Fallen Brothers

Perhaps it is the mood recently, but I have been doing a lot of thinking about old memories and good friends.


The first, 'Golden Boy' was one of those guys. Equal parts disgustingly smart, athletic, and good looking. One of the few that, to me, fit the phrase 'natural born leader'. It didn't take that much in the way of imagination to know that he would go as far as he wanted, as long as he wanted, in just about anything that he did. I didn't know him through the Corps, but it came to my attention that he was going to go Marine Officer, after college. He always had quite a bit on his plate, but it only seemed to focus his ability to accomplish his goals. Had a smokin' hot sister, to my then seemingly eternal despair.

One of the few actual conversations that we had was about the nature of the Officer/Enlisted relationship. The main advice that I give those contemplating entering the military as Officers is to listen and learn from the SNCOs (Staff Non-Commissioned Officers). Most of them have been in their respective service for many, many years, and actually do know what in the hell they are talking about. Some of the best Officers that I have known were not afraid to ask for input from their enlisted leaders. On the other hand, they knew when to make the hard decisions. That is their call, and when all is said and done, that is what the position exists for. Being a junior Lieutenant is a hard, sometimes tedious, often thankless job, but one that is very important for the welfare of the platoon and professional development of the individual Officer. I was confident that he was going to be a great asset to the Corps.

The second was a Marine that we knew as 'Giggles'. Giggles was always a little boy at heart. Sometimes too motivated, he was eager to please. Smart kid, knew his job inside, outside, and sideways, always willing to help out a Marine that was struggling. A leader in the making. I ran across an old picture I have of him the other day, and it almost made me laugh/tear up out loud. We were in the middle of a brutal work-up, long, difficult days filled with training. In those days, most of us still carried around disposable cameras (and did our best NEVER to leave them unattended), for the odd 'moto' shot, group 'hard dog' mementos, and the like.

We had just gotten done with yet another hump, and I was beat. I was sitting on my pack which was parked on the deck at the end of my rack. I was putting off the inevitable pain of getting back to my feet to store my gear. He was leaning up against the wall, quietly sweating from the nights festivities. I pulled out my camera from a pocket, and noticed that I had two photos remaining. Being the cheap bastard that I am, I didn't want to waste the shots, so I told Giggles to 'strike a pose, you sexy bitch!'. He promptly stuck a couple of the road guard luminescent straps around his forehead and gave me the ever present goofy looking grin.


Both were nice guys, good friends, and great Marines.



They have both been dead for longer than I knew them.



"...you are Marines. You're part of a brotherhood. From now on, until the day you die, wherever you are, every Marine is your brother... remember this: Marines die, that's what were here for! But the Marine Corps lives forever. And that means you live forever!"



-Full Metal Jacket, 'Gunnery Sergeant Harman' R. Lee Ermey

Semper Fidelis

photo source

The Tire House

The Tire House is one name for a live fire training house. Layouts of these houses are as different as the people that set them up, different rooms, hallways, angles, etc. Some don't have roofs, and quite a few have already had the doors ripped/blown/taken off. A plethora of sand bags and tires line the outside to lower the possibility of errant rounds heading the wrong way. A very good training exercise, sometimes painfully good at exposing flaws in the training or tactics of the student.

Every time that I go through one of these houses, I mentally review the quite lengthy list of past mistakes that I have made in order to avoid them this time (One might say so that I may discover new mistakes to make). I might refer to 'One' as an asshole.

Get out of the fatal funnel.
Breathe.
Muzzle points where the eyes look.
Breathe.
Keep moving.
Breathe.
RELAX!
Breathe.
Shoot, move, and communicate.
Figure out where Mr. Murphy is on this training evolution. If possible, shoot the bastard.
Don't get tunnel vision.
Breathe.
Don't just pull the pin and toss, pull, pause, then toss. (nothing like seeing your grenade bounce off the far wall right back at your dumb ass)
Don't pause for too long (bad things will happen).
Breathe.
When in doubt, reload.
Anyone can call a cease fire, at any time, for any reason.

