“I got sliced by a branch,” I said.
“Come on over, let’s take a look,” he said, signaling me to come toward his desk. After examining the wound and asking a few questions, he decided I needed a few sutures. “Doc,” perhaps the most commonly used byname in the military, moved across the room gathering syringes, needles, and sutures while explaining the procedure. “The class is out of the water today and tomorrow, and with the weekend you should be fine,” he said.
Like any other marine, I trusted my corpsman and did everything he asked as he patched me up. I sat mesmerized as he flushed the wound, injected Xylocaine to numb up my arm, then threw half a dozen stitches into it. No medical doctor came in to check the wound or question his decisions; there was no need to. The navy had trained him for independent duty, which gave him a great deal of latitude and responsibility. Realizing there weren’t enough doctors for every ship, submarine, or expeditionary force in the fleet, the navy responded by developing an intense medical program that focused on everything a corpsman would need to know to keep warriors fighting in any environment. It was, and still remains, their job, and they are very good at it. Doc had been through the course years ago, and after watching him work it was clear he was a seasoned provider who knew his limits but also how to keep marines in the game.
Like anyone else in America, I had been to the doctor’s office and the emergency room while growing up, usually for trauma related to foolish behavior or fistfights. So it goes without saying that getting sutures put in was nothing new. Watching Doc work was the first time I really paid attention to the process, though, and it served as my first real exposure to medicine. I greatly admired how he performed tasks normally carried out by licensed doctors in the civilian world, and did so without traditional medical school or a fancy license on the wall.
Every marine knows the magnificent deeds these sailors perform in combat. It’s no secret that the corpsman rating is the most decorated in the navy for valorous acts, and the vast majority of those come from serving with the marines. Even so, the idea of providing health care beyond the battlefield was an aspect of the job I never considered until that day. From that moment on I couldn’t get enough. At each school I went to I would watch the corpsman work his magic. For example, the docs at dive school were responsible for evaluating divers who didn’t look or act quite right after surfacing. In some cases, the symptoms were obvious, while at other times it took a meticulous exam to make a determination, which they could execute in minutes. They had an instinct for the job and were highly valued and trusted members of the dive team.
I was excelling in my occupation as a Recon Marine and greatly enjoyed the challenges that came with the Corps. Still, something was changing internally and I couldn’t stop it. The question was no longer if I should become a corpsman but how it would affect my mother.
THE DIE IS CAST
I always believed my mother had a direct line to the Lord. I know God loves us all equally, but her dedication and support for anyone in need had to give her priority messaging. She proved this on occasion, including the prediction that a move from the valley to the Heights would be disastrous. She didn’t make a big deal about her link to the Almighty; she simply acknowledged it and was always right.
I was traveling home from a training trip in Minnesota when I made up my mind. I was leaving the Marine Corps for the navy and would tell Mom when I got home. It was something I just had to do; I couldn’t deny it any longer.
I called Mom from the airport and learned the whole family would be there for a big dinner, including those she had taken in off the streets and now called her kids. I figured this would be a great opportunity. I’d have supporting forces watching my flank, and with the right coordination I might be able to establish an escape and evasion plan should things go awry. Mom took her marines very seriously.
I arrived home around noon to a warm reception, and after many handshakes and hugs I was put to work. In Mom’s house everyone had to chip in; that meant everyone, including invited guests, friends, family, strangers, it didn’t matter. I always loved that format. Everyone congregates in the kitchen anyway, so to quote Mom, “Might as well put them to work.” It also left plenty of room for short stories that started over the stove and continued as we moved to the dinner table. In New Mexico it’s customary for a couple of family members or guests to give oral dissertations while the rest add distinctive Hispanic elements to the conversation, such as “I know, huh” and “No, really?” These conversations and side comments are quite colorful and become increasingly so as some of the orators enjoy their cerveza—I know you all know what that word means.
Mom insisted I stand next to her, chopping the onions, peppers, and such. I knew I had to break the news to her then, and while I had practiced on the plane for hours, I was nervous and tongue-tied, like a little boy who had broken a window with a baseball.
The mood was festive; family and friends were laughing, and Mom seemed amenable to just about anything. When I turned to break the news, though, all I could get out was a jumble of words about the Marine Corps and my life. It must have sounded bizarre, judging by the puzzled stares on my family’s faces. Marky was speaking in tongues!
Mom never missed a beat. Knowing the room was all hers, she kept staring at the masa harina she was kneading and said, “Marky, man can choose any occupation on earth except for two. One is serving others through the cloth, the other through medicine … those are chosen for you.” She stopped and looked up at everyone, then turned to me and said, “And mijo, you’d make a lousy priest.”
I knew then that whatever I had to say, she had already heard it from God. I leaned down for a kiss on the cheek and thanked her for understanding.
The rest of the family was still confused, so my sister Diana belted out, “Marky is going into the navy to be a medic.” On cue, the side comments rolled in. “No, really?” “Mom will need new stickers for her car.” “I know, huh.”
I would soon start over, from the bottom.
