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  I looked at the splintered mountain of wooden crates and the Styrofoam trash that had accumulated at the base of the ammunition point. Finding the HE rounds wasn’t so easy with the pressure to perform and the litter that buried the ammunition crates. The first rounds I touched were white phosphorous. The second were illumination rounds. Finally I found them. The HE round was designed to explode into thousands of steel fragments upon impact, theoreti-cally killing every person within a forty-meter diameter. I had seen the impacts of the HE rounds turn rubber tractor-trailer tires into confetti all day, and now I was holding one in my hands. This thought process lasted only a second, because Lance Cpl. Baker was screaming for me to hang the round. I straddled the base of the mortar tube and squatted so my outstretched arms held the steel fins of the round at approximately eye level.

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  Lance Cpl. Baker corrected me by placing his hands over mine and repositioning the round. “Fins in the tube, not over the tube!”

  Now the mortar round was half inserted, suspended by my hands, which cupped the mouth of the tube.

  I called out, “Hanging!” as loud as I could over the sounds of the second gun, which had already fired its first round. Lance Cpl.

  Baker didn’t like being second, and he made up for lost time by forgoing the safety instructions on dropping procedures.

  I heard the command, “Fire!” and I immediately dropped the mortar round into the tube. I watched Lance Cpl. Baker instinctively bend at his waist toward his left foot while covering his ears. I had watched him repeat this procedure dozens of times. The obvious fact that I should have done the same didn’t register. My hands still hung at the mouth of the tube, and my torso remained upright . . . until the blast came.

  I remember the flash of white light and the heat on my face as the mortar exploded upward. The force of the blast blew me backward into the cushion of sandbags.

  I recall Lance Cpl. Baker clenching my flak jacket and yelling into my face, “You hurt, Will?”

  I didn’t think so. I wiggled my fingers and felt my face.

  I looked up at him and yelled back, “That was close!”

  After he realized I was uninjured, his panicked expression changed to anger.

  “Close? You could’ve blown your hands off, you stupid fuck!”

  Exasperated, he pushed me backward into the sandbags and stormed back into his firing position. Lance Cpl. Baker continued to fire, and completed the mission. I was left to think about my mistake and nurse my injured pride.

  I learned a few valuable lessons that day in the mortar pit. I learned that realistic combat training sometimes required us to perform with little, inadequate, or no instruction or experience. I would later learn the same is true for combat itself.

  I also learned that some Marines’ egos affect their judgment, especially under fire. I came to realize that Lance Cpl. Baker had sacrificed my safety so that he could fire the first round of the mission.

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  From that moment on I challenged the practice of blindly following orders from senior Marines. For me to follow an order without hesitation, the Marine issuing it would first have to earn my trust. My struggle with trusting leaders would become a recurring theme throughout my Marine Corps experience—in training and in combat. Without this judgment filter I would not be here to tell this story.

  I also learned that combat training does not afford you the opportunity to develop aversions to traumatic events. Immediately following the fire mission Lance Cpl. Baker had me back in the pit practicing the proper body movements for dropping mortars. I repeated the drill hundreds of times, until the next fire mission. There was no time to think about my anxiety once the commands started coming. Before I knew it, I had successfully dropped my first barrage of mortars. The simulated killing continued for hours.

  At 1500 hours the daytime firing ceased and the mortarmen turned their attention to gun maintenance. The next time Cpl. Hoffman made his supervisory rounds, he instructed me to attend something called a hip-pocket class. They were called hip-pocket classes because the NCOs and officers were responsible for carrying various instructional materials in their pockets, so that classes could be held anytime or anyplace. Oftentimes these classes were held during downtime, between missions.

  My first hip-pocket class was a call-for-fire class taught by Sgt.

  Pitts. During the class we practiced the verbal radio procedures to request a mortar attack on the enemy. While some of the Marines were content to simply learn the commands, I was focused on mastery, so that I could teach others how to call for fire in the future.

  After an hour of practice and feedback from Sgt. Pitts, I started helping other Marines to understand the steps. My instincts as a teacher took over, and I developed a training model of the firing range in the dirt using rocks and sticks. Before long I had turned the hip-pocket class into a game that allowed Marines to see the effectiveness of their fire requests. A small group of Marines gathered to watch as I lobbed rocks toward simulated targets as each student S P A R E P A R T S

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  practiced his commands. Sgt. Pitts even called Capt. Cruz over to see the model.

