Doug: One LONG weekend.

“Contact Front!” I hear the alert less than a second after I hear the gunshots.
“Finally.” I mutter, already on the deck in the kneeling position, eyeing the terrain in front of me. We are in the nature reserve right next to Fort Lewis, which is the closest thing to untouched temperate rainforest I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, temperate rainforest is a nightmare for anyone trying to do squad operations.
Fallen trees litter the ground, which is uneven, with the accumulation of literally millions of years of loam and hedge creating little valleys and hills. None high enough to be any real cover, just big enough for you to twist your ankle if you put your foot down wrong, which happens a lot. On top of that are bushes, ferns, and vines that make up the ground cover. The bushes and ferns are fine, none really big enough to stop an armored individual who wants to step through them; it’s the vines that keep killing our operational effectiveness.
Some kind of ground creeper, these vines have sharp thorns that WILL cut you through your thick trousers. But it gets better, not only is this shit on the ground, it curls up and around trees too and dangles, around head height. I discovered this while we were under contact about two hours ago, when one of the vines sliced my face and grabbed onto my cover and held. Deep gashes and a dull ache mark my hands where I yanked it off. They also tend to somehow tangle in your boots, forcing everyone to high step to either avoid them, or tear them off already tangled boots.
The final proverbial straw, at least from the terrain department, is that this section of Fort Lewis is an ANT reserve.
That’s right.
Ant.
Reserve.
There are anthills that approach five feet in height scattered every ten meters or so. We’re not allowed to interact with them, because apparently they’re endangered. Fine, whatever, we don’t give two shits about some stupid ants.
That is until you’re taking fire and you dive for cover behind/on the closest ground to you… which just happens to be a towering pile of twigs, leaves, and ten million angry ants. I’ve pissed on more than one anthill, out of vengeance.
This is the kind of terrain that gives commanders a coronary, and gets infantry grunts like me killed. The only good thing is that because of all the brush no one can see more than twenty meters in any direction, you or the enemy. That, and the fact that all the trees and micro terrain make excellent cover during a firefight, are the only two slightly positive things that I can pull out of time we’ve spent conducting operations. Unfortunately, those two points of data are advantages for the enemy as well.
Huddled up against this tree in the middle of nowhere, I ready my body for the assault order that I know is coming.
I am exhausted. We have been hunting ghosts for more than eight hours now. I am covered in ant and spider bites. My hands are cut up from jumping over logs and falling on my face. My legs are seizing up and refusing to move when I tell them to, and I’m starting to get combat hypnosis from staring at all the foliage, hunting for an enemy that isn’t there. Now, finally, when contact finally comes, it comes from the far left, and my fire team has to run about fifty meters through nightmare terrain before we can even begin to assault the enemy.
An enemy that is not there.
We’ve done five squad movements and assaults. This is our sixth. We are using rubber rifles that might hurt someone if we beat them over the head with them, but won’t even go bang for us. Moving through this terrain is HARD. Assaulting is harder, we’re exhausted, pissed off, thirsty and hungry. We’ve been informed that chow will be available at the next objective. That was five objectives ago.
Not that we don’t have food. Our cargo pockets are stuffed with whatever pieces of MRE that we didn’t eat this morning. We’ve been nibbling on those during briefing breaks, but they never last long enough to really eat. There’s just enough time to hydrate and speculate about the next operation.
I’m of the opinion that we can’t be doing too many more night is approaching, and doing squad problems in the dark would just be stupid. Larry brings up the fact that doing squad problems for eight hours isn’t particularly intelligent, but we’ve been doing it anyway. With that cheerful thought fresh in our minds, our fire team leader, Omahan, had run up and began to brief us for this particular operation.
Running as hard as I can to get into position for the buddy rushes, I pick Omahan’s shape out of the foliage ahead of me.
Glancing right, I pick up Larry, crouched against some brush. My spot is to his right, and about five meters back. At that moment, Wiggin’s loud female voice breaks over the gunfire. “Rush!”
FUCK. Not only am I out of position, two of my buddies are in my firing lane.
“Punch right Larry, Rushing!” I yell at Larry, ordering him to get the hell out of my way before I tear past him into the woods. When the squad leader tells you to rush, you better fucking rush. Any lack in aggressiveness could get Marines killed. No one wants that on them. A few seconds later I dive behind a fallen log, hitting harder than usual and yell. “DOWN!”
Larry, my rush partner, yells “I’m up!” and I can see his blurred shape tear past on my right, high stepping so as not to get caught up in the shit that’s tangled on the ground. He slams into a tree hard enough to shake the upper level branches and sinks into the kneeling position. “Down!”
