Street, and Platoon Sgt. Krause. It wasn’t as simple for the lance corporals. Nagel and Draper bitched, complained, and bitched some more. I was glad to see the end of their reign as the self-proclaimed honchos of the company.
I said good-bye to Cpl. Hoffman with a handshake, and thanked Lance Cpl. Baker for helping me through my first drills as a new-join. I left the comfort of the big classroom and headed into the bitter December air to meet the Marines of First Platoon.
As I approached building 2016, I noticed a Marine painting the door to our barracks. There were new hinges and a knob installed on the door, which seemed very out of character for the dilapidated barracks of Camp Upshur. Over the door hung a plywood sign with stenciled gold letters on a red background that read FIRST PLATOON—
FIRST TO FIGHT. Next to the entrance was a red platoon guidon leaning outward on its pole, resting in a steel sleeve that had been driven into the earth. The guidon, too, read, FIRST PLATOON.
I entered slowly, not sure what to expect when I crossed the threshold of the hatch. Inside, Marines were gathered in a semicircle formation around a makeshift podium of stacked footlockers at the foyer entrance in the middle of our squad bay. The space was set up 84
B u z z W i l l i a m s
like a classroom, complete with seats, a chalkboard, and bookcases.
Training aids and posters lined the walls. It looked very different from Weapons Platoon’s squad bay, which was barely habitable.
The back right corner of the classroom had a uniform and appearance station. The gear locker was filled with ammo cans labeled, CLIPPERS, HYGIENE, IRONS, BOOTS/BRASS, AND UNIFORMS. On the wall to the right of the locker were laminated photocopies of selected pages from the Marine guidebook illustrating the Marine Corps’s standards and regulations for haircuts, hygiene, and uniforms. On the left was a wall-mounted full-length mirror, over which hung a stenciled sign, CHECK YOUR APPEARANCE.
Throughout the squad bay wall lockers were pushed together into various configurations to create partitions, which subdivided the squad bay into three spaces. The third of the barracks to the left of the classroom was designated as the NCO area. The wall locker barricade was clearly intended to segregate the troops from the leaders. The sign next to the opening read, NCO’S ONLY.
To the right of the classroom was the openly accessible nonrate area. This third of the squad bay included the more familiar boot-camp-style setup of aligned racks, wall lockers, and footlockers. The nonrate area was also segregated. The starboard side was designated the scout side, while the port side included only crewmen.
There were computer-printed labels with our names on the wall lockers. Mine read, PFC. WILLIAMS.
There was a lot of nervous energy as Marines waited for the arrival of Sgt. Krause. The word among the troops was that he was a shit-hot infantryman, direct from active duty in the Fleet Marine Forces. The teacher in me was impressed by the layout of the squad bay—I liked the structure and organization of the place.
As I returned to the group, the separation of ranks was more apparent to me. The lance corporals were talking and laughing. The Pfc.’s were standing around, feeling out of place, like awkward boys at a middle-school dance.
Nagel’s eyes met mine as I approached. He hushed the Marines and held his arms out like a Roman soldier saluting an emperor, “All hail! Super-Marine is on deck!”
S P A R E P A R T S
85
I got mixed reactions from the group. Only some understood the allusion to my award from the September drill. I knew Nagel’s type, and feeding his ego with attention was the last thing I wanted to do.
I decided to avoid the confrontation and made my way to check out my personal space while I waited for Sgt. Krause to arrive. As the rusted lock gave way to my tug, the flimsy metal wall locker door swung open and crashed into the adjacent metal rack. When I looked up I saw that I had disturbed a Marine, lying on the top rack, reading a book.
Lowering the book below his eyes he nodded and offered a simple “Welcome aboard.”
I extended my hand in friendship and introduced myself. “I’m Pfc. Williams. Sorry to interrupt your reading.”
“Pfc. Dougherty” was his response, as he maneuvered to dangle his legs down over the edge of the mattress.
“Why aren’t you with the group?” I asked.
Dougherty smiled. “Same reason you’re not.”
Apparently he had heard Lance Cpl. Nagel’s jab at me.
