Chapter Thirty-Four

 

Thirty-Four

 

“Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee.”

John Donne

 

The Marines of TBS were surprised, but thankful, even if a bit disappointed they wouldn’t get the chance to deploy for the effort. While the outcome of the war was never in doubt, this had been one of the most lopsided victories in history. While even one American death is too many, the action had resulted in 147 US military combat losses, a low number given the massive presence in the area of operations. Iraqi military deaths were thought to be at least 20,000 (5), possibly many more. I felt bittersweet relief. Tennyson’s poem had ended a stanza short. There would be no gallant charge for me, no glory, or chance to prove my courage in combat. This feeling was immediately and greatly outweighed by the fact that the horror of the war was over. I wouldn’t write letters home to grieving parents or identify charred remains of men I had known. I wouldn’t visit my men in the hospital, then walk outside, shaking with grief over their suffering and debilitating injuries. I wouldn’t go to funerals and watch as valiant spouses struggled to hold back tears as their young children tried to figure out what happened. I couldn’t help but also think about the Iraqis. Just a few years earlier, they had fought bravely against our foes, the Iranians. Most of them were probably good men, born into an impossibly difficult situation living under the regime of the dictator Hussein.

With all sincerity, I was overjoyed the dirty business was over quickly with a minimum of American casualties. I knew that large wars in American history tended to come roughly in twenty-year cycles, just long enough for the public to forget how expensive they were in blood and treasure. The US had deployed half a million men to the theater of operations, the largest combat deployment since WWII. It would be a long time before military action of this magnitude happened again.

Now that the threat of a mass extinction of Lieutenants had passed, we wouldn’t all be going to the infantry. It was time for us to make decisions regarding our future. In addition to becoming qualified as a leader capable of directing the combat activities of a unit of Marines in the field, every officer is assigned a primary Military Occupational Specialty (MOS). A young Lieutenant could continue on to the infantry (The Queen of Battle), or choose other combat arms specialties such as tanks, combat engineering, amphibious assault, or artillery (The King of Battle). Other options were not considered as glamorous but were critical to the mission of the Corps. Additional fields such as intelligence, logistics, financial management, supply, communications, and motor transport were available. The choice of MOS had huge implications for future career paths and duty assignments, and the needs of the Corps at the time would dictate how many of each MOS was available. The process was straightforward. Lieutenants would submit a list ranked in order by preference, and a formula that included class rank and staff input was used to make the assignment. In order to ensure a quality spread among fields, the unit was divided into thirds. The top Marine in every third would get his first choice, and so on down the line to the last Marine at the bottom of the last third. I was somewhere in the middle of the pack. Like most Marines, I was initially attracted to the Infantry, but as I learned about other paths my interest grew in combat engineers (building things and blowing things up), and tanks (leading a platoon of tanks that blew things up). As the US was the sole remaining superpower in the world and had just trounced Iraq in a lesson surely watched by other nations, I thought the near-term prospects for high intensity conflict had vanished. News commenters talked extensively about a dramatic reduction in military spending and staffing, with the expected savings known as a “peace dividend”. I expanded my list to include one MOS choice that might better translate into a civilian career. I figured I would put it on the list and trust the Lord to lead the process in the right direction. One of the instructors for our company was a First Lieutenant, and he had told me about his MOS of Data Systems, designated as 4002. He explained how the Marine Corps was doing innovative things with computers in the field as well as in garrison. Every unit, including infantry divisions, now had computers, and they were becoming critical to operations. The Corps needed officers who could figure them out and make them work. I thought back to the contents of the plain brown box that had once spread out over the kitchen table in the Badin apartment years before. I printed 4002 on the third line of my choices. In an example of how small the Marine Corps is, many years later I would find myself saluting that same former instructor during a change of command ceremony as I took over from him as CO of a unit that would deploy for the second invasion of Iraq. His wise advice had changed the course of my life in ways I couldn’t comprehend at the time.

Data Systems Officers course consisted of three months of immersion into computer systems. We learned basic components and architecture of systems, programming, and how to network groups of computers together. Much like I had taken to Scouting earlier, I took to computers. While I didn’t care much for programming or working with the large mainframe systems, the small systems used by deployable units captivated me. One additional choice was needed before I joined the Fleet Marine Force (FMF), and that was where I preferred to be stationed. That was an easy choice, I wanted to stay in North Carolina and be stationed at Camp Lejeune. By this time, I was travelling to Chapel Hill to see Elizabeth as often as possible. From the very beginning, there was something special and familiar about her, like I had known her all my life. After meeting her a few times, my family universally approved. Ashford pulled me aside once and advised, “She is a good-looking young lady, but she is going to be a beautiful woman.”