  It felt great to be a contributing member of the company, and I enjoyed the adulation of being considered “the instructor.” As reservists we all brought unique talents and expertise from our civilian lives to drill. At the time I was in my junior year as a physical education major at Towson State University, only one year away from my student-teaching internship. It didn’t take long for the others to recognize my passion for teaching. By nightfall I had worked with most of the Marines in the company as they rotated through the class. I had found my niche.

  After my short-lived notoriety I found myself back in the mortar pit as the crews prepared for our next predawn attack. Lance Cpl.

  Baker assigned me to stand the first fire-watch duty from 2100 to 2300 hours. Marines on fire watch were required to remain awake so they could sound the alarm if they observed enemy activity. He gave me instructions to open a dozen mortar crates and prep the rounds for firing. Then he instructed me to wake Pfc. Adams for fire watch from 2300 to 0100, and himself from 0100 to 0300. He told me we would all need to be awake for the stand-to order at 0300.

  When I started opening the crates, I had the intention of stopping after prepping twelve mortar rounds. After I finished, however, I started analyzing the way we processed the rounds when the fire missions came over the radio. I flashed back to the mess of ammunition I faced when I had to pull rounds under pressure. It was clear to me that we needed an organized system of readiness for the ammunition. So I created one. I became so involved in grouping, opening, and prepping the rounds that I forgot to wake Pfc. Adams at 2300 hours. I told myself that I would just finish half of the hundred remaining rounds, and then wake him for duty. But after I finished half, I felt compelled to finish the rest. I was in my zone again.

  I knew it was in my best interest to wake the next Marine for duty and get some sleep, but I felt that it was necessary to finish every last round before I could stop. I rationalized that I would finish and still have time to sleep. But I never slept that night.

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  At 0300 hours I woke Lance Cpl. Baker and Pfc. Adams. They expected to be awakened for fire-watch duty, and they looked confused when I told them we were at full alert.

  Staring at the newly designed ammunition area, Lance Cpl.

  Baker asked, “What happened to all the ammo?”

  “I . . . uh . . . organized it last night on watch.”

  He surveyed my work. At the nearside of the pit there were sixty prepped HE rounds, stacked and ready to be hung. Next to them were forty illumination rounds—also prepped and ready.

  Lance Cpl. Baker looked surprised. “Where is all the trash?”

  “I repacked it in the crates and stacked them near the five-ton truck.” I replied.<
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  He sat down on his pack and sighed. “A-fucking-mazing!” a favorite exclamation of Marines.

  I vaguely remember hearing him ask, “Why?” I was too tired to respond.

  There wasn’t a lot of time to dwell on it. I recognized the calls-for-fire on the radio, and before I could think twice, we were sending illumination rounds into the sky to support First Platoon’s second predawn ambush of the weekend. My system worked well, and Capt. Cruz and Cpl. Hoffman recognized the efficiency of our crew. Lance Cpl. Baker shared the praise with us, and explained how I had stayed up all night to prep rounds.

  I really didn’t expect kudos. After all, I had no idea why I had been driven to work through three fire-watch duties. I was more embarrassed than proud, and beginning to think that being in my zone was nothing to laugh at.

  The sweat-salted Marines and muddy LAVs of Weapons Platoon returned to the Ramp at Camp Upshur in an anticlimactic fashion, at approximately 0900 Sunday. The ride home afforded me two hours of uninterrupted sleep in the hull of the LAV. I felt fortunate to get any rest at all, even though I had to sleep while sitting upright.

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  and organizing gear, and final formation. Being dismissed from final formation is the goal of every reservist on Sunday afternoon. For us to earn it every LAV and its contents had to pass a cleanliness and maintenance inspection. Each of us worked tirelessly. After eleven hours of hosing, wiping, disassembling, counting, and reassembling every part of the LAV and its weapons system, Sgt. Pitts informed us that we could muster for the final formation. I felt that 2000

  hours was late for a final formation, but I was told to be grateful.

  Some of the more experienced Marines told us of drill weekends in which crews failed their inspections, and everyone was required to stay until they passed. Rumor had it that the latest final formation was held 2300 Sunday. As it was, I wouldn’t arrive home until after midnight, and my college classes started at 0900 on Monday.

  The final formation lasted approximately thirty minutes. Capt.

  Cruz addressed the company with accolades for a safe and successful operation. He offered details about the performance of the scout squads of First Platoon, and the mortar crews of Weapons Platoon.

