Dog is the abbreviated form of “Devil Dog,” a term of endear-ment among Marines.
Then came the sarcasm. “Hey, Staff Sgt. Church! I think Chesty Puller’s grandson is checking into our unit.”
Chesty Puller was arguably the most famous Marine in history, reverently remembered for his bravery in combat in five wars during the first half of the twentieth century.
The office area boomed with laughter as the Marines gathered around the counter to watch me, the new-join, check in. New-join was the default label designated for all Marines new to the unit whose names were not yet known.
“At ease, Marines!” commanded Staff Sgt. Church.
The Marines returned to their desk areas under muffled sounds of laughter.
“Come around to my desk, Pfc., I’ll get you processed and on your way. You’re the only Marine checking in this drill.”
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I surmised that it was acceptable to refer to the collective drill weekend simply as drill.
She went on to add, “Most new-joins are reporting in October.
Were you fast-forwarded?”
“Yes,” I answered resentfully, “to make my college start-date.”
The staff sergeant smiled. “Well, I guess you’ll just have a head start on all the other new-joins next month, now, won’t you?”
There was something maternal about Staff Sgt. Church that made me comfortable. In addition to processing paperwork she answered all of the questions I had about the forthcoming drill. I learned that the unit’s CO, Capt. Cruz, had a reputation for realistic combat training. The staff sergeant explained that most of the drill weekends for our unit were spent in the field, and that I would need to visit supply to get my initial issue of field gear.
She added that I should not expect to get liberty during my drill weekends. Liberty was the Marine word for off-duty, but it didn’t mean much to me at the time.
The staff sergeant expected more of a response from me.
“You do understand that this is an infantry unit, right?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m a light armored vehicle crewman.”
“No,” she said. “You’re a 0311 grunt until you graduate from LAV crewman school next summer.”
It didn’t matter to me. Infantry was infantry. I believed the marketing behind the recruiting poster that read, GO INFANTRY. EVERYTHING
ELSE IS JUST SUPPORT. I wanted to sneak through the woods with camouflage paint on my face, paddle stealthily along a river in an inflat-able recon boat, and rappel down cliffs with an M16 rifle on my back. I didn’t enlist to repair engines, drive bulldozers, or file papers. I wanted to be a fighter, and that meant infantry.
Staff Sgt. Church told me I was assigned to Weapons Platoon under Cpl. Ramsey, the acting platoon sergeant. She explained that I would not be assigned a position with a LAV crew until enough Marines joined to form a second LAV platoon.
I left the admin office with a basic understanding of what the drill weekend would be like, and headed for supply. The supply building S P A R E P A R T S
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was located on the large asphalt parking area called the Ramp. The Ramp was roughly the size of a football field, and contained three rows of perfectly aligned armored vehicles, each covered with a thick green military tarp.
Walking amid the LAVs gave me chills. I had been anticipating this moment for more than a year. I had wanted to be a LAV crewman so much that I had been willing to drive three hours to get to the base for each training weekend. It was the closest infantry unit to my home in Baltimore. Or so the recruiter had said. A year later, halfway around the world in Saudi Arabia, I would meet Marines from a LAV unit in Frederick, Maryland—only one hour’s drive from my home.
When I entered supply I met Staff Sgt. Bader, who gave me what I would learn was his standard greeting: “What the fuck do you want?”
After hearing that I needed my initial issue he rolled his eyes and mumbled something about “fucking new-joins.” Thirty minutes later he slid a signature card and a pencil across the counter that separated the requisitioners from the requisitionees. On the wall was a crudely drawn picture of a skull with crossbones and the caption WITHOUT SUPPLY YOU WILL DIE. I recall thinking that it seemed out of place for a reserve unit. The base was filled with cryptic messages and symbolism like the supply sign. I knew that in time I would figure it all out, one way or another.
“You going to the field tonight?” grumbled Staff Sgt. Bader.
I gave the automatic reply, “Yes, sir.”