 

“She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything was as fresh
As the bright blue sky

 

Her hair reminds me of a warm, safe place
Whereas a child I'd hide
And pray for the thunder and the rain
To quietly pass me by”

Axel Rose

 

My first choice of Camp Lejeune housed one of the three active duty Marine Expeditionary Forces (MEFs). The three MEFs were designated by Roman numerals. I MEF was based at my birthplace of Camp Pendleton, II MEF was a couple of hours east of Raleigh at Camp Lejeune, and III MEF was forward deployed on the far side of the Pacific and stationed on the island of Okinawa, Japan. Elements of each MEF would regularly pack up and deploy for training and real-world missions, but they would always return to their permanent home. Each MEF included subordinate Marine Expeditionary Units (MEUs) that would deploy on Navy ships or planes to hotspots around the globe. The MEFs were part of the Fleet Marine Force (FMF), which is the warfighting, deploying part of the Corps as opposed to the administrative, planning, training, and logistical support elements that don’t typically deploy. Operating in the FMF was said to be the most challenging, exciting, and rewarding part of a Marine’s career. A few weeks later the Lieutenants of Hotel Company learned their assignments. I was headed to the FMF. On my next visit to Chapel Hill, Elizabeth and I discussed my assignment, and how it would impact our relationship. I left her apartment a little earlier than usual that Sunday afternoon. Instead of heading directly to Quantico, I drove to campus on a mission.

Chapter Thirty-Three

             Thirty-Three

 

“There’s always one more thing you can do to influence any situation in your favor—and after that one more thing, and after that…. The more you do the more opportunities arise.” 
-  Moore -

     At our base in Quantico, the young lieutenants followed the news with occasional interest, but mainly focused on becoming experts in our new profession. Instruction progressed from hand-to-hand combat training using Pugil sticks, knives, and “weapons of opportunity”, to more advanced topics designed to prepare us to lead men in combat situations. We progressed from controlling small fire teams, to squads of 16 men, and on to platoons of 43. We learned tactics for offense and defense. We patrolled for hours through the dense Quantico forests, and spent sleepless nights developing operational orders, planning missions, and checking defensive positions. We learned how to employ claymore mines, grenades, and C4 explosives. We spent more and more time outside, and external factors became a small inconvenience to be dealt with and incorporated into planning and operations. Rain, snow, ice, heat, cold, bugs, poison plants, snakes, spiders and other nuisances and distractions were eclipsed by completing the mission and taking care of the Marines in our charge. We learned very simply that “leaders are responsible for everything that happens or fails to happen.” Excuses, reasons, or explanations for nonperformance were not to be accepted, as lives would depend on our every decision and action. I remembered back to my earliest experience as a leader at the railroad cut.

Most our field training occurred during the late Fall and Winter months, when the Northern Virginia forests were cold and wet to varying degrees. I came to appreciate the value of the useful and well-made equipment we had been issued, and I especially cherished the heavy overcoat known as a field jacket. It was made of tightly woven cotton that had been treated to repel rain, with a soft warm inner liner and an additional thicker removable liner for added comfort. It came with a rain hood that could be quickly extracted from its normal position in a pocket behind the neck, and there was even an optional cold weather hood that could be snapped on to the collar. Spacious pockets on the outside could hold gloves or a snack, and inner pockets could hold papers or even a hand warmer. It didn’t take long for me to think of someone who needed one badly. Before my next break, I went to the “cash sales” store on base where uniform items could be purchased and bought a new field jacket for Damps. I proudly presented it to him when I arrived, and he loved it. I hoped the fact that it was a gift from me would override his stubbornness about braving the elements, and it would keep him from catching a deadly chill while he roamed the land of the farm.

Our training at TBS continued with intensity. We learned to operate weapons commonly used in Marine combat units, from small machine guns to shoulder fired missiles. Instruction was given on calling in air strikes from jets far overhead, artillery rounds from supporting units, and fire from naval guns far offshore. The concept of combined arms was stressed, where enemies are presented with deadly fire from multiple directions and methods, shattering their will to fight. A successful graduate of TBS had the knowledge to serve as the conductor in a symphony of destruction.

