by Kahn, Denise
This morning we were spoken to by the C.O. He told us about camp rules, safety and the importance of hygiene. He talked about Iraq and about our current situation. After he addressed us I felt pretty confident we were going to invade, and real soon. Right now my thoughts are in the air. I don’t miss home yet, but I know I will. I’m anticipating our return much too soon, but I am also anxious to do the job we were sent here to do.
February 26th, 2003
I’ve started adapting to the way of life out here. The days are long and the nights are short. Sometimes we stay busy by assembling camouflage netting, or strapping down gear to a 7 ton (truck). Yesterday I had to operate a tram for nine hours. A tram is just basically a forklift. It is the biggest forklift our unit has and lifts a maximum of 10,000 lbs. I hate operating it, and to tell you the truth I could be a little better at it. I wrote my first letters yesterday. One to my parents, and one to my girlfriend. The letters were bullshit. It took me about two minutes to write each letter. I didn’t have much to say to them, what could I say? “Hey, Mom, I’m leaving for the Iraqi border in three days.” Or, “hey, Babe, the smell coming from my tent would make you throw up.” I just wrote stuff like “I’m ok, be home soon, say hi to whomever, I love you and miss you.” It was actually a little frustrating not being able to tell them what is really going on here. It’s like writing letters from boot camp. You can’t tell them what you’re doing or things you’re seeing, but it’s one of those ‘you had to be there’ type of things. They don’t know what a formation is or drilling. They don’t know what an MRE is or a bivvy sac. I guess I could easily explain things to them, but why bring them into my world? They don’t deserve it.
I was standing a six hour post last night carrying on a conversation with Lance Corporal Honey. Yes, his name is Honey. Another guy was making fun of his name and he simply replied: “every girl loves Honey”. I found it pretty funny, but the response was much too quick which led me to believe it wasn’t the first time he had come back with it. So Honey and I were getting through the post with the wonderful art of conversation. He told me how excited he was about Iraq because one of the great loves of his life is ancient history. Well, he couldn’t be in an older part of the world.
Earlier today I walked back to the tent with Lance Corporal Clayton. We were told by one of our sergeants to grab some batteries. These weren’t AA batteries. These were batteries for a generator. Since they were somewhat heavy Clayton and I thought we deserved a break for all our hard work. We gave each other the nod, put down the battery and lit up a cigarette. We were smoking and joking, he was talking about his incredible horseshoe playing ability and I was telling him about the horseshoe tournament during ‘Yankee homecoming’, a yearly celebration I had been to in Newburyport, Massachusetts to remember the soldiers coming back after the civil war. Just a random conversation but we were enjoying the moment of relaxation. Out of nowhere we hear ‘GAS! GAS! GAS!” When we were in boot camp we learned about nuclear and biological warfare. Actually part of our training includes a trip to the gas chamber. In the gas chamber they unleash capsules of CS gas or tear gas. CS (chlorobenzylidene malononitrile) gas isn’t lethal but it hurts. It feels like your whole body is an open wound and you’ve just jumped into a pool of rubbing alcohol. When you inhale it you can’t take a full breath. You can’t stop coughing and fluids come out of your eyes and nose. In the chamber we had recruits crying, yelling for their mothers, throwing up and, believe it or not, shitting themselves. To add to all this we had our drill instructors in full MOPP suits (full protective suits including gas masks) yelling and screaming at us to take our masks off or stay against the wall! No one could put their masks back on until all the recruits had taken theirs off. So as the boot camp cycle works we would enter the fleet Marine Corps with the knowledge of these deadly chemicals and how to protect ourselves from them. When we were on Parris Island we learned the universal signal for a chemical attack. First sign of an attack Marines will put their arms to their sides, tap their shoulders repeatedly, then yell “GAS, GAS, GAS!”