List continues ad nauseum.

The last time that I went through a live fire shoot house, it was for a civilian course in the middle of a huge ranch. Excellent training. Great instructors. Before the house, one of the instructors gave me the ground rules.

To start, one student at a time, accompanied by an instructor.
Friendlies are indicated by the white cardboard targets.
Bad Guys are indicated by tan or brown cardboard targets.
Cease fire means exactly that, immediately.

I assumed the high ready position just outside the door. The instructor took his place immediately to my rear, with one hand on my shoulder. This would let me know where he was at all times through the house, and would provide him with front row seats to critique (laugh at) my run.

No practice grenades here, ride the door in...opening...white blur in the hallway...MOVE. OUT. OF. THE. FATAL. FUNNEL...target...two shots, center mass...room clear, what say we go on to the rest of the house, eh?...in the hallway, out of the hallway...instructor right on my ass, good. Bad form to shoot him...damn, my heart is thumping...friendly standing in front of BG...quick shot...clear...keep moving...should have pissed before this run...breathe...moving...BG!...three shots, on the move...pretty good, actually...
"House clear"...no?...shit, one last room...moving...BG, two to the body one to the head...room clear, house clear, "CLEAR!!"

Critique.

Movement - 'Excellent. Student was always on the move. Could possibly slow down for better aimed shots. Movement from kill zone outstanding. Not necessary to knock over friendlies to facilitate exit from fatal funnel.' I was assisting them to get down and out of the line of fire...or something.

Shooting - 'Good. Groups could be tighter, but most center mass. Nice distance shots.' Pistol sniper, baby, pistol sniper...

Awareness - 'Decent. White blur immediately inside doorway was a test. Not a friendly, but a BG with a revolver.' Sneaky Bastards. 'Called house clear before house was actually clear.' Damn.

Misc. - Not necessary to shoot the tan targets that are stacked in the corner awaiting the next student. Hey, I thought they were BGs getting their group lovin' on.


Over all, a decent run. Plenty of stuff to chew on for the next time.

Poetry

Upon completion of a long training evolution, the Marines and our counterparts returned to the small base just off of the coast. An afternoon of their version of BBQ, drinking, and the inevitable toasts were the prelude to the night's festivities. The LtCol. in charge of their forces was the MC of sorts, and at one point had a number of his and our Officers up on the makeshift stage. There was an exchange of token gifts, to memorialize the occasion, and as the afternoon progressed (and the cerveza kept flowing), a drinking game just kind of evolved right in front of us. I don't really remember exactly how it started, but at certain points in the LtCol.'s speech, I noticed all of the host nation Officers would lift their beers, proclaim "listos para vencer" and throw back a swallow. Not to be out done, our own Officers would raise their beers as well and respond with our "Semper Fidelis".

After more than a few beers, exchanged gifts, and indigenous music, their Officers were still going strong. Ours were... not really conditioned to the high level of our hosts. A few of our Captains were still in the game, even drinking with their counterparts, mumbling their phrase if not a little bit inebriatedly "lishtos pa' vensher". It was pretty good beer, after all.

The most memorable part of the afternoon, for me (and other than watching our Officers get sloshed at 1700), was the toast at the end of the celebration. The LtCol. was emphasizing his gratitude on behalf of his forces for the successful training and that he hoped that we were able to gain valuable insight as well (we most definitely did). His toast, as remembered many years ago and translated into English, went something like this.

Today... we drink as friends.
Tomorrow... we may very well fight as enemies.
Forever... we will be brothers in arms.

BOHICA

BWAHAHAHAHAhahah....

Why I hate TV # 325,115,240...