Dougherty and I connected instantly, and we would become inseparable over the next two years.
Our conversation was cut short as the door to the squad bay opened.
“At ease, Marines!” the strange voice commanded.
The Marines gathered anxiously in the classroom area to meet our new leader. As he removed his cover, I noticed it remained perfectly formed and flat on top. I had always wondered how to make my cover look like that, instead of the wrinkled mess that it was.
Sgt. Krause stood behind the footlocker podium and checked his notes. He had a commanding presence. Standing well over six feet tall, he embodied the lean and mean standard of the infantry. His high and tight haircut looked like he had just walked out of the bar-bershop. His camouflage uniform was heavily starched and sported razor-sharp creases. His duty belt was connected with a spotless brass buckle, featuring the eagle-globe-anchor emblem. Even from the back of the room you could see the mirrorlike reflection of his spit-shined boots. There wasn’t any noticeable difference between 86
B u z z W i l l i a m s
Sgt. Krause and any drill instructor I had ever seen. There was no doubt in any of our minds about his prior service in the fleet. He was the real deal. He clearly understood the power of the first impression, and had capitalized on his.
“I am Sgt. Krause, your platoon sergeant.” He paused to scan the group. His eyes burned holes into a few Marines along the way.
“This is my first time serving with reservists, and what I see so far is not impressive. Nasty uniforms . . . long hair . . . laziness . . .
and bad attitudes.”
Nagel was leaning back against the wall, bouncing his leg nervously, and spitting tobacco into an empty Coke can. As far as I could tell, he was all of the above.
“As of right now each and every one of you is a representative of First Platoon,” he continued. “I expect you to look better, train harder, and think smarter than any other Marines in this company.
I have posted the training schedule on the board, and have briefed squad leaders Nagel and Lyle on what needs to happen before lights-out. If there are any questions, see your squad leaders.”
And he was gone. I surmised that he depended on the chain of command for delegating responsibility. That was not a problem for me as long as there were good leaders in charge. I was grateful to be assigned to Second Squad with the scouts under Lance Cpl. Lyle, a thick-framed Marine with a quiet, confident manner. He had completed 0311 infantry school during the past summer, which explained why he was in charge of the scouts.
As I understood it, the vehicle commander of the LAVs could use the weapons system to engage targets, as well as deploy the scouts to engage targets on foot. Some of the scouts, like Dougherty and me, were assigned to Second Squad temporarily, because we had not yet completed LAV school. In essence, the scouts were first-year Pfc.’s, while the crewmen were second-year lance corporals. The disparity in rank, experience, and perceived importance created a class system that separated our squads in spirit. It seemed like a poor way to organize a platoon, but I figured that Sgt. Krause knew what he was doing.
Our next mission included a junk-on-the-bunk inspection of our S P A R E P A R T S
87
gear, so I returned to my former squad bay to get all of my gear. It was the new home of Second Platoon, but just as run down as I remembered. I laughed to myself as I stepped on the door, which still lay in the grass outside the entrance to building 2015. In its place hung a poncho, taped to the top of the door
frame, which did little to keep the cold out. Inside, a group of Marines were standing on a table, fumbling to ignite the overhead gas furnace. The floor was cluttered with gear, strewn about haphazardly. Music from several boom-box radios competed with loud voices and the rise and fall of laughter. As I made my way to my former wall locker I noticed a Marine in my old space.
“How the hell are ya?” he said, smiling, and grabbed my hand to shake it. “Excuse all my shit. I’m Corporal Moss. Well, for a few more hours anyway. . . .” He puffed out his chest and hiked up his trousers, as he boasted, “Yeah . . . I’m finally going to be promoted to sergeant.”
He seems too friendly to be a sergeant, I thought.
“I just need to get my gear and I’ll get out of your way.”
“Take your time,” said Cpl. Moss. “Just kick my shit out of your way.”
Kick his shit? It looked like a surplus store exploded. He had all of the top-end field gear. It was not the issued kind, but the kind you have to buy from catalogs. He had a waterproof winter jacket, gloves, a ski mask, and boots that looked like those worn by arctic explorers. All of his gear was labeled with brand names—Thinsulate, DryMax, and Gore-tex.
