William Christie 03 - The Blood We Shed Read online

  "Reilly had every Marine behind him, sir, and that Doggie was an Army of One. So much for all that Ranger shit. Those boys are all mouth and no hang. One punch, sir, you know how hard that is to do?" Suddenly aware that he might be prejudicing his client's case, Corporal Turner got a grip on himself.

  But I'd been thinking about my Uncle Michael, for whom I'm named. He ran a bar in South Boston, and those who know Southy bars know that expensive damage to the physical plant can erupt at any time and with very little warning. Uncle Mike attributed his professional success to his ability to put the rowdy to sleep with a single punch. Once demonstrated, it didn't have to be employed very often. In fact, it was the erosion of this skill that led him to turn over day-to-day operations to my cousin.

  I remember him saying, "It's time, Michael. Before, I hit a guy it was lights out. Now when I hit 'em they stand there and do funny things. Pretty soon...."

  I'd come out of that reverie when Corporal Turner said, "Sir, Reilly is one of the best Marines in the platoon."

  And that was how Corporal Turner won me over. He could have played it safe and kept his mouth shut, which would have been the smart move with a new platoon commander and his precarious situation. But not knowing what I was going to do, he went out on a limb for Reilly.

  Then he asked, "What are you going to do, sir?"

  I knew how it would go over. The senior officers wanted Marines to be Little Lord Fauntleroy's in garrison and not cause any career-damaging incidents, and then somehow morph into aggressive fighting men when sent into combat.

  For me there was only one decision. "Hell, Corporal Turner, if I'd burn a Marine for upholding the honor of the Corps, I ought to find myself another line of work."

  That surprised him. "Aye, aye, sir."

  "But this is the last time Reilly slips on the deck," I warned. "And no one better think I'm giving a free pass on thumping, on base or out in town."

  "No, sir." And then he said, "Sir, about the platoon straggling out to formation. Lieutenant Nichols refused to send anyone to Office Hours. The troops do it because they think they can get away with it."

  Because they had up until now. Office Hours was official but nonjudicial punishment, dispensed by the Company Commander. He could impose restriction to the barracks, extra duty, and withholding of pay, not more than 14 days of each. Anything more severe had to go up to the Colonel or be referred to the more formal court-martial process. I could just picture Jimmy crowing about his perfect disciplinary record whenever one of the other platoon commanders sent a Marine in to be hammered by the Captain.

  And now I knew why my NCO's had been slack. Why bother if the boss wasn't backing you up?

  Captain Zimmerman appeared in front of the company with his pack on. And tied to his pack was a 60 millimeter mortar base plate, a 14.5 pound aluminum disk that kept the mortar tube from being driven into the ground when it was fired.

  We stepped off in a column of two's, each lieutenant and his radioman in front of each platoon, the platoon sergeant in the rear.

  Unusually for a military that uses euphemisms for everything unpleasant, like killing, the official term for what we were doing was a "forced march." Appropriate because almost nothing in the Corps is optional. But Marines call it a hump. Grunts hump a continuous 3.5 to 4 mile an hour pace until the destination is reached, whether it's 10, 20, or 30 miles away. And anyone who can't wait for the ten minute break every hour is perfectly free to relieve themselves in their trousers.

  Happy, sad, sick, well, hung-over, blistered, toenails falling out, an officer was expected to be the last one standing. If I ever fell out I could rest assured that I'd soon be behind a desk doing something useful like processing Congressional inquires until my term of service expired. But I actually liked humping—something I always kept to myself, because it would have freaked out even other Marines.

  Quantico had been rolling hills, mixed hardwood forest, and red clay trails that turned to grease when it rained. Lejeune was as flat as a pancake, and from what I'd seen so far no trees but the lowly pine were able to survive the coastal North Carolina sand.

  Once we broke free from the developed mainside it was all pine forest and asphalt roads paralleled by sand tank trails because armor and automobiles don't mix. We walked in the sand.