One day several years ago, the room-mate and I were watching the boob tube. Flicking through the channels we stopped on TLC, if I remember correctly. Coming out of commercial break, we were quickly able to see that there was some sort of operation going on. The narrator was doing his thing, the doctor and nurse were crouched over the patient, cutting, spreading, etc. We couldn't make out much of the patient, due to the fact that he had that green-blue sheet over a large portion of his body, with only a small square cut out and centered over the portion being operated on. The camera was currently on close up, with only the patch of cut open skin and the doctor's tools in the picture screen.

This scene brought a few comments from us ranging from 'sucks to be him', 'I remember when...', to 'what in the heck do you suppose are they working on?'.


Thoughtful silence...


Furrowed brows...


Jeopardy theme music running through my head...


Room-mate twists his arm to get a close up comparison of his elbow to the tv...


The doctor breaks in "...right here is where we will go ahead and clip the vas deferens..."

'Yow!', 'WTF!', 'Make it stop!', and 'Oh Hell, No!!!' were the comments from the peanut gallery.

Camera pulls back to reveal the 'clippee', lying on his back and covered with the sheet to about mid-gut. The square is centered at the crotch and it looks like about 4 people are elbow deep in their work (that elbow deep thing might just be a traumatic memory thing). Patient casually reaches up and scratches his nose.

First of all, to say that we were mortified to even be forced to watch this procedure is putting it lightly. Add to that the grudging acknowledgement that yes, there might actually be a rare situation where some guy might actually allow several others to approach his tender bits with multiple sharp implements combined with the apparent proof that before the procedure one was not allowed to get liquored up or at the very least knocked the hell out, was quite disturbing.

Thank you, Marko, for bringing up that traumatic memory. I have to say, you are a braver man than I.

The Gas Chamber

NBC training is always certain for a few memorable stories, the gas chamber especially so. Just about all Marines remember their first time in the chamber, the bad Darth Vader quotes to show the others that I "aint skeered", lining up on the inside of the bulkheads, and holy hell, why is my skin feel like it's melting? Then the masks come off and the fun begins...

I distinctly remember one poor guy wigging out and making a mad dash for the hatch, only about half way through the session. Said guy got neatly clotheslined by one of the instructors mere feet from freedom. The rest of us were none too pleased by the fact that we had to stay in longer while they sorted out freako. I was just happy that I managed to hold in my morning chow until after I exited the chamber...

Really, the first time is the worst (usually), all later training sessions are more like a refresher course, designed to brush the dust off of the mental cobwebs, and to ensure that you are up to date on all gear. A typical gas chamber session might have several different variations, but goes something like this:

The platoon will stage gear and gather for a few classes. The instructor will give a class on the gas mask, types of gases, the body's reaction to gases, and what we will have to do to demonstrate proficiency in the chamber. Platoons will be divided up into squads, and enter the chamber as a squad. Other squads will continue on to take different classes related to the NBC training, while awaiting their turn for the chamber.

I remember one particularly memorable NBC Staff NCO. This Marine was crusty as hell, and had joined the Corps way back when Jesus was just a Pfc. Appeared that he had spent the majority of his time with NBC, too. This guy lived for anything related to Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical warfare. Quite the motivator.

So motivated, in fact, that he had managed to up the concentration of the tear gas that we were using for the day. After initial training, I had gotten used to a greatly reduced sensation of melting skin coming from the backs of my hands and the area of my face outside of the mask. Felt more like an itchy tickling. I knew that this was going to be an interesting day when I saw the fumes fill the chamber a lot more thickly that the past few episodes, and my skin started to melt. I turned to one of my Lance Corporals and said, "No pain, no gain. More pain....more pain".

First came the head shake. The head shake is a simple exercise to make sure that the Marines had properly put on his mask before entering the chamber, and had it tightly secured on his face. All Marines were instructed to bend at the waist and vigorously shake their heads around. The gagging that followed brought a smile to my face when I realized that I was still good to go. Misery might love company, but it is always better for the other guy. Those Marines then demonstrated the proper way to clear one's mask after contamination. A couple of times.