Clayton and I dropped our cigarettes and looked at each other in horror. Our gas mask which is always attached to our left hip is placed in a carrier. We are taught that we have nine seconds to don and clear our masks during an attack. Why nine seconds? I don’t know, but personal theory leads me to believe the Russians do it in ten. My mask was on my face in three, as well as Clayton’s. I haven’t been able to shit since I’ve been here. The MRE’s we get (Meal Ready to Eat) constipate the hell out of you. Suddenly I felt like I could have easily taken a shit. We looked at each other, then all around us. Every truck was still. Not one Marine was moving. My hands were shaking and I kept testing the seal on my mask. I can honestly say that I was the most scared I’ve ever been in my life. Walking through a graveyard at night turned into walking through the park during the day. A million thoughts raced through my head. I had faith in my mask but I was waiting to drop like a fly. It didn’t happen. Ten minutes went by and Clayton and I were very much alive. My legs started to shake a little and I noticed my palms were soaked. All of a sudden we hear ‘All Clear’ which means we were good, we could take our masks off. It seemed we were both a little hesitant to do so. Could you blame us? We looked around and we weren’t the only ones. The command ‘All Clear’ came again. I said fuck it and took it off. I was expecting to die, no, shit, I was waiting to fall straight on my face. After about thirty seconds Clayton took his off. I punched him in the stomach. He wasn’t pissed. We were both alive. We returned to our tent with our batteries in one arm and a freshly lit cigarette in the other. I could have smoked a carton at that point. We asked our sergeant what the fuck was going on. “It was a drill,” he said. A drill, a fucking drill. I’ll drill you right upside the fucking head, I thought. “Good training, huh boys.” “I guess so,” I told him. What else could I say?
In a way it was good, it would ease the tension and fear factor for when a real attack occurred. Then all of a sudden ‘GAS, GAS, GAS!’ These drills went on all day. They are still going on now. As I write these words I am in a gas mask.
The hazy sky and the endless sand is a reality check which lets me know exactly where I am. I see this desolate landscape through the lenses of a gas mask. I am a Marine, a Marine in Kuwait waiting to invade Iraq. This isn’t just a conversation in the barracks, or the six o’clock news. This is real and today I realized how much I was a part of it.
♫
CAMP MATHILDA, KUWAIT
MARCH, 2003
CHAPTER 15
Robert Johnson was excited. It was his first assignment as a journalist for the Armed Forces newspaper ‘the Stars and Stripes’. He arrived at Camp Mathilda and went to see the Commanding Officer. He was assigned to Gunnery Sergeant Martinez, one the men who would lead the first wave of Marines into Iraq.
“Johnson, follow me.”
“Right behind you, Gunnery Sergeant.”
As they walked through the camp Robert watched the Marines carry out their duties. He was a young man, in his early twenties, but these men seemed like kids just out of high school, and most of them were. But they had a maturity about them in wanting to be part of something big, a part of history. It was an attitude of warriors before the brink of war, and Robert was impressed.
The Gunny introduced Robert to some of the men he would be embedded with. He would travel with them, eat in the sand with them, and chronicle their endeavors on the battlefield beside them. He realized they would be together all the way to their ultimate destination—Baghdad. He wanted to report their stories, and the Marines gave him their full attention and cooperation. They wanted their stories told as well.
They were all waiting for the signal, for the moment they were going to enter into enemy territory. While they waited Robert took interviews from the men he would be with. He learned about their families, where they were from, even their hobbies. They also talked about favorite sports teams, beers from around the world, and women—lots of tal
k about women.
Robert seemed to be on a constant high. This was his dream assignment. When he was studying journalism at Harvard he envisioned himself as a reporter in distant places around the globe, but a war! And with an elite fighting force like the Marines, well that was the epitome of every journalist’s fantasy. Even the fear, although he didn’t understand it yet, fueled his imagination and his creativity. He knew that this adventure would be dangerous, but would also be some of the most incredible memories he would ever have. He thought often about Sam, writing her every once in a while, but as the days past he thought less and less about her. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love her any more, he most certainly did, but it seemed that he had acquired a new passion, a quest for adventure and mystery.