  There was hardly a cloud to hinder the sun. The road was bleached almost white by it and the salt air, and reflected the light like a mirror. The flatness of the terrain could be demoralizing—I looked forward to the occasional pitiful little rise in the ground just to break up the monotony.

  Every hump I'd ever been on, the officer in charge came blasting out of the gate and then slowed down when he got tired. Nobody could keep to a steady pace. Captain Dudley had been the worst, starting so fast he nearly put the whole company in the ditch and then finishing so slowly that, like South American tree sloths, moss could have grown on us. Captain Zimmerman was much better, but the mortar base plate was half leadership performance art, half acknowledgment that he needed something to slow him down.

  Pretty soon our uniform camouflage began to fade into monotone dark sweat stains. The heat rose off our bodies, collected under our helmets, and stayed trapped there in an evil little cloud under the Kevlar. Whenever I took it off on a break I could feel my brain temperature drop. And we all had identical angry inflamed spots on our chins from the rubbing of the chinstraps.

  I sucked water from my Camelbak water bag and went off inside my own head. Mostly I just sang a favorite song to myself, over and over. I called it the humping song; I think everyone had one. Wish I could remember the name of it.

  When we finished the platoon corpsman checked everyone's feet while I looked on. Doc Bob was short and slightly rotund, with a round face and an indiscernible chin. He always reminded me of a scholarly but sweet-tempered badger in some illustrated children's book.

  A Navy medical corpsman is always called Doc, but never by his first name. However, the company stood a battalion commander's inspection just after my Doc reported in. Lieutenant Colonel Sweatman was trooping the line, and of course he stopped in front of the Doc, saying in that hearty Colonel way, "What's your name, Doc?"

  The Colonel was expecting just one of two possible replies. "HN Wiley, sir." Or, "Doc Wiley, sir." And everyone else was terrified that a discipline-challenged sailor might screw up and call him "Colonel" instead of "Sir."

  Well, the Doc looked all the way up at the Colonel, broke into the biggest shit-eating grin you ever saw in your life, and then, like they were best buds back on the block together, said, "Bob."

  Colonel Sweatman didn't know whether to laugh out loud or tear the Doc a new asshole, so he'd just walked on, mumbling to himself. The Sergeant Major and the Chief Corpsman were the ones who ripped the Doc a new one, and from that day forward he'd been Doc Bob. A damn fine corpsman, too.

  The focus of that week's training was the brainchild of Major Thom, the battalion executive officer. The battalion would soon undergo the MCCRES, pronounced Mac-cress. Which stood for Marine Corps Combat Readiness Evaluation System. A multiple-day exercise, simulated combat against another battalion, where we'd be evaluated on all our skills.

  Major Thom thought we should have an in-house platoon-level MCCRES, where every rifle platoon was evaluated on an attack scenario. It was the kind of thing executive officers thought up, and commanders went along with to keep them happy.

  Captain Zimmerman gave his platoon commanders two days to work with their Marines on their own, something else Captain Dudley had never done. Separate platoon bivouacs, too. In keeping with the Captain's new policy, we dug fighting holes and sent out patrols when we weren't doing the scheduled training.

  The Marine rifle squad was supposed to be led by a sergeant and consist of three 4-man fire teams: a team leader corporal armed with an M-203 40mm grenade launcher mounted under his M-16; a rifleman armed with an M-16; an automatic rifleman armed with the M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon or SAW, a light machine-gun firing t
he same 5.56mm round as the M-16 but from a 200-round linked ammo belt stored in a plastic box that snapped underneath the weapon; and an assistant automatic rifleman armed with an M-16 who carried the spare barrel for the SAW and extra ammo.

  A very effective force, assuming everyone knew what the hell they were doing.

  When I told them we'd start with basic movement there was a lot of eye rolling.

  "What's the problem?" I asked.

  "We know all that stuff, sir," said Corporal Jones.

  "It's always squad in the attack," someone in back muttered.

  "Fine," I said. "Show me you got game and we'll move on."

  So much for assumptions. While moving in combat formation I suddenly changed direction and the Marines on flank security just continued on, oblivious. They couldn't even be bothered to look over at the main body.