Staff Sgt. Bader lunged toward me, grabbed my uniform at the collar, and pulled me up and onto the counter so I was face-to-face with him.
“See these chevrons?”
“Yes”—I hesitated—“yes, Staff Sergeant!”
“I work for a living, Pfc. Don’t insult me by addressing me like a goddamned officer! . . . Understand me?”
I managed to squeak out, “Yes, Staff Sergeant!” as he eased me back to my feet on the far side of the counter.
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This guy thinks he’s a drill instructor, I thought to myself.
I made it through the rest of the gear-issue process without another incident. I left supply with a seabag full of gear, and a heightened awareness that I needed to keep my recruitlike behaviors in check.
As I walked the two hundred meters from the ramp to the barracks area, I observed that our company only occupied four of the dozens of Quonset huts of Camp Upshur. Staff Sgt. Church had explained that Camp Upshur had been an officer training facility during the Vietnam War. As I pulled open the dilapidated door to building 2015, the designated building for Weapons Platoon, it nearly fell from its hinges. To say that the Quonset huts were poorly maintained was an understatement.
Once inside I smelled a strong musty odor. There were twenty sets of steel racks lining each side of the Quonset hut, each with a thick spring-laden mattress. There were no pillows and no linen.
Tall green metal wall lockers separated the racks. At the foot of each rack was a green wooden footlocker like the ones in boot camp. The layout of the barracks was hauntingly similar to the ones on Parris Island. Sunlight streamed in through cracks in the boarded windows, spotlighting heavy dust particles that floated through the air. I flicked a circuit breaker on the far end of the wall and the ceiling lit up with the humming glow of long cylindrical fluorescent bulbs.
The wall lockers each had strips of masking tape with last names and first initials labeled on them with a black marker. I stopped at the first unoccupied wall locker and emptied my seabags. I had arrived more than three hours before the 2000 hours formation just to be safe. I had learned all about the significance of formations in boot camp. They were organized meetings in which all Marines were accounted for, and important information was passed along to the troops. I knew it was important to be on time to the first formation, even before Staff Sgt. Church warned me not to be late.
The pressure of being ready and on time made me focus, just like I did in boot camp. It is an intense sort of focus—the kind that filters out everything except for the thing I’m concentrating on. In the squad bay at Parris Island I would spend Sunday afternoon organizing my S P A R E P A R T S
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footlocker, only to empty it and start over again for no reason. Recruit Wilson, my bunkmate in boot camp, said it was like I was in a zone, and it became a running joke between us.
But even after returning home from boot camp I still found myself slipping into that zone. During my first night home I had stayed up late arranging my dresser like my footlocker, and my closet like my wall locker. I couldn’t sleep until I had counted everything in my drawers and my closet, and laid out my clothes for the next day.
Even after a week home I found it difficult to sleep without this nightly routine.
In the squad bay at Camp Upshur I found it easy to blow three hours, lost in my zone. I inventoried and
organized my footlocker, just as it was in boot camp, complete with every item ranging from my Guidebook for Marines to my shaving kit. I also arranged my wall locker with all of my issued uniforms and made it ready for inspection. Most of my time, though, was spent labeling, adjusting, and fitting all of the newly issued field gear that we called 782 gear.
Staff Sgt. Bader had told me the numbers 782 were the numbers identifying Form 782, which is the form Marines sign, accepting responsibility for the field gear that they are issued. I didn’t know whether he was bullshitting me or not, but it made sense to me at the time. At that point in my development as a Marine, I believed just about everything that higher-ranking Marines told me.
By the time I heard the second set of car tires thumping across the wooden bridge, I was fully dressed in combat gear, including my flak jacket, gas mask, and helmet. Over my flak jacket I fastened my H-harness and war belt complete with filled canteens, ammunition pouches, and a first aid kit. I didn’t know what Cpl. Ramsey would expect of me, so I relied on the only experience that I had—all of which was from boot camp.