After the shake came the pt. We ran around the walls, getting our heart rates up and sounding off to the cadence of the instructor. He was not pleased with the volume of our shouts, and told us so. After we all came to a stop, the instructor removed his gas mask, and proceeded to give us instructions for our next demonstrations of proficiency. The chamber was now fully filled with the smoke.

"All right, since you little pussies don't want to sound off while double timing with your friggin masks on, we'll just take them off and pt! When I give the order, all Marines will remove your masks and begin to double time around my chamber. The slower you pukes run, the longer we will be in my domain here. You motivate me, and I will motivate you. You fail to motivate me, and I WILL motivate you!!!" He rasped.

As the NBC instructors don't normally take off their masks in the middle of the chamber to berate us and instruct, we all figured that the gas was not as potent as we had initially guessed. We had forgotten that 1) This guy lived for the chamber. 2) He had been doing this stuff for a long time, and probably gotten conditioned somewhat. 3) To him, anyone lower than E-7 was a FNG, and he loved to see FNGs squirm.

We got the order, I removed my mask and my eyeballs promptly melted and ran down my face.

More pain...more pain.


"ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, I LOVE THE MARINE CORPS!!!" He bellowed.


We croaked something unintelligible.


We could hear the other squads outside the chamber roaring with laughter.

Laugh now, you bastards, you're next.


The intensity of the gas was definitely on par with boot camp, and much stronger than my last 4 times in the chamber since. To run, one had to trail one's fingers along the bulkhead, with the other hand on the shoulder of the Marine in front of you. This would ensure that you wouldn't run over somebody in the crowded room. Worked like a champ for a while, until someone about 5 bodies ahead fell to his knees. Much like a NASCAR pile up, the Marine immediately behind him slammed on his brakes, only to be bowled over by the rest of the choking, gagging, snot-flinging squad. I landed nuts first on someones heel, and the knee of the Marine behind me lodged firmly in my ass.


Not my best day.


As a last cruel tease, the instructor open the hatch to the outside, while continuing our pt on the inside of the chamber. We were forced to run past the open door, while continuing to run circles around him. Finally, he got bored with us, and gave us the okay to run outside and begin decontamination.

As always, the other squads were ready and waiting with cameras to forever memorialize our discomfort. S'ok, we would do the same to them, when their time came.

AAAAAaaatack!!!!!

Ah, memories.

For those not intimate with the Marine Corps boot camp experience, the video shows a hapless recruit failing to offer the proper greeting of the day to the Marine that enters the hatch. Thankfully, several Drill Instructors are there to helpfully provide him with some of the proper motivation to recognize the error of his ways, and to hopefully draw his attention to little things like maintaining a low profile, attention to detail, General Orders for Sentries, immediate obedience to orders, proper procedure, maintaining of one's bearing, stress management, tunnel vision avoidance, situational awareness, respect of rank, auditory chaos, chain of command, and last but (most definitely not least), Murphy's Law.

Scout Swimmer, Part 1

About a month before we boarded the ship for deployment, the call was made that we might have some need of scout swimmers. Not enough time to send any Marines to school, command decided that we would get all the zodiac coxwains (guess what we called 'em), first-class and above rated swimmers, and a few guys from the recon platoon together to figure out how we were going to take care of fielding swimmers, if needed.

For a down and dirty swimming course, we didn't spend all that much time in the water. It was kind of a given that anybody who was there was going to be a decent swimmer, and for the most part, everybody was. The focus of the course was to ensure that Marines from the different platoons would all know the same information, and if need be, could be considered interchangeable when it actually came to training and working joint ops. We spent a lot of time on beach clearing, signaling, and the like.

Finally, the time came to get into the zodiacs and do a number of practice runs.

As it has been said many other times in much better ways, you do not really control an area until you have boots on the ground. Technology is great, but until you have some mean looking knuckle-dragger on the ground and ready to hook and jab, its just all hot air.