“Where’s all of your issued gear?” I asked.
“Issued gear? Have you met that asshole running supply?”
I started to laugh, and he laughed too. I was not used to hearing NCOs talk like that.
Cpl. Moss pulled me aside as if to share some insider information. “You want to survive out here in these woods during winter, you gotta have Gore-Tex.”
His seriousness about fabric made me laugh again. In front of any other NCO I would have expected a reprimand, but I felt comfortable around Cpl. Moss.
88
B u z z W i l l i a m s
He punched me jokingly in the shoulder, and for the first time I saw it—his resemblance to my brother, Lenny. It gave me chills.
“OK, laugh now, motherfucker. . . . We’ll see who’s laughing later!” he warned as he turned toward his wall locker.
We continued to talk as I stuffed my seabag. He was really laissez-faire, different from any NCO I had ever met. As with Dougherty, I knew right away we could be friends.
As I dragged my seabag out of the barracks I said, “Hey, when you get promoted, can I call you Sergeant Gore-Tex?”
He threw a canteen at me and responded, “That’s Platoon Sergeant Gore-Tex to you!”
I thought he must have been kidding. This is the platoon sergeant?
“If you ever get tired of that tight-ass, Krause, running First Platoon,” Cpl. Moss said, “I’ll have a place for you in Second.”
Walking away, I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to take him up on his offer.
I returned to the barracks to find Sgt. Krause berating Pvt. Hurst, because his haircut did not meet the skin-close standard of the Corps. It looked to me like he had a few weeks’ worth of growth. He was a new-join, and my guess was that his last haircut had been at Parris Island. He looked young and embarrassed.
“What squad are you in, Marine?” asked Sgt. Krause.
Pvt. Hurst replied quietly, “Second.”
“Get up here, Lance Cpl. Lyle!” demanded Sgt. Krause. He was Pvt. Hurst’s squad leader, and thus responsible for him.
Lance Cpl. Nagel reported that Lyle was exchanging gear at supply.
Sgt. Krause turned the clippers over to Lance Cpl. Nagel, the next in command, and said, “When I return I want to see a regulation haircut on this private, understood?”
Lance Cpl. Nagel acknowledged with exaggerated phony compliance, “Aye-aye, Sergeant!”
I was surprised that Sgt. Krause didn’t recognize Nagel’s sarcasm that obviously mocked his authority. Nagel and Draper often humored each other with inside jokes and juvenile antics.
S P A R E P A R T S
89
Prompted by Lance Cpl. Nagel, First Squad Marines gathered to watch the drama unfold.
Then Lance Cpl. Nagel’s eyes locked on me. I could tell he was enjoying himself.
“Know how to fade hair, Williams?” Nagel asked me sarcastically. “You can do it all, can’t you?”
Fading hair was the process of cutting the hair so that it became progressively longer from skintight over the ears to a maximum of one inch on top.
“No,” I said. “I’ve never cut hair at all.”
“Good. That’s what I hoped.” Then he shrugged his shoulders at Draper as if to explain, He doesn’t deserve one of my fades. . . . I couldn’t fuck it up if I tried.
I challenged his orders by calling out for a volunteer. “I need a Marine who knows how to fade hair. . . .”
There were no takers.
Nagel didn’t even try to hide his laughter. “Looks like it’s all you!”
I apologized to Pvt. Hurst in advance for the poor haircut he was about to receive. He seemed disturbingly quiet and passive about the whole ordeal—too passive.
“Why didn’t you get your hair cut before drill?” I asked.
“I’ve been having some problems at home, and didn’t get a chance.”
The hidden message in his reply didn’t register.
After thirty minutes of clipping, Pvt. Hurst asked me to stop trying. He looked in the mirror at the crooked line around his head, separating the baldness from the hair. He tried to make me feel better by telling me it looked good when he wore his cover.
I felt badly for Pvt. Hurst. Marines placed tremendous value on their haircuts, which were synonymous with their self-worth. Pvt.