Shortly after the second car arrived came a second, third, and fourth. I had hoped that at least one of the Marines would be assigned to Weapons Platoon, like me, so he could tell me what to expect. That wasn’t the case. Before our barracks door opened the bridge was humming with a steady stream of vehicles, and the dirt parking area outside the barracks filled with the growing roar of 60
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voices, laughter, and cursing. I kept myself busy, ritualistically organizing, counting, and reorganizing the gear in my footlocker and wall locker. At approximately 1930 one voice boomed over the others, “Thirty minutes to fall in!” Other Marines echoed the order as it was relayed across the parking lot in a matter of seconds.
First I heard the crash, and then I saw the splintered wood fragments as the fragile door was ripped from its hinges. “Fucking piece-of-shit door!” exclaimed the first Marine as he threw it outside the barracks in the grass. I stood rigidly at my footlocker as the rush of civilian-clad Marines flooded the barracks. Boom-box style radios filled the room with all kinds of music. Most of them entered with convenience-store bags filled with snacks, candy, and sodas. The mood was one of feverish urgency as Marines changed into their uniforms. I noticed their wall lockers and footlockers were empty except for the gear they brought with them to drill.
Finally I got the nerve to interrupt the Marine next to me. “Hey, Pfc.! Could you show me who Cpl. Ramsey is?”
He yelled over the music, “Yeah, his rack is at the end of the squad bay—the light-green Marine with the glasses.”
Light green was the Marine way of saying “white.” This was the Marine Corps’s way of promoting racial acceptance. According to the theory all Marines were considered equal, and thus all Marines were green, albeit different shades of green. White Marines were
“light green” and black Marines were “dark green.” The theory sounded better than it worked.
As I walked through the center of the squad bay to find Cpl.
Ramsey, I observed that the platoon was made of mostly privates first class (Pfcs.) and lance corporals, about half dark green and half light green. Small cliques of Marines formed around certain racks to celebrate their monthly reunion. There was a sense of brotherhood among the Marines of Weapons Platoon. It was a sense of belonging that I hoped to be a part of one day.
Cpl. Hoffman looked way too young to be in charge of a platoon of Marines—he was no more than twenty years old. He stood about five feet nine inches tall, and his uniform hung loosely on his skinny frame. He, like the others, was in the frantic throes of S P A R E P A R T S
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changing into his uniform to be on time for formation. One thing that was crystal clear to me was that being on time to the formation was of paramount importance to the Marines of Weapons Platoon.
I thought that there would be no better time to introduce myself to the platoon sergeant, so I stepped into his space and interrupted his routine.
I considered snapping to the position of attention, but remembered Staff Sgt. Bader’s reaction and simply extended my arm for a handshake. “I am Pfc. Williams. . . . I’ve been assigned to your platoon.”
Cpl. Hoffman squinted his eyes and looked in my direction. He fumbled blindly through the tangle of clothing and snack wrappers on his rack to find his glasses, which he pushed onto his nose with one finger in a scholarly manner.
As I came into focus he shook my hand. “Welcome aboard, Pfc.
Got a sponsor yet?”
“No, I’m not sure what that is.”
“You know, a buddy,” he explained, “—to show you around and answer your questions. Lance Cpl. Baker’s fire team is short one man, so you can fill in. Baker will be your sponsor.”
Cpl. Hoffman was still preoccupied with dressing, but I had a few questions.
“I need to know what to do to get ready for the formation,” I stated matter-of-factly.
One of the lance corporals next to Cpl. Hoffman laughed sarcastically, and called down the corridor of dressing Marines to Lance Cpl. Baker. “Hey, Baker! The new-join wants to know if he is ready for formation?”
Baker was a short, dark-green Marine whose muscular upper body, thick from weight lifting, looked mismatched when compared to his scrawny legs.
“Ready for formation? That mu-fucka ready for combat, yo!”
laughed Baker.
I realized that I did look out of place among them wearing every piece of gear issued to me. A cascade of laughter rolled through the barracks. Cpl. Hoffman laughed too.
