Night had fallen over the desert and the air became chilled with a hush that can only be felt in a war zone; the kind of chill you'd feel running up your spine, like an Olympic sprinter as the power from each stride flows up his legs and through his vertebra. Nothing lights up this barren waste land except the small glint of 'cherries' from the front of a cigarette as it rests in the mouth of a tired young boy standing his post.
"How much longer do you have left?" ask the senior Corporal (Cpl), "About two years and some change, hopefully it goes fast," states the Lance Corporal (LCpl).
"Well it starts to speed up half way through, and then you start to realize how much fun you've had. So take it slow, man, because you won't get this at a desk job," says the Cpl.
"I know, I know, but I just can't stand the bullshit we have to put up with! Like, do I really have to get up at O-four-hundred to go running..." The LCpl continues to complain into the night as the Cpl just listens and provides advice on how to make the LCpl’s military career in the Marines just a little better.
The nights on post were where you learned the most about people. You heard stories of home, family, friends, and mostly women that they slept with, or would like to sleep with. The night in the desert was something that no one in the states will ever understand, when the burning heat of the sun would go away and the stars came out; it looked like a black blanket thrown across the sky with holes punched through, letting little bits of sun through. Going from 125 degrees to under 30 in less than an hour can put a person in shock; not a Marine, mind you, but anyone else would be.
"How much longer do you have Cpl?" ask the LCpl as he slowly takes a drag of his cigarette.
"Oh fuck man, just a little over a year; getting close man. Been thinking about re-enlisting too."
Re-enlisting was frowned upon by all lower ranks, as it was selling your soul to Satan; it was looked at with the same disgust as eating your own excrement, unless you had kids or a legit reason to stay. If you didn’t, then you were a "Mo-tard" and everyone made fun of you...until you outranked them that is.
Base was hell and we were its demons.
The gym was our refuge. With nothing to do but eat, sleep, workout, stand post, and vigorously masturbate, we spent many hours at the gym when we weren't walking around looking at bushes and mud huts. Base could only be described as the center ring of hell, with the top ranked individuals in charge running the demons as they see fit, with fire and smoke billowing out of the tips of their fingers as they strategically place chess pawns up and down a map strewn with blood and death at their own hands. The older, higher ranking ones had never seen war. They were too young when the last one ended and too old when the new one started; they knew not what they did to the youth of their ranks.
The sandstorms brought nothing but anger, a hatred for the choices of a young life spent doing work for old men.
"Why the fuck are we here again?" Perez said loudly sitting in the giant tent with the other disgruntled Marines.
"Shut the fuck up Perez! You're here because God hates you and you couldn't get into college!" Shouts a voice from the back of the tent.
The banter between two Marines is something that no one, unless they were in the Marines, will understand or want to hear. Many conversations could consist of questions like “How many STD's can someone get at once?” or “would you rather get kicked in the dick or see your mom naked?” The right answer was never “get kicked in the dick,” because then you immediately would get kicked.
"Why the hell do we have to keep going on patrols? I'm sure that now we are just looking for fights and I don't know about you guys..." Perez is shouting. He gets cut off by the even louder voice of 'Tank.'
"GODDAMNIT PEREZ! Do you ever stop bitching? We are at war and it sucks none of us like it except for fucking the Mo-tard corner over there!" Tank points to the few Marines talking about what they will do when they become drill instructors. Tank turns back to Perez and says calmly, "Listen turd, stop talking shit about it since you can't change it. Go knock one out and then join us for spades. You'll feel better. Fuckin' asshole." Perez agrees, laughs, fist pounds it, and walks out to face the storm on his way to the bathroom, hustler in hand.
Spades is a card game perfected by bored Marines, used whenever time was given. Games could last days on end. Spades and the name game were the best ways to pass time when one wasn't sharing stories about their own life, to include their family, the ones they loved, and the glory days of high-school football. Everyone was a quarterback and everyone slept with the prom queen.
Patrols would eat you alive if you let them, with nothing but endless miles of walking through villages, open roads, and spastic sandstorms. Sometimes you would get lucky and were told you'd be on a mounted patrol, which meant you sat in a vehicle and just hated your life with your friends. You would try to convince all of them that you could beat them up, you talked about your favorite foods, discussed the difference of religions, why you hated or loved your father, but mostly it was about the best piece pussy you ever got.
There was always a comedian in every group, the one guy who could take anything and make it okay to laugh at. Some Marine would get hit by an explosion, lose a leg, and the ‘Joker’ would come up and ask him to go running once he’s better. Thick skin is developed over time.
"Chow is canceled guys, we gotta get out on the road, so grab an MRE!" Voiced Staff Sergeant (SSgt) over the sound of Humvees, MRAPs, and 7-tons starting up. Perez was somehow surprised by this. "You gotta be kidding me! I waited here for like three hours! How the fuck are they gonna tell me..." Tank jumps in and whispers to Perez, "Shut the fuck up Perez."
MRE's are disgusting; pre package vomit Made Ready to Eat.