  All the individual palm-sized mini walkie-talkies we called the intra-squad radio were in the shop that week for tweaking. Just my luck. So it was hand and arm signals. I still couldn't shake the feeling that they had to be fucking with me—trained Marines just couldn't be that screwed up.

  I guess I wasn't the only one who felt that way, because when his Marines wouldn't look back at him for signals, Corporal Turner started throwing rocks at their heads.

  Instead of life and death, they were treating it the way they'd learned to treat school for the past twelve years, as something they were forced to do that had no relation to anything else. I realized I was going to have to be a dick. I called the platoon in and said, "I'll tell you what I really believe: if you do it half-assed in training it becomes habit, and in combat you'll fall back on habit and get someone killed. So from now on we're going to be doing it the right way every time. After we take a break for a change of pace." There was muttered approval—for the break, that is.

  "Platoon!" I called out. "Atten-hut! Pushup position...move!" We all dropped down into the pushup position, placing our rifles on top of our hands to keep them off the ground. There were the expected groans of protest.

  We did some pushups. Then some mountain climbers. Then some flutter kicks.

  "All right," I said cheerfully. "Squad leaders, take five minutes and make sure everyone gets some water. Then we'll start again."

  Corporal Jones hurried up to where I was sitting. "Sir," he said earnestly. "I've got to tell you it's against Marine Corps orders to make anyone do incentive PT."

  I was touched by his concern for my welfare. From time immemorial in the Corps, when a Marine screwed up in a minor way it was handled quickly and simply. If he dropped his rifle a corporal dropped him for pushups. This was known as incentive PT, for physical training. If a Marine wore his uniform like a tramp he stood inspection on Saturday morning when everyone else was on liberty.

  Anything can be abused, but instead of hammering the abusers, the generals, true to form, declared all forms of incentive PT to be illegal, except at Boot Camp. Which meant that even though everyone still did it, in true zero-defect fashion their asses were covered.

  In our battalion you needed the Colonel's permission to work on a weekend. Which he never gave. Because his ass was hanging out if a Marine died of heat stroke while some lieutenant was PT'ing him on Saturday.

  With every informal means of discipline available to NCO's ripped away, the only alternative was Office Hours. And if the matter was relatively minor a company commander might refuse to hold it, and the offending Marine would be thumbing his nose at the NCO.

  I said, "You're mistaken Corporal Jones. I did not hold incentive PT. I held platoon PT to enhance the physical readiness of all the Marines under my command. I don't allow incentive PT, and anyone who accuses me of violating an order had better be prepared to back it up. Anything else?"

  "Oh, ah, no sir." He wilted and slunk off.

  I took a walk to pee in the bushes and give Corporal Jones time to give everyone the good news. Everyone always knew their rights. They were just a little fuzzy on their responsibilities.

  But when we got going again it was amazing how much sharper everyone was. It had to have been my motivational speech.

  I was even more amazed when, heading back to the company bivouac, the point signaled "enemy ahead." Carefully moving up, I saw that they'd located 1st platoon's squad leaders. Corporal Anderson and Corporal Beausoleil were sprawled out in a clearing, gear off and shooting the shit.

  Both arms outstretched in a "safe at home" motion was the signal for everyone to move up on line—so they could fire freely to their front without shooting each other.

  As Corporal Turner and his squad came up I got his attention and signaled enemy ahead with my rifle. While I was still thinking about how to signal it, he was already taking his squad on a wide right arc to make a flanking maneuver.

  We inched forward without a sound. No one was supposed to open fire until the leader did, unless they absolutely had to. Since we didn't have any blanks, I shouted, "Bam, bam!"

  Pretty lame, I admit, but the platoon went along with it.

  Caught with their pants down, Anderson and Beausoleil jumped up, fumbled with their gear, finally got ahold of it, and ran.

  And they ran right into Corporal Turner's squad, who popped up and ambushed them at point-blank range.

