtered for a questionable cause, but at the same time angry that they might upstage our performance, liberating Baghdad in less time and with fewer casualties than we had while freeing Kuwait.

  Realizing how
irrational those emotions were made me angrier still.

  I stopped watching the television coverage before the ground war even began, but by that time my emotions had already been stirred from hibernation. Dr. Miller once told me that posttraumatic stress could be covered, but never erased. By mid-January the blanket had been stripped away, leaving me to deal once again with bothersome compulsions, sleepless nights, and a flood of memories that filled my head day and night.

  Unlike the past, when I simply wished those feelings and memories 294

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  would go away, this time I embraced them and channeled my energy into something productive. That’s when I decided to finish writing a passage about boot camp that I had begun shortly after returning home in 1989. Back then I’d had no purpose for writing it, other than to document my first training day on the Island. That passage would become Chapter One of this book, and the section I wrote that first day at my computer in January of 2003 would become Chapter Two.

  Writing those chapters, however, only occupied me for a weekend, and the seemingly inevitable war that was coming would keep me on edge for months. As February approached, I could only sleep a few hours at a time, my head filled with thoughts about the Marine Corps, the reserves, and the war. Wide awake, in the middle of the night, I would find myself in my study, sitting at my computer, and scanning the shelves. The flag from Lenny’s funeral was there, and a picture of me with Sgt. Moss in front of our LAV. Behind the glass doors of the display case was my Gulf War memorabilia, a minimuseum in which I could lose myself for hours at a time. Then the memories poured out of my head, and my heart, and my fingers, and spilled onto the keyboard.

  Although writing this book had consumed my life for many months, it was well worth the sacrifice. Aside from its therapeutic value it gave me a chance to reconnect with some of the Marines with whom I had served during the war. The book gave me a reason to call Doug Moss, whose number I received from a mutual friend. I hadn’t spoken with Doug in twelve years, but once we got over the shock of hearing each other’s voices, we talked for hours.

  Since our reunion I have had the privilege of serving as the best man at his wedding, and continue to communicate with him weekly by phone and e-mail. Doug now works in the computer industry and lives in northern Virginia with his wife and son.

  The second Marine I contacted was Jim Bounds, my platoon S P A R E P A R T S

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  commander during the Gulf War. Thinking that he might have forgotten me, I introduced myself as Lance Cpl. Williams . . . from First Platoon . . . during the Gulf War. He remembered me, and welcomed the opportunity to review the manuscript. Over the next few days I received a series of e-mail messages, each with his commentary on the book. Interestingly, it was the first time I had ever communicated with him directly about the events that occurred leading up to and including the war. He qualified a lot of my experiences with background information that only officers would have known about at the time. While investigating the shooting at the police station in Kuwait, for instance, he witnessed a brutal interrogation of Palestinian prisoners. Today, Jim is an attorney and lives in northern Virginia with his wife and children.

  I also contacted Ray Celeste, the company commander during my last year as a reservist. Although I hadn’t spoken with him since we ran together in the Marine Corps Marathon in 1997, I figured he was still on active duty—he was a career Marine. After searching a military database I found his number, and learned that he was now Lt. Colonel Celeste, working in the Marine Corps’s office of legisla-tive affairs in Washington, D.C. Since our days at Camp Upshur I have admired him as a Marine and a scholar, which made his acknowledgment of this book’s merit one of the best compliments I have received.

  Lt. Colonel Celeste gave me the e-mail address of Eric Downes, who had served as commander of the TOW Platoon during the Gulf War, and our company commander afterward. While Lt. Colonel Downes was complimentary of my writing, he explained how different his perspective of the war was from mine. He also told me that he had shared my story with a captain who was formerly an enlisted Marine during the Gulf War, and had served as gunner on a LAV. The captain, he said, described experiences similar to mine.

  When I asked for the captain’s e-mail address I realized who he was talking about—Lance Cpl. Dougherty.

  My conversation with Mike Dougherty was the most awkward among the Marines I would contact. His voice sounded different 296

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  than I remembered, more “officerlike” in tone and cadence. Moreover, his attitude was one of indifference about our experiences as reservists, and the Gulf War in general. I understood how that could happen. Since the war had ended, he had become an officer, served as an infantry platoon commander, and was now working at Quantico, Virginia, in intelligence. While being a reservist and fighting in the Gulf War had defined me as a man and Marine, that time was merely a fraction of his time in the Corps. He indulged me in a few laughs and shared a few stories, but I sensed it was a stretch for him to recall his lance corporal days.