The Air Force, Army, and Navy made us regret our choice of wanting to be "The few and the proud" with all their little luxuries of clean water, working showers, good sleeping hours, hot chow, and very little time doing anything relating to work. They also made us proud of our choice to be a Marine, because whenever we came into a base that wasn't ours, we immediately got respect even if it was out of jealousy and fear. "Hey! You need to fix your sleeves and shave that face, Marine," says some officer in the Air Force to Sgt Jacobs. Jacobs laughs as he slowly pulls his smoke out of his dry, chapped lips and sun-burnt face covered in layer after layer of sand and shit and says, "Sir, get the fuck away from me before you go M.I.A. and your parents don't even notice that their puke of a son is gone. Your dad drinks because you cry." The officer walked away without saying a word. Marines did what they wanted, when they wanted, unless the higher up Marines said not to.
Respect is given to rank, not always to the man, but always to the rank.
There is a cycle of stupidity in the Marines. The smart ones realize that it’s fucked up and can't stay in because their staff is stupid; so they get out. The dumb ones think that if they stay in long enough they will become part of the staff, spend all day yelling at kids for no reason, and get paid to do so; they stay in. The cycle continues like a dog chasing his own tail and not knowing what to do when he catches it.
Sadness caught us off guard.
That day will forever be burned in my mind; Like fire to a memory, no matter how hard I try to destroy that image, I will never forget it, scars are forever.
It was a cold morning, with the sun just starting to blast it's hate on us. It's always the coldest at dawn, with the angry rays of the sun chasing away the calm and coldness of the night; you could feel it rush past your face, leaving you feeling sad that the day has come and the night has gone. This rush would leave a stinging feeling on your face; like after your arm falls asleep and someone punches it, sadness would resonate until your first smoke and shit of the day.
"Hey! Get the fuck up! We are going out early! Come on gents, I ain't got time for you to be fucking around. Oh, and Perez, I swear to God if I hear your fucking mouth spew your shit today, I'm gonna fuck you so hard your mom is gonna need a smoke!" Yelled SSgt as he ran through the tent waking up everyone. "Aye Aye SSgt," Says Perez sheepishly.
Perez - "SSgt is an asshole, and why would he want to fuck me?"
Tank - "You are like a woman; Maybe he think's you're cute. I know I find you cute."
Perez - "Fuck you man...not literally."
Jumping on the trucks and getting ready to roll out with our cig's in our pockets, dip in our pouches, energy drinks in the truck, and bullets in our magazines, we were ready to talk about life and make fun of hippies. That's not how our day went. After a few hours of going from place to place, with the officers getting lost and talking to the 'Terp' (interpreter) to ask the locals about someone we were looking for, while we enlisted men got bored. We dismounted at a town and set out to talk to the villagers.
POP-POP-POP! Gunshots rang out.
"GET THE FUCK DOWN!" SSgt yelled to us as we scrambled for cover.
You will never run faster then when you are under fire.
Each of us lower ranked Marines searched our memories for what we should do and consulted our training for how to survive, all while the Lieutenant crawled under a Humvee and began to piss himself. "Where is it coming from? FUCKING SPOTTER!" was being shouted back and forth until the response came, "Third house on the left, roof, two snipers!" We got together and provided suppressing fire, letting the planners figure out how to get us out of this one alive; they don't always plan that well.
POP......."TANKS HIT! TANKS HIT! DOC! DOC!"
That moment in my life was the saddest and most angry I've ever been. I will never forget how slow time went, watching Tank's body turn from the force of the bullet that ran through his body. As he hit the ground, the sand became dark brown, absorbing the precious blood he was losing. Perez ran out into the street to grab his body and pull him to safety. Maybe we could save him, maybe it wasn't that bad, maybe he can make it, maybe they just hit his kool-aid. As he coughed up his own blood and he arms started to shake from the pain the big man was in, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. "You give this to my mom, Perez! You give this to her!" he said amidst the coughing, "You'll give it to her yourself man! hold onto that shit, you're gonna be okay!" said Perez as he was trying to stop the bleeding. All of us between cover fire, just sat there in awe. Time has never moved so slow. "Fuck you man. You better give it to her and tell her I loved her." Perez took the letter and simply said "Alright man, I promise." Tank coughed up some more and told us he loved us, called us queers, and then he was gone. I felt time stop for what seemed like eternity. Perez was in tears as he popped around the corner and shot his M203 grenade launcher at the house. His aim was spot on, and the shooters were dead.
Everyone carried a ‘death note’ when they went out. No one else would read it; we prayed and hoped that no one would ever have to.
But God seems to ignore the prayers of ‘Devil Dogs.’
We lost Tank that day, and there was no reason to be in that place.
There sits a memorial for him at base to this day, nothing more than an M16 with a helmet on top, boots on the bottom, draped with his dog tags, and hand written letters covered in our tears.
The next week went by with the speed of frozen molasses. When we got back to the states, they had his body all ready in his dress uniform laid inside of a box that the government thought was appropriate. His medals were on his chest, as were ours; his looked better than ours of course. After the ceremony was over, they closed his face to the light of the world for the last time. That was the last time I ever saw his face again. I'll never forget the weight of his casket on my shoulder as I carried him to his grave. I'll never forget the sound of his mother crying. I'll never forget the sound of the guns giving him his 21 gun salute and the pain it brought with each shot. I'll never forget the pain of that day. That is a day that will forever be burned into my mind; no amount of alcohol, drugs, or therapy can change that.
I don't know if I would want to forget it either.
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| The biggest scars are the ones that can't be seen. |
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