William Christie 03 - The Blood We Shed

by William Christie

  Everyone was sitting with notebooks open. What would be our ruler's will?

  Our new XO was Dick Herkimer, a tall Nordic type who'd come over from Golf Company. When the blond guys cut their hair Marine Corps short it went vertical without the aid of gel.

  Giddy from five days of being a company commander, Jim Nichols actually went to admin to have the command tour put into his record book. He'd also started a mustache. Meeting Captain Zimmerman for the first time, the Captain's eyes dropped to Jim's upper lip and he gave his first order in command. "Shave that fucking caterpillar off your face."

  Just outside the room was the fallout from the Captain's second order upon assuming command. Two of Captain Dudley's three company clerks had been sent back to their respective platoons to be grunts again. The sole survivor, Corporal Cates, was tapping away at the computer keyboard, his days of lazing around the office smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and bossing the two junior clerks now only a memory.

  Captain Zimmerman was swiveling around in his chair like a little kid waiting for his parents to get up on Christmas morning. Not every captain got a rifle company.

  Contrary to all my previous experience with Marine Captains, he didn't begin by telling us how great he was and all the wonderful things we were going to do. He just stated his facts. "All right. I'll say one thing about the past. From now on no one in this company takes a safety shortcut without clearing it with me first. Everyone understand me?"

  We all nodded.

  "I don't have to tell you," the Captain said, "in exactly six months we go aboard ship and deploy to the Mediterranean."

  Omen or not, that very same day we officially joined the 32nd Marine Expeditionary Unit (Special Operations Capable) as its ground combat element. It was pronounced Three-Two MEU, as in the sound a kitten makes.

  Every year or so every Marine infantry battalion packed up and deployed overseas for a six month stretch. Either to Okinawa, where the 3rd Marine Division was made up of deploying East Coast, West Coast, and Hawaii-based battalions. Or aboard ship as part of a MEU.

  Which was the Marine part of a 3-ship amphibious task force. There's always one afloat in the Mediterranean, and one in the Pacific. Commanded by a full colonel, a MEU was a Battalion Landing Team, an Air Combat Element, and a MEU Service Support Group.

  We were the battalion landing team. With the addition of a tank platoon, an amphibious assault vehicle platoon, an artillery battery of 8 155mm towed howitzers, a combat engineer platoon, a ground reconnaissance platoon, and a light armored reconnaissance platoon of 7 six-wheeled light armored vehicles mounting 25mm cannon.

  The Air Combat Element was a composite helicopter squadron with light, medium, and heavy transport helicopters, attack helicopters, and Harrier jump jets.

  The MEU Service Support Group, or MSSG, kept it in the field with supply, engineer, motor transport, landing force support, communications, maintenance, and medical platoons.

  A MEU was the tip of the spear, the first to arrive at any crisis. I think we all felt relieved to be rid of Captain Dudley before that happened.

  Captain Zimmerman continued. "We have to get on top of conventional operations for the MCCRES. And as soon as we check that block we have to start worrying about the Special Operations Exercise. The way it usually works is we train to college level and convince ourselves we're PhD's. Well, I intend for this company to become PhD's in infantry tactics."

  He held up a hand to signal a halt. "I know what you're thinking. New CO comes in all tanned, rested, and ready. To get himself noticed he runs the troops hard and hangs them up wet. Then he turns them over to the next eager beaver. To keep from doing that we're going to plan out every minute of training tighter than a gnat's ass. So from now on when we go to the field, except for classes we're tactical all the way. None of this camping out shit."

  I looked over at O 'Brien. One of his eyebrows was raised fractionally higher than the other.

  "I want to get a handle on our individual load," he said. "We are flat out carrying too much shit to the field. Gunny?"

  "Yes, sir?" said Gunny Harris, the Company Gunnery Sergeant. The Gunny was big, black, and ferocious looking. Easy to write off as a Marine Corps stereotype, but one night on a bivouac we'd spent a long time discussing military history, and I'd come away enormously impressed.

  The Captain said, "I want all the tents turned back in to supply."