  After calling every “John Shane” in Michigan, I finally found the right one. John was as dry and reserved on the phone as I remembered him to be in person. Unlike Mike Dougherty, John and I reconnected on a personal level, the way that Doug and I had. We have talked several times on the phone since then, and plan to stay in touch. John works in the appliance industry and lives in Michigan with his wife.

  Writing the book also gave me a chance to reflect on the different perspective that I have now, thirteen years later, about being a reservist during the Gulf War.

  Ours wasn’t the most polished performance, especially in the early days of Operation Desert Storm. At times we were downright pathetic. Even at our best we were barely worthy of mention in the annals of modern warfare. But we didn’t make excuses. We learned from our mistakes and forged ahead, making up lost ground on the job, in the field, and under fire. Of Marines it is said they are the few and proud. Among them I think we were the fewer and prouder.

  There was nothing spare about our role in the War. Our transformation from civilians into warriors did not happen in the rear area behind the active-duty Marines. We were right there beside them, sometimes in front, watching and waiting . . . cursing and sweating . . . fighting and killing . . . bleeding and dying.

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  So, too, have thousands of reservists in the war in Iraq. Considering the offensive and defensive engagements during the combat phase of the war, as well as the guerrilla warfare that followed, it was amazing that my former company suffered no casualties. I think their fate lay partly in the hands of God, and partly in the peacetime training that built their confidence and skill as warriors. Concerning the latter I’d like to think that my contributions during the last decade played a small part in making that so.

  I have also spent considerable time reflecting on what being a Marine has meant to me. The Marine Corps has been, is now, and will likely always be the most influential institution in my life. As a child it gave me a way to connect with my brother and the hero I looked up to. As a wayward adolescent it gave me much-needed direction and a reason to stay on course. As a young adult it gave me a blueprint for being a respectful boyfriend, disciplined student, and productive employee. I still rely every day on the values I learned in the Marine Corps—as a faithful husband, responsible father, and positive role model for high school students.

  In August of 2003 I resigned from Kennedy Krieger and accepted a position as an assistant principal with Harford County Public Schools in Maryland. Thus far, being away from the Young Marines program has done little to separate me from the Marine Corps. On the first day at my new school I met Ms. Tackett, a teacher whose husband was serving in Iraq as a LAV gunner with Bravo Company. During our first parent night I found myself bonding with a group of fathers who were former Marines. Shortly after, I met Sgt. Duplessis, the Marine recruiter who sets u
p shop in our school’s lobby each month.

  At home, too, the spirit of the Marine Corps is alive and well.

  Tyler digs through my seabags, dresses like a Marine, and marches around the house barking out orders to imaginary troops. Sometimes we visit my Marine display case in the study, because he thinks the uniforms and gear and photos are cool. He asks a thousand questions about war, and I try to explain it in terms that a five-year-old can understand. When Gina isn’t around I let him push the 298

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  button on my drill-instructor action figure, which curses and screams like drill instructors do, and we laugh together.

  Sophia, too, is undeniably the daughter of a Marine. “Ooh rah”

  was the third intelligible thing I ever heard her say after “Momma”

  and “Dadda.” While Gina loves the Marine Corps (as much as any Marine’s wife can), she hugs Tyler and Sophia and tells them that her babies are not going into the Marines. For me it’s not important whether they join the Marines—or any other branch of the armed services, for that matter. I will love them no matter what.

  But now this book will be ready for them to read, and to help them answer knowledgably, should the yellow footprints call.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THIS BOOK DESCRIBES my development as a Marine reservist, and my personal journey before, during, and after combat. The events depicted are true, though constrained by my memory and perspective. The characters are real, although I have changed some names and biographical details.

  This book would not have been completed had it not been for the time and space given to me by my wife, Gina, who has demonstrated she can raise the kids and run the house without me; by my son, Tyler, who has sacrificed more than his share of daddy time; and by my daughter, Sophia, who is old enough to recognize when I’m not there, but too young yet to understand why.