I’m up again, running for a pile of logs I’d normally avoid, but any variation right or left during an assault can put you in your mate’s firing lanes, thereby increasing your chance of catching dead, which is a pretty nasty and prevalent disease out here in the jungle.
I try and jump over the logs, but I’m too tired, and my foot doesn’t quite make it. I can see where I’m about to fall, a nicely placed broken off branch sticking straight up, just aching to impale someone. My hand shoots out and my palm takes most of the force while I redirect my body to fall away from the natural spike. Pain lances up my arm and a steady stream of swearwords issue from my mouth. Larry sees my trouble and sings out.
“You all right?”
“Fuckassshitmother… Fine!” False, I am not fine, my hand feels like it’s been hit with a dull spike, but we’re in the middle of an assault, so I am fucking fine, because I’m not going to risk other Marines for my stupidity. I roll over to the other side of the log and crawl to cover. “Down! Rush Larry!”
Larry bounds past me just as I hear the words I’ve been waiting for.
“Hasty 180!” Wiggin shouts. Great, they’re all dead, wherever they were. I pull back in close to where the main action had been taking place and post on perimeter. After giving Omahan my report, I eye the trees, it would be just like the Sergeant instructors to set off a secondary ambush and fuck with our hard earned real estate.
But they don’t, and a few minutes later Wiggin calls us all over. A small flicker of hope rises in me, hope that maybe we’re done.
Wiggin looks how I feel, beat up, exhausted, angry and irritable. There is a gleam in her eyes that is absent in that of those around her though, and as she briefs us, we understand why.
“Grab some dirt gents.” There is a slight delay, then we squat to the ground, gentle on the rapidly forming bruises. She sits down too, on a convenient log. “Good job today. You guys really put out. That’s the kind of stuff we want to see.” Normally this would all be bullshit, but positive reenforcent is something new and different to us. Feels pretty good. Larry and I knock fists.
“You will actually be getting chow.” A ripple of excitement mixed with apprehension runs through the squad. “We’re moving to the extraction point, where we’re going to resupply and change these, “She indicated the rifle slung behind her back, “For some actual sixteens. No real ammo though.” A face, disappointment mixed with a little bit of humor. “We’ll also be setting up Bivoac for the night. Sgt ‘Ski will brief us ambushes and after that…” an evil grin crosses everyone’s face. “We get to go play Hide and Seek with the Army.”
Feral grins are plastered on everyone’s face. “But we have a lot of work to do before that, so let’s get to it. Fall in for extraction.”
It was not a particularly good speech, off the cuff, not verbose, or particularly eloquent. But it was exactly what we wanted to hear. Proves that a speech depends more on how and where it is delivered than actual content.
***
MREs are not bad, if you ever get the opportunity to heat them up. They come with chem reaction heaters that will make whatever meal you’ve got as hot as it would be if you’d just cooked it. Unfortunately, rarely do you get the chance, and cold anything is always dubious. But when you’re hungry…
During the squad problems I’d wolfed down something that said it was a grilled steak. It was disgusting, but upon reflection, if I’d had time to heat it then it might have been okay. After eight hours of squad problems, the hot clam chowder substitute I was devouring was fucking delicious. The shredded potato sticks were delicious, the wheat bread was delicious, even the canned peaches. I don’t even like peaches.
One thing that actually is delicious even when you aren’t hungry is the cheese spread. It’s laced with little peppers, so it gives a little bit of a burn. On the hardtack like crackers that come in most MREs the stuff is like magic.
We’re sitting in two rows, bullshitting. Fifty meters to our north is an army camp, where we got the M-16s currently leaned up against everyone’s shoulder.
If there is one thing the Marine Corps takes seriously, and there are many things (but this especially), it is rifle safety. The Marine Corps rules regarding rifle safely are like the Lord’s Prayer to us; every single one of us knows them, and they are observed in the strictest manner possible. Still, every year a few Marines are injured or killed by NDs. (Negligent Discharges).
Treat your rifle as if it were loaded at all times.
Never point the weapon you do not intend to shoot.
Keep your finger straight and off the trigger until you intend to fire.
Keep your weapon on safe until you are ready to fire.
These are not suggestions. These are laws. You will obey them.
It’s a noticeable difference between us and every other service. We treat our weapons better than we do our lovers. A rifle will never leave the side of its Marine, if we have something to do that requires two hands, we either sling the rifle, or hand it off to a buddy who we absolutely know will treat it with the respect and care it requires. Every time a Marine hands off a rife, he will clear the magazine and chamber, declare the weapon ‘condition four’ safe, and then hand it off. The receiving Marine will then confirm the weapon’s ‘condition four’ status just to be sure.
