Chapter Twenty-Five

 

“On board the GANGES, about 12 months ago, [Marine] Lt. Gale, was struck by an Officer of the Navy, the Captain took no notice of the Business and Gale got no satisfaction on the Cruise; the moment he arrived he called the Lieutenant out and shot him; afterwards Politeness was restored”

Lieutenant Colonel W. W. Burrows, 2^nd Commandant of the Marine Corps

 

Over the next year, I would travel to various Marine Corps and Navy bases for periods of training. The school year flew by and before long I had another set of orders for summertime active duty. In order to broaden our horizons as future officers we would spend time at a series of bases learning different roles available to officers in the naval services. We learned about opportunities with the Navy’s special operations force of Sea, Air, Land teams (SEALS), and got a small taste of their intense training and workouts. We studied careers in aviation, getting to pilot a Navy helicopter and learning basic piloting knowledge. We learned how to evacuate from a helicopter that had crashed into the ocean, first waiting for the rotors to stop, and then finding the openings and swimming to safety without kicking anyone in the head. We loaded into training helicopter fuselage that was dropped into a deep pool and got the practice the movements. When we mastered the technique, the instructors inserted a new challenge by having the simulated helicopter fuselage turn upside after it hit the water. Those of us designated as Marine options conducted a mock amphibious attack, riding inside a metal vehicle that revved its engine before plunging from the lowered ramp of the ship into the ocean. Initially it seemed as though the heavy metal amphibious assault vehicle would drop straight to the bottom like an anchor, but it lazily climbed up through the waves, lumbered through the surf on to the sandy beach where the ramp dropped down and we were disgorged. We rappelled and fast roped from hovering helicopters, simulating activities of an assault or insertion.  We even learned how to repair a hole in the side of a ship that had been damaged by a torpedo, working in a simulator that replicated conditions of a sinking ship, to include a rising water level, broken pipes, and a hold in the bulkhead (wall).

Since the dawn of modern naval conflict between oil and gas-powered ships, sailors had suffered excruciating deaths when they were thrown or jumped into oil covered seas. Any spark would transform the film covering the water into a fiery torment, with skin melting heat and flames for those unlucky enough to be trapped in the burning slick. Men would dive down into the water to escape the flames, but when their air ran out they would emerge, only to be burned again. The US Navy had developed a protocol to help sailors and Marines avoid this fate, and we were taught how to do it. Someone in dangerous or burning water would dive beneath the surface, swim as far as he could towards safe water, and then as he came up for air, extend his arms vertically above him and splash the water away with his hands as he broke the surface, hopefully pushing the oil or gas aside and providing a narrow window of opportunity to suck in a quick breath before continuing the underwater escape. We gained all sorts of knowledge that could eventually be valuable and potentially life saving.  I hoped I never had to use some of the skills, but I was glad I’d learned them just in case.

The development of nuclear weapons and the means to deliver them by the Soviet Union presented the United States with a new threat of destruction by a foreign power. A key concept that successfully prevented the Cold War from turning into a potentially world ending nuclear conflict was Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) guaranteed a potential belligerent that by launching a strike using nuclear weapons, they would subsequently be destroyed. A ballistic missile could travel between the two countries in less than 30 minutes, so the country being attacked would likely not have time figure out what was happening and launch its own ground-based missiles in response before their country was devastated. Arming submarines with missiles provided countries with a credible ability to deliver a return strike if attacked. The US outfitted a fleet of special submarines, designated as SSBNs (Ship, Submersible, Ballistic Capable, Nuclear Powered). Propelled by an internal nuclear reactor, an SSBN did not need to refuel. This allowed the vessel to remain deep in the ocean for months at a time, serving as a silent, but ever-present reminder of the folly of launching a nuclear attack. Launched in 1966, the Francis Scott Key (SSBN-657) featured 16 launch tubes and dozens of nuclear missiles that could deliver a warhead around the world. It had enough firepower to destroy a small country. Being on a submarine was not for the claustrophobic. I learned how the navigation and sonar worked, and we went out to sea from the port of Charleston. Every precious nook and cranny on the boat was used, and bunks for sleeping were no exception. Mine was right beside a launch silo for a Trident missile.