  Anderson and Beausoleil fell down, got up, swerved, and disappeared into the brush, trailed by all the abuse my platoon was shouting at them.

  Now, if life were like a movie, this would have been the dramatic moment in the delicate relationship between me and the platoon when we began to turn the corner. No such luck.

  The 1st platoon squad leaders had plotted their revenge; they were waiting in ambush as we returned to our bivouac site that evening. And my platoon just walked through it and did nothing, as if to say: fuck you, we're tired.

  "One minute they're geniuses," I said to Jack O'Brien, who was watching the whole thing. "The next minute they're assholes. The problem is I have to act like a total prick to get them to be geniuses. The asshole part they do all on their own."

  "They're used to doing things a certain way," he replied. "You got your work cut out for you."

  It hadn't been a one-way street, not by any means. While we were tip-toeing around 1st platoon's bivouac after dark I had Lance Corporal Vincent turn the radio off so an incoming call wouldn't compromise us. I also told him to tell the company CP we'd be off the net for a while.

  I didn't give it any more thought until, back at our bivouac, Captain Zimmerman and Gunny Harris appeared out of the darkness. The Captain didn't quite chew my ass, but he nibbled it really hard for having my radio off. The Gunny did the same for Sergeant Harlin. Vincent hadn't turned the radio back on because I hadn't told him to. And with all the barking I'd done all day he wasn't about to do anything I hadn't specifically told him to do.

  The talking-to was nothing compared to the whipping I gave myself. Especially after spending all day chewing the platoon out for screwing up. Poetic justice I'm sure the troops savored like a cold beer after work.

  The next day was better, though I wasn't sure if my patience could take it.

  The following morning the company was supposed to pack up and hump to the training area where the platoon MCCRES would be held. We'd move cross-country in combat formation, and 2nd platoon would be the point for the movement. What was called an advance to contact, and the way the Captain always wanted his company to move tactically. The only thing certain in war, he said, was that the enemy was never going to be where intelligence told you they were. So you had to be ready to bump into them at any time.

  Since the Captain wanted to leave very early we'd already filled in our fighting holes. So instead of the usual 50% alert, Sergeant Harlin assigned Marines to 1-hour radio/security watches all night long. The last man had orders to wake the platoon. Sergeant Harlin and I set reveille early enough to give us plenty of time to eat and pack up before the scheduled start time for the hump.

  Tired, hot, and disgusted, I put on my gloves and mosquito
head net to keep the bugs at bay. The nighttime low temperature was probably about 80°.

  I could not get over the state of my platoon. How lazy and self-absorbed they were; they got hysterical if chow was five minutes late but couldn't care less about what they might need to know to save their own lives.

  But the situation wasn't totally grim. Corporal Turner really had his shit together, and the fire team leaders were trying hard even though they had no experience. I finally fell asleep.

  And awoke to full sunlight. Wait a minute, that wasn't right. I looked at my watch, blinked the grit out of my eyes, and looked again. The company would be stepping off in fifteen minutes. Holy screaming shit!

  I ripped off my head net and shook Sergeant Harlin, Corporal Turner, and Corporal Jones awake. "We've got fifteen minutes before the company steps off!" I shouted. "Get everyone moving, now!"

  It took a second to register on them. Then they went berserk. And a few seconds later so did the whole platoon. The sheer amount of kicking and shouting and cursing can only be imagined. Dust was flying everywhere, gear was being jammed into packs. As the Marines finally lashed down their pack straps, the NCO's and I frantically scoured the pine needle-covered ground for any misplaced equipment.

  Needless to say, I was not going to call the Captain on the radio and ask him to hold up the entire company because 2nd platoon had overslept.

  We blew into the CP area at a dead run. The rest of the company were calmly sitting on their packs awaiting the order to move out. We double-timed into position literally as the clock ticked over to the scheduled time of departure.

  It was that close. We'd made it, but I wouldn't want to know what my blood pressure was just then. The troops hadn't even gotten the chance to splash a little water on their faces, let alone have any chow. Hopefully they'd filled their canteens the night before. What an utter debacle.