Hurst spent the drill being harassed by senior Marines and chastised by peers. I couldn’t imagine a worse experience during a first drill.
But then again, drill wasn’t over yet.
90
B u z z W i l l i a m s
The December drill was my first admin drill, the term we used to describe a drill weekend spent in garrison instead of the field. Sgt.
Krause was in his element in garrison. We awakened at 0430 Saturday morning and began our three-mile platoon run at 0500. We woke Cpl. Moss and the Marines of Second Platoon as we ran by their barracks singing cadence.
“Hey, there, Second Platoon, where you at? Come on out and lose some fat!”
Lance Cpl. Nagel started out carrying the guidon, but he had the lungs of a smoker and couldn’t keep pace. I was happy to see him fall back to the end of the platoon. I reveled as Sgt. Krause gave the guidon to Lance Cpl. Lyle, and threatened to fire Nagel from his position as squad leader if he didn’t keep up. Sgt. Krause seemed to discipline his Marines in a consistent and fair manner, and I respected that about him.
As we ran by headquarters, Capt. Cruz called out, “Ooh rah, First Platoon!” It was nice to be recognized by the CO, and Capt.
Cruz wasn’t known for doling out compliments. The CO liked the way Sgt. Krause ran his platoon, and I was starting to appreciate it as well. I liked the structure, the organization, and the discipline. By the time the newly awakened Second Platoon Marines were stumbling into the head to shave, we had already completed a three-mile run, dressed, and attended a class on land navigation.
As we marched to morning chow we passed Cpl. Moss. He was rubbing the crust from his eyes as he walked to the head wearing his skivvies and flip-flops.
As Sgt. Krause passed him he offered a sarcastic greeting. “Nice of you to join us, Cpl. Moss.”
Cpl. Moss smiled, apparently unaffected by the sarcasm. “Save some chow for Second Platoon!”
The exchange frustrated Sgt. Krause, but I found humor in it.
There was something endearing about Cpl. Moss’s aloofness. Cpl.
Moss and Sgt. Krause were as different as night and day. That difference was never more evident than during Cpl. Moss’s promotion to sergeant during the final formation on Sunday evening.
Sgt. Krause had assembled the Marines waiting for promotion at S P A R E P A R T S
91
the rear of the formation. The senior Marine in the promotio
n detail was Cpl. Moss. Sgt. Krause coached the Marines on their roles during the ceremony, the most challenging of which was Cpl. Moss’s.
As the senior Marine of the promotion detail, he was tasked with verbally calling the close-order-drill commands to march the file of Marines to the front of the formation, and to center them on the commanding officer presiding over the ceremony. It is a fairly simple procedure, and one that should be well within the repertoire of marching skill of an ordinary corporal. But the company was about to discover that Cpl. Moss was no ordinary corporal.
As the formation fell silent, Sgt. Krause signaled Cpl. Moss to begin his commands. Cpl. Moss was oblivious. The detail of Marines stood silently at the position of attention, waiting longer than usual for the command “Forward, march.” That command never came from Cpl. Moss. Instead he offered the incomplete command “Forward . . .” which primed the Marines for forward movement. While all were poised and leaning forward, he realized he had forgotten the second part of the command and, to everyone’s surprise, added the word “Go!” The confused file of Marines started marching forward as the CO and his officers looked on in disbelief.
The first Marine reached the point at which he should have heard the next command, “Column left, march!” That command never came from Cpl. Moss either. Instead, he offered his own per-verted version, “Left face, march!” The first Marine in line helped Cpl. Moss by instinctively executing the “column left” maneuver, and the remaining Marines followed in trace. Again, the first Marine helped Cpl. Moss by automatically pivoting left at the correct point to guide the line of Marines directly in front of Capt. Cruz.
Now, however, there was nothing the first Marine could do to help. The first Marine could not simply stop marching. The file of Marines anxiously waited to hear the command “Detail, halt!”
It never came. As amazement turned to entertainment, Marines started laughing in formation. It was an unbelievable spectacle.
The Marines continued marching right past the line of officers waiting to award their promotions. Finally, Cpl. Moss called out,
Spare Parts Page 11