5
ANCHORS AWEIGH
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off your bowlines. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
—H. JACKSON BROWN JR.’S MOTHER
After breaking the news to Mom and getting past the emotional sensationalism that seemed pervasive at home, I began the tedious process of transferring from the United States Marine Corps to the United States Navy. Finally, after mountains of paperwork and months of waiting, it all came down to one short ceremony followed by another. In a matter of minutes I was discharged from the Marine Corps and enlisted in the navy. Before I started the transfer from the Corps, First Sergeant Dickens wanted to make sure I didn’t have a last-minute change of mind. “Lance Corporal, you’ve read the letter I wrote in support of this transfer, so you know how I feel,” he said in a fatherly tone that only the top enlisted man of the company can get away with—hence the nickname Top. “But marine, you need to understand that once you do this, there’s no turning back.”
“I understand, First Sergeant—but I will be back,” I said with a confident smile. “Just not in this uniform.”
Top laughed under his breath and pointed to a document that I needed to sign. Neither Top nor any of the other marines in the battalion were bitter about my transfer; actually it was quite the opposite. I had more support than I could have imagined. Maybe it would have been different if I picked another service or perhaps a different occupation, but I was going to be a corpsman, and marines share a bond with navy corpsmen like few others on the face of this earth. Top’s apprehension was based on his experiences over his decades of service. First and foremost, rules had been put in place by the Pentagon to prevent service members from surfing between branches. Second, he knew navy administration rarely got anything right when it came to the Corps, and lastly, he’d miss me. Needless to say, remaining a mari
ne was no longer an option. I felt as if the Lord had spoken, and I was determined to answer the call.
I stepped up to the table, grabbed the pen lying atop the paper, and signed. It took thirteen weeks to become a marine but only a couple of seconds to leave the corps. I felt immediately uncomfortable, as if I’d just signed a divorce agreement. Sure, I knew it was coming, and I was responsible for the transfer, but in an instant my world had changed, and it was a surreal feeling. Well, there was no use getting sentimental; I was fully committed and had to stay the course.
Knowing I only had a few minutes to fully enjoy my civil liberties, I decided to take full advantage of the right to free speech. Turning back toward Top, I looked at him and said, “Top, there’s some things you should know. Your cadence desperately needs some new material, and your coffee is really bad.”
“Ummm” was all he said, with a slight hint of a smile as he looked at the rest of the room trying not to chuckle. Well, everyone except the second lieutenant. He looked at me and sighed, knowing that somehow he’d end up getting the brunt of it.
“Mr. Donald, shall we get on with the rest of this?” asked ET1 Crain, my navy recruiter.
“Sure,” I replied. Suddenly a naval officer came forward to swear me in. Unfortunately, I don’t remember much about him. I knew he was someone important from the local Recruiting Command but not much else. Top and the CO pulled strings to have him come to the company so I could have a personal ceremony instead of joining up with a group of strangers at the Military Entrance Processing Station, which meant a lot to me. I’m ashamed to say that I can’t even remember his face. I guess I still had the Corps mentality of being the best among the services. Marines may not verbalize it, but they all feel as if the Corps is the top dog. It’s a belief instilled in boot camp and maintained by having every marine, from the lowest-ranking private to the Commandant of the Corps, hold every other accountable to the Corps standards. I knew it, I loved it, and I missed it, even though I’d been out just a few short moments.
* * *
Shortly after the ceremony, I thought I was shipping out to the Naval Training Center San Diego to attend the Other Service Veterans (OSVET) training program, a crash course in navy culture for veterans entering or returning to the navy. I remember hearing the program was akin to a college course in navy etiquette and administration requirements, with none of the yelling or other pleasantries associated with boot camp. When I went to USMC boot camp, Staff Sergeant Sandoval dropped me off at the airport; this time it was my close friend Erik, from Delta Company.
Erik drove up to the area marked DEPARTING FLIGHTS and in his typical sarcastic tone said, “I guess it’s time to get out of the car, squid,” using the universal derogatory term for navy sailors.
“I guess so.” I started to open the door and step outside.
“Are you sure that’s all they gave you?” he asked, referring to the few sheets of paper I carried in a folder.
“That’s all I got,” I said as I closed the door.
“Those squids are f***ed up. I don’t feel good about this. Get back in the car,” he said, craning his neck toward the window.
I leaned on the window. “That’s the paranoid Erik I know. You never feel good about anything. There’s either something wrong or something about to go wrong.”
“That’s ’cause there always is,” he said in his naturally sinister laugh. Then he got serious for a moment. “Mark, I support what you’re doing. I don’t like it, but I support it. Don’t worry about your mom or your sister; I got that, too.” It was his brotherly way of saying “I love and will miss you,” but moments like those don’t last more than a few seconds with him. “Now go get your squid on and get back here to take care of my wounds.”
“Aye, aye,” I shouted and then watched as he drove off. I’m pretty sure he flashed a profane gesture, and I would have been disappointed if he didn’t.