The most valuable skill developed at TBS wasn’t a single course though, and it wasn’t provided by a period of formal instruction with a neat class outline. The mountain of books and articles we had been issued contained treasures of wisdom and experience from men who had been through what we would face. They became our instructors as we assimilated the hard-won lessons they had learned in the trenches, forests, and jungles. From our time in the field, we gained experience operating in stressful conditions resembling those of wartime, we learned to work through and solve problems. The technical knowledge provided more tools for the process, but the true lesson was how to engage one’s mind. It was to be innovative where most would have been intimidated. We learned to think clearly and rationally even when we were stressed from being short on sleep, frustrated, or sick. We learned how to deal with “friction”, which was defined as that invisible force that makes things you thought would be easy, difficult. Those situations you knew were going to be tough, friction would render seemingly impossible. The invisible force was anticipated and accepted, as its influence would be felt by the enemy as well. The challenge was learning to operate effectively in a fluid environment where friction was not only present, but often ruled supreme. It was the sneering demon who laughed when your radio wouldn’t work or your vehicle wouldn’t start. It would chuckle when weapons jammed, ankles twisted, or grid coordinate were written down wrong. We learned that even when we thought we were adequately prepared and confidently believed we had it under control, there was always “one more thing” that could be done to influence the situation, or to provide a small advantage that might make the difference between success and failure. Rifles and grenades were important implements of our craft, but our most valuable weapon was our brain.

We were issued manuals with pictures and descriptions of the weapons and vehicles used by the Iraqis.  I bought a book of Arabic phrases and listened to lessons on tape during my intermittent weekend road trips to Chapel Hill to see Elizabeth. Over a long weekend for Christmas, I visited home for a welcome break with my family. We talked about how things were going and the situation and speculated on how it would play out. Before I left, Grandmother and Damps told me how proud they were of me and gave me some money to get anything I needed. On the drive back, I considered many things, one of which was about the best use for the money. It didn’t take long to decide. The day after arriving back in Quantico, I walked to the small equipment store on base where I had ordered my Mameluke sword, and bought a brand new Marine Corps fighting knife, known as a K-Bar. The knife had a 7’ blade with a menacing point. From the tip down, the blade featured a convex curve that gently sloped into the flat main cutting surface and continued down from there to the grip. The other side of the blade sloped upward in a concave manner from the tip for about two inches, then the sharp edge turned into a bunt square top. Designed for close personal interaction, both sides of the blade sported shallow “blood grooves” to allow rapid drainage of fluids resulting from a jab.  Short but sturdy flanges stuck out above the richly dark wooden grip to protect the hand from a deflected enemy blade sliding down, and USMC had been cleanly stamped into the metal right above the handle, perpendicular to the blade. The butt end of the knife was a hard cylinder of steed with rounded edges ending in a flat bottom. More so than a rifle or other long range implement of death, this was a man’s weapon that would have brought an approving smile to the grizzled face of the Spartan king Leonidas himself. I honed the blade to razor sharp perfection as I had learned in Scouts, treated the leather sheath with a generous coating of mink oil, and proudly strapped it on my web belt.

As the January 15^th deadline approached, the mood at TBS became increasingly serious. Now over four months into our six-month training schedule, we were told that the expected allied invasion to expel the Iraqis from Kuwait would result in heavy losses for the first units to slam into the Iraqis. Hundreds of casualties were expected, many of them would be Marine Lieutenants. A likely scenario briefed was that we would graduate early and be assigned as infantry officers to fill in the gaps. A few of the Lieutenants dropped out, others simply disappeared with no explanation, but most stayed. I was haunted by grim visions of Marines under my care bleeding, blown apart, or choking on poison gas.

 

“Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of hell

Rode the six hundred”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

When the deadline expired, and Saddam’s troops were still entrenched in Kuwait, military action by the US and coalition partners began. First with air strikes, then with massive artillery barrages and naval gunfire, the Iraqis were pummeled hard as coalition ground units moved into their assault positions. A series of small actions began across the border, and President Bush issued a 24-hours ultimatum for the Iraqis to leave Kuwait. The ultimatum was ignored, and on February 22^nd, large scale combat operations were initiated by coalition troops as Operation Desert Shield transitioned to Operation Desert Storm. The ground war kicked into high gear, with Army and Marine units rapidly surging across the border and into Kuwait and Iraq. Some of the largest tank battles in history resulted in overwhelming US victories as US leadership, expertise, advanced weapons systems routed the Iraqis. On February 27^th, the Marine Corps fought its largest tank battle ever as the First and Second Marine divisions and a US Army Brigade slammed into 14 Iraqi divisions in the area. Retreating Iraqi vehicles streamed by the thousands out of Kuwait for the expected safety of the Iraqi borders. US airpower pounded them from above, leading to the road being called the “Highway of Death”

The overwhelming US victory led to immediate calls for a halt to the fighting on humanitarian grounds. World opinion quickly turned against the US for what was perceived as piling on. Negotiations began as the Iraqis regrouped, and US combat operations ended 100 hours from when they began. Saddam had lost, but he was not beaten and would cause trouble in the region until his death in 2006. Within months, he began a campaign of extermination and terror against various groups inside the country that he believed didn’t support his rule. Deep in the bowels of the Pentagon, planners began working on scenarios to finish the job completely.