  Expressionless, the Gunny said, "The CP tent too, sir?" Captain Dudley had made the whole company take tents to the field. Ridiculous for infantrymen, who either slept in the fighting holes they'd dug or leaned against their packs on patrol. Picture unzipping yourself from a tent while the enemy was attacking. It was just so he could use his Command Post tent, with folding cot, field desk, and Coleman lantern.

  "You can burn that motherfucker," the Captain retorted. "No, check fire on that. I'm signed for it. Just turn it all in."

  Jim Nichols had his pen raised for a question.

  "Yes, Lieutenant Nichols?" the Captain said.

  "Sir, are we wearing the ballistic plates in the flak jackets, or not?"

  If the Captain knew that the Gunny's and Nichols's questions were our way of testing him, he gave no sign. The Interceptor flak jacket weighed eight pounds, and stopped fragmentation and bullets up to the 9mm pistol round. Ceramic ballistic plates could be inserted into front and rear pockets to stop 7.62mm rifle bullets, but they brought the weight of the jacket up to sixteen pounds. Captain Dudley made every excuse not to wear the plates.

  Captain Zimmerman said, "You just touched a sore point of mine, Jim. We wear flak jackets in the jungle, we wear them in the desert, we wear them humping in the North Carolina summer. No one cares about losing a squad to heat casualties, but if anything ever happened to one Marine who wasn't wearing his flak jacket the commanding officer would hang. So we never take the goddamned things off, regardless of the tactical situation."

  He sighed. "That's what I think. But one of the first things I learned when I joined this gun club was that the people running it really don't give a shit about what I think." That made him smile. "Since I know y'all do, I'll tell you. If we go to war they're going to make us wear the jackets and the plates. So we might as well get used to them. Find out how far we can go, and how fast."

  "Roger that, sir," said Nichols.

  The Captain had a hell of a lot more guidance to pass. He'd probably been holding it in since he was a lieutenant. By the time he was finished I couldn't feel my ass anymore.

  O'Brien said to me, "What do you think?"

  "I like what I heard. What about you?"

  Jack was equivocal. "Money talks and bullshit walks. He's a ball of fire now. We'll see if he sticks to it."

  I was a little surprised, but I realized that this was his third company commander, and the previous two had been incompetent. Not to mention assholes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Before he took us to the field for the first time, Captain Zimmerman made a statement. An unannounced urinalysis. A commander could order everyone to pee in the bottle at any time. Captain Dudley hadn't. There were some zero-defects commanders who boasted about having no drug problems in their units. But no one was popping positive because no one was peeing in the bottle.

  On our way to the head I told Jack O'Brien the story of my first Marine Corps piss test. We were screamingly awakened at OCS and put standing at attention in our skivvies in front of our racks.

  My Sergeant Instructor, which is what they called a drill instructor at OCS, was Sergeant Louis. A short, stocky black man, a master of psychological warfare. The others were the stereotypical screaming hillbillies. They don't specifically screen for screaming hillbillies; Drill Instructor School is like acting school and they all come out like that. But Sergeant Louis was different. One day with him and Freud would have been found huddled in a corner sucking his thumb.

  Sgt. Louis had walked down the line and handed us each a plastic bottle. But instead of being sent int
o the head, as we expected, we received the following series of orders. In true OCS style, first the preparatory command, then the command of execution. "Unscrew the bottles. Do it." "Pull out your little lizards. Do it."

  "Fill up your bottles." But with a caveat. "And if one drop hits the deck, you can all just stand the fuck by."

  "That's some old Corps shit," O'Brien said, impressed. "Talk about putting your career on the line."

  It was all totally illegal, of course. Even using profanity in front of trainees was illegal. If word had ever gotten out the whole staff would have been fired. But no one ever talked. It might have been the Stockholm Syndrome, where we ended up sympathizing with our captors—I don't know. But I really think we all had too much admiration for Sgt. Louis' personal panache.

  "But a piss test has to be administered by an officer," said O'Brien. "Someone went along with that?"

  "He was a brand new second lieutenant. You know, one of those shitty jobs they give you if you're hanging around Quantico waiting for your Basic School class to start. He didn't know whether to shit or go blind." I chuckled. "He probably still thinks that's the way you do a piss test."

  "And did anyone spill a drop?"