♫
CAMP MATHILDA, KUWAIT
MARCH, 2003
CHAPTER 16
March 1st, 2003
Today is the first day in a new month. When I was little my grandfather used to tell me how the first day of the month goes will determine how the rest of the month will go. And of course he was right, like he was about everything. Ever since I was little I knew he was the smartest man in the world. Well my March 1st couldn’t have been spent any better than it has been spent thus far. Last night my platoon sergeant told me I had to check in for guard duty at 5:30 a.m. I checked into the guard shack and there were five other Marines there. Our mission was to stand guard in the ammo pit. For 24 hours, six four hour shifts. We were checking in to the sergeant of the guard to receive our brief and our shifts. I had been told about ammo pit guard. The dreaded 2:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. shift existed and I hoped to God I wouldn’t get it. I love my sleep, especially in the field. And for anybody that’s ever been to the Middle East you would know the desert at night is as cold as Eskimo pussy, and my sleeping bag was a lot more inviting at 2:00 a.m. than the Marines’ ammo pit. When the Sergeant of the guard arrived he told us to go in the tents. He sat in his foldaway chair that looked comfortable as hell at that moment. “Well, pull up some floor,” he squawked. I already hated this man. I live by the motto ‘I like you until I have a reason not to’. At this point my stress level was high and the fact that he had a chair and I had some floor was reason enough not to like him. He pulled out a little yellow notebook and began reading our names. He squinted hard to read the names. When he was trying to read I couldn’t help but stare at his beady little eyes and pointy-ass nose. He had a mustache. In the field Marines have a tradition of growing one. But what looked like dirt over his upper lip was hardly a mustache. What we call those are cock dusters. Ha. What a perfect nickname for that little shit. When he got to my name he stopped. “I know you,” he said. Quick thoughts raced through my head. Where do I know him from? I thought for a minute until it hit me. About four months ago my friend Burrows and I were bored as hell on a Friday night. Camp Pendleton not being the most exciting place makes for some creativity. So we drank a case of beer and played some air guitar along with Led Zeppelin. I had lost count of how many beers I had consumed at that point, which usually meant the alcohol had taken its effect over my body and mind. I was watching Burrows looking into nowhere. I asked him what he wanted to do. He told me he heard that there were some people partying at the barracks down the road. “You wanna go?” He asked. Any idea sounded good at that point in the evening so I decided to go. We walked out of the barracks. There was random music coming from a room on the floor below us. The music got my heart pumping a little bit. The mix of alcohol, music and a party makes my dick hard. I lit up a cigarette for the walk. We talked about all the beers we had had and many more to come. We talked about the times we went to Tijuana and he would always get a hooker. He laughed and thought nothing of it. But I remember always declining the invitation to share a bed with a Mexican prostitute. Especially in Tijuana. I had good luck with the ladies and I decided twenty dollars was too much to spend on a sexually transmitted disease. We finally made it to the barracks where the party was. We heard voices and music from the second deck. Once again my heart raced in anticipation of a decent Friday night. When we got to the room the guys and one girl were not too thrilled to see us. Well I was drunk enough to think the girl was thrilled to see me. We asked what was going on and they told us to come in. I had never met any of those people before. Let me say one thing real quick. Drunk Marines are assholes. Sometimes I’m no exception. Anyway, they gave us beer and we sat and talked with them for a while. I noticed an electric bass in the corner of the room. I asked if I could play it. The Marine whose guitar it was didn’t seem too thrilled about my question. He didn’t seem too thrilled his girlfriend was eyeing me down either. But he let me play. I ripped a couple riffs on his bass and even slapped a little bit. I handed him his bass and asked him to play something. I think he took it as if I was trying to be competitive. He snatched the bass out of my hand and had a look in his eye. He then said something which I will never forget. “You wanna fuck my girlfriend too?” My drunken ass took it literally, well kind of. I knew he was pissed, and about nothing I might add. So what did I do? Made him more pissed. “Can I fuck her in here or should I bring her back to my room?” This statement was