I scanned the meager collection of papers ET1 Crain had given me and realized I wasn’t told much of anything or given specific instructions, which is odd to a former marine. In fact, I was so busy saying good-byes that I never bothered to ask. This was very different from my first experience with the Marine Corps, which was meticulously planned on my behalf by the recruiters. Paperwork was packaged into a large envelope and sealed shut, with a page of step-by-step instructions stapled on the front. We knew precisely where to go and when, and how to act when the drill instructors got there. This felt more like my recruiter was being purposefully vague, as if to say, “OK, marine, let’s see how you do in my navy.” Regardless, I wasn’t going to let him see me sweat, so with the same arrogance that sent me to the bottom of the pool at marine boot camp, I gathered what little documentation I had and charged on.
When I arrived at the San Diego International Airport it was the same as it was two and a half years earlier, empty. Unsure of a direction, I followed the herd of the long-hair “regular” recruits arriving from across the country and boarded the bus for the Naval Training Center. Once there, I tried to speak with the staff and the CC (company commander, the navy’s version of a drill instructor) about the OSVET program, but it was to no avail. No one seemed to know anything about it, so I decided to keep following the line on the floor that processed everyone into the system.
It didn’t take long before I realized that I was entering basic training all over again, rather than the OSVET program, and that I was either going to have to get along or move along. Suddenly all I could think about was what Top had told me. This was a one-way trip, and the last thing I needed was to be thrown out. Nervous and confused, I did what any young marine would do and just followed orders. I guess I thought things would eventually get worked out, and since the navy’s boot camp wasn’t anything like the marines’ I had no problem waiting. Besides, this gave me plenty of time to familiarize myself with the nuances of the navy, and there were plenty of differences. One of the biggest, barring the physical aspects, of course, was the significance the Marine Corps placed on knowing the battle history of the Corps, as well as its traditions. That may not sound like much, but I can tell you that from an infantryman’s perspective it means everything. Once you hear of the deeds of your predecessors and realize how revered they are for their bravery, any thoughts of retreat are instantly erased.
However, where the Marine Corps emphasized a physical and mental toughness, I felt the navy concentrated on understanding the reason for each action. What a fundamental difference. Every bit of training I received from the Corps, from boot camp to Amphibious Reconnaissance School, had the same mantra, “Nobody ever drowned from sweat.” The navy’s perspective was more along the lines of “Work smarter, not harder,” and I welcomed the challenges of learning the “navy way.” Both services had their strengths and their reasons for doing things a particular way, but neither had a weakness in developing its force.
Toward the end of the first week, the company commander gave us a schedule of the upcoming events, which annotated any clothing, books, or equipment that was required. When I looked at the next morning’s agenda it simply read “Training Tank,” but there was no requirement for swim trunks, which seemed a little odd. While the company readied for lights-out, Petty Officer Dieter, one of the CCs who had served on a gator freighter (a fleet term used to describe ships that transport marines), called me into the office. He was aware of my prior service as a Recon Marine but, like the others, knew nothing of my supposed assignment to OSVET. Away from the eyes and ears of the other recruits, he addressed me by my first name.
“Mark, tomorrow the dive motivator will be speaking with the class. I know you want to return to Recon as a corpsman, but I think you should consider screening for BUD/S.” He was referring, of course, to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. I had always been curious about how hard the training really could be, but this wasn’t in the plan.
“Thanks, Petty Officer Dieter. I appreciate the advice, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself,
shipmate, but I’m going to speak to them about you anyway. You shouldn’t limit options.”
Walking back toward my rack, I thought about what he said about the differences between the SEAL Teams and Marine Recon. Back then the Marine Corps hadn’t embraced Reconnaissance with the same fervor as the navy did its SEALs. Like everyone else in the Corps, we made do with what we had, but the SEALs had backing from the fleet, and even from a distance it showed. Marines had Quonset huts and old converted buildings; SEALs had a large compound that straddled the Coronado shoreline. Recon Marines did everything themselves with little personnel support. Thanks to the foresight of SEAL Commander Tom Hawkins, a veteran frogman from the Vietnam era, the teams had fleet sailors to help carry the load in support positions. I continued to think on the SEALs until we arrived at the pool the next day.
The CCs marched us into a large classroom and introduced us to a first-class petty officer brandishing a gold Trident and impressive fruit salad above the left breast pocket of his uniform—military slang for the SEAL qualification badge and ribbons, respectively. He was incredibly fit with swimmer’s shoulders, a small waist, and forearms that would make Popeye jealous. BM1 O’Connor was a SEAL who spoke like a business executive as he moved around the room. There was no macho posturing or tough-guy talk; he didn’t need it. He carried a quiet authority that instantly captured the class’s attention. Even the company commanders treated him differently.
Over a period of twenty minutes he told the class about the diving programs the navy had to offer, speaking well of each one of them but saving the SEAL Teams for last. I was completely impressed and immediately understood why the navy held them in such high regard. Then he showed something that I will never forget. During the last ten minutes, he played a short movie called “Be Someone Special.” Personally, I found it to be the cheesiest recruiting film I have ever seen, but apparently I was the only one.
Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Page 4