  "No way. But the worst part was pinching it off and having to wait in line to turn in the bottle before you could run for the head and finish up."

  "A classic," O'Brien said.

  We cut to the head of the line and filled our bottles to show the troops that the officers really were doing it too.

  Soon afterward Frank Milburn approached us with a problem. "I got one who says he can't piss," he said. "Valentine." Then, in a whiny voice, "I tried and I tried, sir, but I just can't go."

  "He's stalling," said Nichols.

  "No shit," Milburn replied. "He knows he's going to pop positive."

  "He's probably just a little bashful," O'Brien protested mischievously. "He can't tinkle with people watching. And now you're going to pick on the poor kid."

  "You're goddamned right I am," said Milburn.

  "Where is he?" Nichols asked.

  "Still in the head, with Corporal Kinder. And that's where he's staying until he goes."

  "If it's ecstasy or meth," I said. "And he did it early enough in the weekend, he may think he can beat the test if he holds out until late afternoon."

  "And he may be right," said Milburn. "I'd like to start by squeezing his fucking skull like a lemon, but that's against the law."

  Then I had a very twisted idea. "You mind if I take a crack at it?"

  Milburn was suspicious, but he couldn't resist. Neither could the others, who all followed me into the head. A skinny Marine was pacing back and forth, while a thoroughly disgusted corporal sat in a chair and watched him.

  "Lance Corporal Valentine," I said, my voice oozing with concern. "I understand you can't urinate."

  He stopped pacing and eyed me warily. "Yes, sir, I just don't know what's wrong."

  "When was the last time you went?" I asked.

  "Uh, last night, sir."

  I turned to my fellow lieutenants. "It's serious."

  O'Brien had to face the wall to keep from laughing.

  "Your bladder could rupture at any time," I said. "We need to get you to sick bay for immediate catheterization."

  Getting concerned, Valentine asked, "What's that, sir?"

  "It's a pretty simple procedure," I said, illustrating with my hands. "They take a plastic tubing and shove it into the hole in the head of your dick...."

  Valentine and everyone else in the bathroom involuntarily grimaced. Major guy thing.

  "They keep pushing the tube in until it hits your bladder," I continued. "Taps it like a beer keg. Drains all your piss into a bag, you don't have to do a thing." I paused, and we could all see the gears in Valentine's brain whirring to try and find a way out. "We have to move fast, though, your bladder could go at any time."

  I turned to my fellow lieutenants for confirmation. They all nodded gravely.

  "It'll be all right," I assured him. "It won't be too painful."

  Valentine said, "Uh, sir, I think I should give it another try first."

  "Well, make it quick. They're waiting for you in sickbay."

  Valentine grabbed the bottle, turned to the nearest urinal, and filled it to the brim. The battalion Intelligence Officer, who also doubled as the Drug and Alcohol Officer, was called to maintain the chain of custody. The bottle was sealed, signed, and removed.

  We left the head triumphant.

  "You are one sick motherfucker," O'Brien told me.

  I don't think I've ever received a finer compliment.

  We always waited until the last minute to put on our gear for the field, for reasons that will be apparent.

  First a fat nylon gas mask bag that rode on the left hip. Then the Interceptor flak jacket, now with plates. Rifle magazine, grenade, and utility pouches attached right to the flak jacket, as did a bayonet, two 1-quart canteens, and a first aid pouch. The utilities were binoculars, camouflage face paint, flashlight, AN/PVS-14 night vision monocular, and Precision Lightweight GPS receiver that we called a Plugger.

  Instead of the large framed rucksack stuffed with Captain Dudley's unnecessary comfort items, the small patrol pack containing only a poncho, mosquito headnet, two pairs of socks, a razor and a toothbrush, and an entrenching tool. Then three pounds of Kevlar helmet wrapped in a cotton camouflage cover. And finally the M-16A2 rifle. Though not politically correct to say so, so sexy that you could tell the relative newness of a Marine by whether or not he'd finally stopped posing with it.

  Our new load almost gave lie to why a Marine infantryman is always called a grunt, after the sound made lifting all his gear off the deck and onto his back. We left the office to join the company forming up in the parking lot.