followed by a shit-eating grin on my part. He threw his guitar on a couch that was in the corner of the room. Burrows knew what was going to happen. He tackled the kid before he got to me. It all happened so fast it caught me by surprise. I stood up and suddenly all the alcohol running through my body disappeared. I started swinging at his friends who were trying to get at Burrows. Burrows got off the kid and we decided that if we didn’t leave we would receive a royal ass beating from six dudes. We backed out of the door and I blew the girl a kiss. She actually smiled. I had contemplated going back to get her but I was sure Burrows wouldn’t agree. We left the building and got on the street. Burrows had the bright fucking idea to throw beer bottles as high as he could in the air and not tell me. I heard a smash and we both ran. I felt like I was thirteen again running from the cops. We split up. I heard a voice yelling for us to stop. That was definitely not happening. If we got caught by Duty or Guard we would be in deep shit. Underage drinking in the Marine Corps is not tolerated in the least bit, contrary to popular belief. They can do as much as take your rank, take you pay, and give you restriction. Which means you can’t leave your room for x amount of days depending on how bad your crime was. I kept running, and I hear Guard. They had caught Burrows. I stopped running. I knew running would make too much noise. So I lit a cigarette even though I couldn’t breathe from sprinting. I put a hand in my pocket and acted casual. I figured if Guard or Duty pulled up to me I could deny anything. I felt bad for Burrows but there was nothing I could do. I decided I would vouch for him on Monday at work. Out of nowhere a Hummer came tearing around the corner. A Marine jumped out and told me to put my hands on my head. He had a loaded M16 aimed at my chest. I dropped my cigarette and did just that. I caught my first glimpse of the Marine who was going to take my life for a fucking beer bottle. And that’s how I knew him. It was ‘cock duster’. That slimy little weasel. He had short blonde hair then with no mustache. He called Burrows and my platoon Sergeant back in the guard shack. It was almost three in the morning so my Sergeant wasn’t too pleased with us. I thought we were in deep shit when I saw him. It was weird to see him out of uniform. I think it was the first time I ever had. He didn’t seem right, but uniform or not we were screwed. He took us from the guard shack back to the barracks. “What should I do with you too?” I was in no mood to answer that question. Neither was Burrows. Then to my surprise he said something totally unexpected. “I’m gonna let it slide. If the gunner hears about this he’ll have my ass as well as yours. But if I catch you two drinking again I will make sure you get royally fucked.” Sounded like a great idea, I thought. He dropped us off and I went to bed. I slept well that night. My platoon Sergeant took a huge weight off my shoulders. Suddenly Monday just looked like Monday again. After I realized who ‘cock duster’ was I knew what was next.
“Yup, del Valle, we fou
nd our 2 to 6 man!” That mother fucker gave me the hell shift and like much of my career in the Marine Corps thus far I could do nothing about it. He told me to check in 15 minutes prior to check in. At 01:30 by alarm went off. I woke up and hopped out of my sleeping bag. The blistering cold once again reminded me where I was and what I was doing. I put on every piece of clothing and gear I had. I grabbed my rifle and my rounds then went to check in, then to relieve the previous duty. I wished I was him going back to his warm sleeping bag instead of going to guard ammo in a cold pit. I stood that guard for those four hours. I think cold was an understatement. I looked at my watch again. The date said March 1st. ‘Good way to spend the first day of the month,’ I thought to myself. Now I knew the rest of the month would be shitty. But after I wallowed in self-pity for a while I realized once again where I was. I’m in Kuwait on the brink of war. Is there any part you didn’t think would be shitty, Max?
♫
IRAQ
MARCH 2003
CHAPTER 17
I am no longer in Kuwait. I am sitting in the driver’s seat of a Hummer, somewhere between the southern Iraqi border and Baghdad, the final objective. I have driven this piece of shit, which is now my home, for the past few days. Our last night in Kuwait was the last time I had any real sleep. When we got to our final dispersion points along the border, still on the Kuwaiti side I couldn’t find a definition for what my emotions were at that moment. Lieutenant Colonel Kirby spoke to us that evening. We circled around him, our rifles at the alert carry. This means that the rear or ‘butt stock’ is in your shoulder and the muzzle is toward the deck.