Head mean looking knuckle-dragger came in the form of...well, we'll just call him Staff Sergeant Enojado. SSgt. Enojado wasn't the most cheery sort, what with his colorful vocabulary, hatred of everybody (especially Officers), and a muy fuerte accent. About the only thing that I saw give him joy was when he managed to throw off several Marines from his zodiac while attempting to set naval speed records on his boat. ¡Olé!

I would always hear a couple of the good-old boys in the group let out more than a few "yeee-haws" (a la the Dukes of Hazzard) when we went airborne, always followed by muffled curses when we crashed down to the water, and then followed by swallowing several gallons of water when the Ssgt. cut hard to the flank immediately upon crash landing. Several times the 'tactical water insertion' was accomplished thusly.

On one particular nut-numbing practice run, I was holding on for dear life on the starboard side. Marines were stacked upon the inflatable 'arm', facing forward and draped over the tube to maintain a low profile, with their swim buddy on the other side of the zodiac. Theory was when you got to you drop off point, you would look over to your swim buddy, ensure that both were ready to abandon ship, and just kind of lean over into the water. SSgt. was having none of that, of course. Cruising along at roughly the speed of sound and cursing all Officers ever born, Ssgt. was in top form. I could tell he was feeling particularly nice today by the way he informed us of the upcoming drop-off. "Hold on, ju fockers, an get ready to get the fuck outta my boat! Pinche beach is somewheres over dere!". He illustrated his fine directions with a nod to a generally forward direction.

I felt like one of those motorcycle racers, when they lean waaaay over the bike, to avoid being flung off like so many...Marines on a zodiac. We were getting a lot better at holding on, much to SSgt.'s displeasure. If we had enough prior warning, we would anticipate the turn, leaning to one side or the other. Sneaky bastard noticed this and started faking us out, letting us anticipate a turn and then deftly slamming the boat in the opposite direction, promptly tossing one side or the others worth of Marines, and apparently for the Naval Marine-chucking World Distance Record. Inevitably, you would find yourself on the outside of the turn, nothing keeping you on the boat but fingernails, curses, and grit.


From the beach, you would have not noticed anything at all, just the crashing of the waves, birds calling and shitting, and the regular noises of nature. Out to sea, zodiacs would be quietly cruising along (and/or soaring through the air). Marines would depart the zodiacs by signaling their swim buddy and easing themselves off of the boat (and/or flying ass over teakettle, cursing all the way, into the water).


Back on the zodiac, I found myself on the outside of yet another turn. This hard flank was not as sharp as some of the other, probably why I wasn't immediately tossed overboard. When the g-forces get to a certain point at a high rate of speed, I don't care how many pull-ups you can do, your ass is launching. I was barely holding on, arms fully extended, fingers in a death-grip around the rope, willing myself to curl my body back atop the tube. I remember the moment when my determination to remain with the boat started to overcome the force of the turn. I managed to curl my arms and move my body about half an inch closer to the tube. That was when I knew that I had this turn beat.

That was also the moment that Popeye, immediately behind me, lost his grip and started his ungraceful exit from the boat. Apparently, his right boot had slipped from its perch and made contact with the water. Scrambling atop the slippery rubber, he reached out for any purchase he could find, and found....me.

Just as I was celebrating my victory over what turned out to be the inevitable, I was sucked off of the zodiac like I had tied a line to the pier. I caught a flailing boot to the side of my grape whilst soaring through the air, and managed to suck down about 20 gallons of sea water, as I was cursing Popey in about 3 different languages. We bobbed to the surface, exchanged a few pleasantries, and waited for the zodaic to swing around.


to be continued...

Snippets of Wisdom...

When in the field for a training op, immediately upon completion of a grueling hump (is there really any other kind?), and after discovering that ones water supply is depleted, never ask Crusty old Corpsman for a swig from his canteen. Knowing that one of his canteens is always full of orange juice and he drinks like a fish should be a good indicator of what might be in the other canteen.



n.b. It is also considered very bad form to spew another mans vodka all over packs, other Marines, and said Crusty Corpsman. Even if it was the most hilarious event. Ever.