  The morning air was still fresh with dew, though it wouldn't be for long, and smelled of newly mown grass and CLP rifle oil.

  A rifle platoon was supposed to be three 13-man squads plus a headquarters of a platoon commander, platoon sergeant, platoon guide, radio operator, and Navy medical corpsman.

  I had a grand total of seventeen Marines. I don't know what anyone was expecting, but they were the American melting pot, exactly representative of their society. Except they were the working class part of the country that the college-bound part knows next to nothing about.

  The only thing they all had in common was having successfully escaped from where they didn't want to be. The Marine Corps was the means, and the mechanism by which they could now portray themselves as tough motherfuckers, no matter what they really felt like inside.

  The platoon had been previously commanded by Jimmy Nichols, and he'd been very popular. Which made me forever leery of officers trying to be popular with the troops, because I'd inherited an undisciplined mob. It seemed that Marines would absolutely love your ass if you only went easy on haircuts, physical training, inspections, and discipline.

  I'd found this out my first company formation as I watched, with sinking disbelief, the Marines of 2nd platoon straggle out of their rooms, scratching their balls like F Troop, while the rest of the company was all lined up in front of the barracks. At first I thought they had to be fucking with the new lieutenant—they couldn't be that screwed up. But they were. And that was when I started being a dick.

  Especially because I only had a grand total of three non-commissioned officers. Sergeant Harlin was filling in as platoon sergeant in the absence of a staff sergeant. He was the enlisted equivalent of Frank Milburn, a recruiting poster type. Looked squared away, seemed confident, appeared knowledgeable. But then why was the platoon so fucked up? And why had he been just standing around after the grenade accident?

  Corporal Jones had 1st squad but was getting out of the Corps in less than a month. He'd dropped his pack miles back down the road.

  And then there was Corporal Turner, the 2nd squad leader. A tall black corporal old enough to be a staff sergeant. Which, unfortunately, he had been. He'd even bee
n a Platoon Sergeant at OCS, the senior member of the team with the sergeant instructor. OCS was a high stress job, 24/7 and the staff didn't even leave the barracks the first couple of weeks. Staff Sergeant Turner got into amphetamines to keep going, and popped a urinalysis. That knocked him down to sergeant, and then they were gunning for him. Ten minutes late for a court appearance and he was a corporal.

  I'd regarded him as nothing but a massive potential leadership problem until Lance Corporal Reilly broke his hand. Reilly was one of my fire team leaders and prospective corporals, a black Irishman whose cherubic face was marred by a nose that had been broken more than once. Hit an Irishman in the nose enough times and eventually it looks like it's going to disappear back into his face.

  "What happened to your arm, Reilly?" I'd asked.

  "Slipped and fell on the wet deck…in the head…sir."

  I didn't change expression. "No, how did you really break your hand?"

  He was stumbling badly; it wasn't like I needed a polygraph. "Uh, that's how I really broke my hand, sir."

  My tone was incredulous. "You want to stick with that story?"

  "Uh, yes sir."

  "All right," I'd said regretfully. "It's up to you." Then I'd gone to Corporal Turner. "How did Lance Corporal Reilly break his hand?"

  "He slipped on a wet deck, sir."

  "Corporal Turner, do you know what time of day I was born?"

  Totally mystified. "No, sir."

  "The afternoon. But it wasn't yesterday afternoon."

  Against his will, he let out a little bark of a laugh.

  "How did Reilly break his hand?" I repeated.

  He thought it over, and I think decided he couldn't afford to piss me off. "Sir, you know about that Army Ranger company that flew in to train on our Combat Town?"

  I'd nodded.

  "Well, sir, some of the platoon ran into some of those Rangers at the enlisted club. And one of those Rangers keeps yelling all this, "Rangers Lead the Way" hoo-ya shit, pissing everyone off. So after a while Reilly walks over, real nice, and tells them they don't want to play that shit in our house, the Ranger stands up, yells, "Fuck you, Jarhead, and fuck the Marine Corps!" and swings at Reilly. Sir, Reilly knocks him out cold with one punch." Corporal Turner was really animated. Like every Marine, he firmly believed that the only reason anyone joined the Army was because they didn't have the balls to be a Marine.