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Just as the embarrassment was setting in, a hulking dark-green Marine bolted through the doorway. “Three fucking minutes till formation, ladies!”
There was immediate silence in the squad bay.
Cpl. Hoffman broke the silence saying to me, “That’s our acting platoon commander, Sgt. Pitts. He does not play. . . . Don’t fuck with him.”
I watched as Sgt. Pitts walked along the center of the squad bay, hands on hips, surveying the progress of his troops.
“I don’t have one stinking body ready to fall out? First Platoon and Headquarters Platoon are ready and waiting.”
“We got one hard-charger ready, Sgt. Pitts,” Lance Cpl. Baker called out. “The new-join is ready to storm the mu-fuckin’ beach.”
Muffled laughter rumbled again. It was obvious that Sgt. Pitts did not like the challenge to his authority. “Baker, you can drag your sorry ass to the end of the formation. The new-join can take your place as first squad leader.”
He stared Lance Cpl. Baker into the position of attention. “Aye, Sergeant!”
Sgt. Pitts drove the point home. “Any other comedians want to try out their material?”
The Marines of Weapons Platoon joined together in boot-camp-like manner, “No, Sergeant!”
As he exited through the hatch he ordered, “Cpl. Hoffman, form them up!”
Sgt. Pitts’s visit changed the Marines of Weapons Platoon. It was as if a switch had been thrown, shifting the undisciplined civilians into Marine mode. It was instantaneous and lasted for the duration of the drill weekend. Even Lance Cpl. Baker, the joker, grew serious.
Cpl. Hoffman threw the remainder of his trash and gear into his wall locker and led me outside to show me my responsibilities.
“Was he serious about me being squad leader?” I asked naively.
“Did he look like he was kidding?” answered Cpl. Hoffman. “He likes to make examples out of shit birds. But don’t worry, Baker’s only a shit bird in the rear. . . . He’s good-to-go in the field.”
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I was way out of my comfort zone assuming the responsibility of squad leader, and Cpl. Hoffman knew it.
He patted me on the shoulder. “Just do your best, Pfc.”
That was all the training he had time to provide. I was on
my own, at the front of the formation. I knew I would be asked for a headcount, so I walked to the end of the row and asked Lance Cpl.
Baker how many Marines were on the roster for first squad. He reported ten total, including me. I counted only nine.
Lance Cpl. Baker told me, “Just report, ‘All present!’ Nobody checks the numbers.”
I knew better. Marines hold true to the principle of troop ac-countability and the doctrine “Leave no Marine behind.”
The formation was all business and ceremonial in nature. When it was my turn to give my report I drew a deep breath and summoned the loudest bass my voice could offer. “Nine present. One UA!”
During the formation Capt. Cruz briefed us on the training schedule for the drill. Nearly one hundred Marines stood silently and attentively as the CO laid out the blueprint for our next forty-eight hours of training. The briefing was not that of a practice or simulation. It was a realistic brief of a combat mission that we were expected to carry out, and all eyes and ears were focused. I sensed another shift among the Marines as the mission was explained.
Whereas Sgt. Pitts provided the incentive to find our military bearing, Capt. Cruz provided the common purpose that motivated the Marines to perform. In a little less than an hour the weekend warriors of Weapons Company were restored to combat readiness, undoing a month’s work of civilian reintegration.
Following the formation Lance Cpl. Baker approached. I braced for the retribution of being responsible for his loss of the squad leader position. Instead I received a handshake.
“That was what we call an integrity check.”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“You know, the report you gave,” Lance Cpl. Baker explained.
“Instead of bullshitting Cpl. Hoffman with a phony headcount, you gave it to him straight up. You allright, Will.”
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Lance Cpl. Baker was an influential favorite among his peers. He was that special type of Marine who could dance between being an undisciplined joker in garrison, but highly skilled in the field. Even as a new-join I understood that performance in the field made up for incompetence in the rear.
Spare Parts Page 8