Semesters passed by, and I found myself in the final stages of preparing for the long-dreaded summer assignment to Officer Candidate School (OCS). Marine Corps OCS is a course that officers must pass before receiving their commission. The length is either 6 or 10 weeks, depending on the program in which you are enrolled. The standard Officer Candidate Course (OCC) is ten weeks long. Naval ROTC students attend a shorter six-week class nicknamed “Bulldog”. Due to the training they receive in the NROTC program, they are expected to report to OCS ready to immediately jump in to the advanced training schedule. Preparation for OCS was intense.  A new Major had replaced the one from my freshman year. When he introduced himself to us, he gave us the standard lineage of all the units he had served with and places he had been. He concluded with a statement I found a bit odd, “I have never had the privilege of serving in combat.” Up to that time, I had thought about service as a lot of things, but privilege wasn’t one of them. He flipped conventional thinking on its head. For him, combat wasn’t some duty you would do if it came to it, it was something he wanted, a higher calling he actively sought out. He seemed to have no compunctions at all about the prospect of what war meant, and even spoke of it with a hint of anticipation. I didn’t think the act of killing someone was a privilege, but I understood his point regarding his enthusiasm and readiness to serve his country. While I respected his eagerness, I questioned his choice of words.

As a Christian, I had wrestled with the idea of war since first seriously considering joining the military. Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest had put it simply “War means fighting, and fighting means killing”. Forrest had led men into action on the deadly fields of Shiloh; he understood the seriousness of the endeavor. The carnage of Shiloh had resulted in more than 24,000 men killed and wounded. Union General Grant, who had been at the battle remarked of the scene, “I saw an open field, in our possession on the second day, over which the Confederates had made repeated charges the day before, so covered with dead that it would have been possible to walk across the clearing, in any direction, stepping on dead bodies, without a foot touching the ground.” In addition to his service during the war, Forrest also had the dubious distinction of being the first leader of the Klu Klux Klan (KKK). While his history as a slave owner and association with the KKK is repulsive to me, it shouldn’t prevent us from heeding his grim warning about the nature of war.

Ending the life of another human was a nauseating concept. Dropping a bomb on an enemy position from 30,000 feet seemed horrific enough, but that’s not how Marine battles I knew of went. Engagements often devolved into an intensely personal close fight. After marksmanship training where the Marine adage of “one shot, one kill” is enabled I could reliably put a tight pattern of rounds in a target area the size of someone’s head at 500 yards. I imagined how difficult it would be to pull the trigger knowing the target was a man with hopes, dreams, and a family of his own. As I considered various combat scenarios, the closer the enemy was, the more difficult it was to imagine causing his death. I remembered back to that first deer I had killed years ago, and how I had felt after drawing the knife across his throat. It wasn’t a good feeling, and that was an animal that was going to be a meal for my family. I got cold chills thinking about delivering a fatal blow to a man that God himself had knit in the womb.

 I knew that death could come and would doubtless be delivered in close quarters. Often eye to eye, with knives, pistols, or shotguns, you would have to behold the man you were getting ready to destroy, and he would look at you before you drove the knife or bayonet deep into his chest. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and I didn’t consider it a privilege. Marines often made light of the gruesome business, but we knew the toll that it would take. First person stories of close combat revealed that when it came right down to the brutal reality, Marines would tenaciously fight for the lives of their friends and comrades as much as for their own. 

The truth of the matter is that no one knows with absolute certainty how they will react in a desperate life-threatening situation. However, I had as much confidence as any Marine could that I would never let anyone down who counted on me, no matter how unpleasant the task. After much prayer and consideration, I felt confident that if the time came I would do my duty without hesitation, but I prayed that I would never have to. I had enough problems without carrying that load the rest of my life. Your mind can be like a house with many rooms. Some rooms are full of happy memories, proud moments, and warm joy. Others contain dark thoughts, fears, and horrific tragedy. Doors to these rooms should only rarely, if ever, be opened, and extended time inside is not a good idea. Staying too long leads down a dark staircase to madness.