Every Marine has the serial number of his rifle memorized and can disassemble and reassemble her blindfolded if he has to.
I had my rifle for approximately twenty two hours. Her serial number is 6208343. She is a gas operated, magazine fed Colt M-16 A2. She can fire at a rate of over six hundred rounds a minute, and shoots 5.56 millimeter NATO rounds. I named her Irene. Peacemaker.
Ask anyone in my unit and they’ll repeat the same details about their rifles. This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
The Major walks by and we all attempt to snap to attention from the sitting position. Before we can rise he tells us to relax. He bullshits with us for a few minutes, shows us a trick for clearing jams on our rifles. My absolute confidence in Irene is shattered when I am told that the blank rounds I’ll be feeding her tend to cause jams. I glare down at the mags stacked by my right foot. There are only twenty rounds in the thirty round mags, because the shitty magazines we use apparently become even less functional if the springs are at all stressed. We were only issued three magazines.
Sixty rounds… Not enough. But being well supplied is for POGs and Army scum. Marines make do.
***
It is four hours later, around 2200. The sun set about an hour ago, and full dark is upon us. Sergeant Pederson is briefing us on the attack plan, which sounds simple enough. Walk down the road for about five hundred meters, turn 90 degrees port and make your way into the jungle. In about a hundred yards you should hit the army base. At that time, using radios and flares, we’ll assault through their main base, and regroup on the road that’s located on the opposite side, codename HARDBALL. From HARDBALL, we will regroup, assault through the enemy again, regroup in the woods, and return to base. Pedersen himself will be taking a small commando team to harass the enemy from a different vector.
I want to volunteer, knowing Pederson’s team will get more action, but don’t knowing that if I do volunteer, I won’t get picked.
I am not picked anyway, and Pederson’s team, Him, Sgt. ‘Ski, Larry and Plute all step off early, so as to be in place before we arrive.
After he leaves, Winslow, our squad leader, gets up in front of us all and issues last minute instructions. “Stick with your buddy, and keep it tight when we’re moving through the jungle. Don’t let anyone get lost. We’ll be running silent until contact, so keep track of who you’re with. Remember, ‘Tap, Rack, Bang”.”
‘Tap, Rack, Bang’ is the Marine Corps prescribed medicine for any rifle that’s jammed. Tap really means jiggle the magazine a little, which usually chambers the jammed round. If that doesn’t work, rack the charging handle and the jammed round should eject. Both of those should be able to fix whatever problem you encounter. If not… well, we don’t have an armory handy, so if your weapon is gummed up worse than that, we can’t fix it out here.
A jammed Irene is the last thing I want to think about right now.
“Weapons to Condition One.”
A small storm of magazines being slapped into place and charging handles being racked fills the quiet night air.
Irene jams. This is not happening. I think, and jiggle the mag. The bolt slides home and I grunt in satisfaction. I haven’t even fired this bitch.
“Move out.” I can see Winslow’s eyes flash in the darkness.
***
One hour later.
There is no Army. I think, tripping yet again over a fallen tree that I cannot see. They’re in a barracks somewhere, watching porn and laughing at us. A little over forty minutes ago, we’d arrived at what we believed to be the attack site, only there was something missing. The Army.
We figured we were lost, and promptly got lost trying to find our target. Seargent Johnson is currently snarling into the radio for Pederson, who, lucky him, has found then enemy, to throw up an illume flare so we can tell where they are. Pederson, heavily outnumbered, rightly does not want to give away his position.
It doesn’t matter. I know we are probably more than a mile off our original vector. Not because I’ve got a map, or a GPS, or a compass, or anything that would tell us where we are. No my knowledge is common sense, something that seems to have taken a vacation this evening.
I know we’re completely foxtrotted because of the foliage. What had been merely a nuisance during the day had become a nightmare at night. Every step we take sounds like we’re taking a chainsaw to the forest. Even our resident scout sniper can’t move without making enough noise to wake up all the dead at Gettysburg. If the Army had heard us then they would have engaged us, which means we’ve been nowhere near the Army all night.
The thought makes me want to slam my fist into something. We’ve been chasing our own tails out here in the dark for well over an hour now. This was not how it was supposed to go, we were supposed to find them, kill them, and then go to bed.
In our frustration, we’d returned to the general area the Army was supposed to be in the first place, trying to get our bearings. Finally, Sergeant Johnson manages to persuade Staff Sergeant Pederson to throw up a flare to mark the enemy position. Seconds later I avert my eyes as an illume flare arcs into the sky…
Less than a hundred meters from our position.
They were right there the entire time.
Still no gunfire. You’d think with their position lit up like God eyefucking them they’d at least try and kill the illuminator. Winslow instantly tells everyone to take cover. What illuminates their position will also light us up like a spotlight.
We wait the 90 seconds for the parachute flare to die and get up slowly. Winslow passes the word, in whispers, that we are going to advance on the enemy until they initiate contact. Sweet.
Advancing slowly, we enter the dense part of the woods the Army has chosen to hide their base in. We’re still making more noise than a raging bull would, but still no one shoots at us. Two chemlights mark an open area, which we skirt carefully. Everything I’ve been taught is telling me that this is a trap, and we’re all going to die. I can feel my heart twitching at irregular intervals.
I don’t want to die.
You’re not going to die. You’re going to make the other motherfucker out there die. My ears, hypersensitive, hear the distinctive snick a rifle’s safety makes when it changes from safe to not. I realize I have unconsciously switched my rifle off safe.
I decide that I have let myself slip way too deep into this simulation, but since I’m already there I just roll with it.
“Flash.” A tremulous voice breaks out in front of us.
I can feel the glances around in confusion. We don’t have any recognition codes set up.
After an awkward pause…
“Thunder?” Johnson’s word is more a question, and it sounds like it.
“Advance and be recognized.”
You cannot be serious. Johnson eloquently sums up our collective incredulity at the Army’s colossal stupidity by switching his rifle to burst and emptying his magazine at the general location of the voice. We dive for cover, expecting automatic rifle fire to cut us to ribbons, but we’ve caught the Army by surprise and apparently by the balls. Swearing and sporadic rifle fire lance out, but no one opens up with the really heavy stuff we know they have.
We, on the other hand, are lighting these poor motherfuckers up like its cool. Muzzle flashes are making our side of the assault line almost light as day. Irene jams, and I start saying words that would make a sailor blush.
Tap… Rack… the satisfying BANG of a weapon that fires greets me and I sight in on the muzzle flashes that are starting to become more and more common on the Army side of the line.
I can hear a woman screaming something that sounds like “They’re all around us!” and hear the distinctive whine of the simulated Artie in their base. Pederson must have initiated his attack. I can feel the shockwave as the Artie rounds blow, the flash blinding everyone momentarily. As my vision clears, I see a series of muzzle flashes that are going much faster than anything I’ve seen before tonight, just as I hear the diemotherfuckerdie buzz of the M240 SAW.
Shit. Their automatic weapons are online. Time to get the Hell outta Dodge.
Winslow, seemingly reading my thoughts, shouts “HARDBALL! EVERYONE HARDBALL!”
Sgt. Johnson and Sgt. Poaster both pop smoke, not that anyone can see shit anyway, and we pull back, firing intermittently. The Army keeps firing, though we are no longer there to appreciate the fireworks.
The dark separates everyone. I have only the slightest inclination where I’m going; trees appear like ghosts in the night. I can hear sporadic gunfire behind me as the others disengage. Suddenly I am thrust into the open, trees falling off to my left and right.
HARDBALL.
Ten meters to my left another figure bursts out of the woods, I train my rifle on them, and recognize Winslow as I get closer. Figures are appearing out of the night left and right.
“Security.” Winslow says. “We’ve got our dicks hanging on the chopping block out here.”
I agree, we’re exposed. The underclassmen take up sectors while the upperclassmen confer. A few people almost get shot as they approach the perimeter, but we’re careful.
When Wiggin calls us all back, still watching our sectors, I breathe a sigh of relief. We’re good to go.
***
“Seeds?” Staff Sergeant Williams shakes the bag of sunflower seeds at me.
I open my eyes. We’ve been sitting in the van for a good hour, and I’ve gotten this question four times now, all when I’ve been about to fall asleep. It’s a pattern. “Sure.”
We’re waiting on the Army. Part of playing the OPFOR is you have to set up situations where the people you’re OPFORing for can exercise their training. Right now, for us, this means waiting in a van for hours on end for the Army to get into position to set up a roadblock. I can’t blame them taking forever; I had to move through that terrain yesterday. It sucked, it took forever, and I was angry when I did it.
But when they make me wait a whole two hours? Then I can blame the shit out of them, scum.
So, me and my squad have sat out here, with Staff Sergeant Williams, in this van, for two fucking hours now. We are bored Marines. Bored Marines do stupid things. I eye the simulated Artie in Williams’ bag with speculation.
A flicker of movement twitches at the edge of my vision. Very slowly I turn my head.
“Army Contact, Right.” That grey camoflauge doesn’t do them ANY good.
“Rodg.” Williams starts the van. “We’re going to go up the road a bit and turn around, give them a few minutes to set up a roadblock.”
I nod, and put my cover over my eyes again. We’ll probably have to wait another thirty minutes.
Twenty minutes later the radio wakes me. Mexican music, apparently I can’t even escape this shit when I leave New Mexico. A blast of Spanish hits my ears and I wince. The “operational situation” (what we pretend is going on) is thus. The country of Polomia, a Spanish speaking culture apparently, has the unfortunate problem of being a haven for terrorists, known as “Fuegans”, after their leader, “El Fuego.” The U.S. Army has entered the country and is attempting to root out the Fuegans.
Our van is supposed to be a Polomian van that will be searched by the Army. We’re not supposed to give them any trouble. Williams and I agreed that that was too easy for the Army, so before they arrived we punched two guys out into the woods. These guys are going to be “Fuegans” who attack at an opportune moment. Right now our van is rolling down the apparently empty road where the army roadblock is supposed to be. Just as I wonder if they overshot their objective a figure in Kevlar steps into the road with an M-16 in one hand and the other hand raised. Suddenly a dozen figures raise up from the field next to us.
Right where I expected them to be. Still, their coordination is impressive.
“Stop! You are surrounded!” In English. Our country speaks Spanish holmes.
Williams stops the van anyway. “Step out of the vehicle!” Again with the English.
Larry and I bust out a horrible mutilation of what we think Spanish sounds like while getting out of the vehicle. We’ve still got our M-16’s, slung though they are. Apparently the Army wasn’t prepared for this.
“They’re armed!” Their point man screams back at whoever’s running this clusterfuck.
“No shit.” Larry mumbles to me, “Our country is plagued by terrorists, there’s no fucking way I’m running around NOT armed.” He smiles a shit eating grin at the point man. “America good!”
“I love America!” I add, then, for effect, “George Bush good!”
Williams is getting in on the act, trying to speak genuine Spanish to the guys in the field next to us.
“Put you weapons on the ground.” This fucker’s been inching closer every second, I wonder if he’s just stupid or has a death wish.
“Or… Not…” I’ve switched over to English because I’ve run out of Spanish swearwords, kept the filthy Mexican accent though.
“Oh you speak English now.”
“Studied in America. George Bush good!”
“He’s not even the President anymore dude. Drop your weapons.”
I glance over to Williams, I’m taking my ques from him. He shakes his head slightly. “No! You no take our weapons!”
“If I can’t take your weapons, at least take your magazines out!”
I consider. Our weapons are at Con 1, they’ve got a bullet in the chamber. We could still kill someone with that one bullet. Williams nods.
“Okay America, we do your way.”
Just then one of the army kids, a girl screams, “Movement in the trees!”
All that hard work putting the guy in front of me at ease, and all of a sudden he’s on his guard. Our guys in the brush, realizing they’ve been made, open fire.
The Army flips a shit. We, pretending to be surprised and scared locals, flip a shit. Larry screams like a girl and starts crawling on top of the Army point man. I hit the deck and start crawling behind the van. Williams grabs one of the guys that got too close to him and starts pawing at him, screaming, in Spanish, ‘save me America!”
The Army has no idea what to do, three of their guys try and engage the ‘Fuegans’ in the trees, while the rest of them start shouting conflicting orders. Someone loud and seemingly in charge orders us and the point guy behind the van. Larry is still doing his little bitch act, which I watch with amusement.
Five minutes later it’s all over, the ‘Fuegans’ have broken contact, and the Army finally gets around to searching our van.
We then drive off. As we exit stage left Larry shows me the canteen he stole from the Army point man while he was crawling all over him.
I almost die from laughter. As the army fades in the distance, and we move off to our next scenario, the ambush, Williams says: “Larry, you make a better Mexican than a black dude.”
Other things happened this weekend. It would take me a good twenty pages to go through all of them, I’m at ten already. I’m going to cut it off here and anyone who wants to know more should just ask me. Do know this: We had to move the ambush site twice so the Army could find us, and then the Army almost started a forest fire, which we then had to put out. Oh yeah, and we got into a car accident on the way back, and didn’t get home until about four hours after we were supposed to be. And it’s all the Army’s fault.
In conclusion. Fuck the Army.
That is all.
-Doug
“If Marines could get what they needed when they needed it we would be happy and wouldn't ready to kill people all of the time. The Marine Corps is like America's Pitbull. They beat us, mistreat us and every once in awhile, they let us out to attack someone.” –Cpl. Josh Ray Person, “Generation Kill”