  After his comments he turned the formation over to First Sgt. Little.

  The first sergeant announced that he had selected the month’s Outstanding Marine of the Drill—a monthly morale incentive. He spoke of the Marine’s initiative and judgment, his technical proficiency, and his unselfish devotion to duty. He went on about the Marine being an example for others to follow and on . . . and on.

  I tuned out and was on the verge of falling asleep standing when he called me to come to the front of the formation.

  I earned the award? I thought. I wished I had paid attention to what I did to earn it.

  As I accepted the plaque and T-shirt, the first sergeant shouted,

  “Ooh rah!” The entire company echoed his cheer, and the ground shook from the vibration.

  Receiving the award on my first drill was a defining moment for me as a Marine. From that moment on, for better or worse, everyone in the company knew my name. The bar of expectations was set high, and I was determined not to disappoint. I left the formation thinking that my brother would be proud.

  As I hopped into the front seat of my truck for the drive home, I 78

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  was ecstatic. I had not only completed my first drill, I had done it with style! I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my stories, but I questioned whether anyone would believe half of them. I could barely believe them myself!

  The three-hour drive back to Baltimore provided plenty of time to wind down and drain the adrenaline from my body. As the glow from the entrance to the Fort McHenry Tunnel grew on the horizon, I let out a sigh of relief. It was after midnight and I was anxious to get home to bed. I had always considered the McHenry Tunnel to be a portal that benchmarked my official arrival home. I remember focusing on the glow of the lights—how it morphed and swirled as my eyes trained on them.

  My eyes opened wide and strained as the traffic cones separating the tunnel entrance lanes began bouncing from the front bumper of my pickup truck. I spent critical seconds struggling to refocus from the fog clouding my thoughts and senses. I could see the entrance to one tunnel peripherally on my right, and the other to the left. My momentary doze put me on a collision course with the concrete dividing wall that separates the tunnels. The lights of the tunnel entrance were blinding, and the wall was approaching quickly. I closed my eyes tightly, pulled the steering wheel hard to the left, and jammed my foot as hard as possible onto the break pedal.

  Officer Brooks looked up from his notes. “And then what happened?”

  I thought for a moment. “The last thing I remember is the truck spinning out of control.”

  Officer Brooks shook his head in amazement. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Williams.” He removed his glasses and pointed through the rain-streaked window of his car. “That’s where your truck ended up. . . .”

  It was facing oncoming traffic, about fifty meters from the concrete divider.

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  I shivered when he stated the obvious. “Another couple of seconds asleep and we’d be peeling you off that wall.”

  Officer Brooks left me alone in the car to join another trooper who had arrived on the scene. They were close enough that I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

  “No drugs or alcohol. . . .”

  “Coming back from Virginia. . . .”

  “Fell asleep at the wheel. . . .”

  “Yeah . . . Weekend Warrior. . . .”

  FOUR

  MY FIRST DRILL WEEKEND had shown me that the Marine reservists with whom I trained were true warriors, and that Weapons Company was a warrior culture. And as with any warrior culture, leaders emerged, lines of loyalty around those leaders were drawn, separa-tions developed among the followers . . . and tribes were born.

  The tribes within our company evolved through predictable life cycles. Their longevity was a function of the loyalty toward their respective leaders. These leaders included the platoon sergeants, squad leaders, and vehicle commanders. It was not so much the position of the Marine that mattered, as it was the loyalty of his following. This loyalty was the air that breathed life into the lungs of the tribes.

  Some tribes had survived since the unit began in 1988, some were in their infancy, and some were on their deathbed when I arrived. But none would survive the upheaval that loomed on the horizon. During the winter of 1989 a sudden influx of Marines would more than triple Weapons Company’s numbers, which sent shock waves through the ranks, and wiped out its tribes like the plague.

  The company’s renaissance afforded me the chance to experience two newly formed tribes led by very different leaders. It took me months to determine where my loyalties lay. In the process I struggled to discover the Marine I wanted to be, the tribe to which I belonged, and ultimately whether I wanted to be a Marine at all.

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  The greatest tribal tensions within our company existed between first-year Marines (privates and Pfc.’s) and second-year Marines (lance corporals). “Private” and “private first class” are the first two positions in the enlisted rank structure. The privates in our company were just out of boot camp, and not viewed very differently from the Pfc.’s. Some Pfc.’s earned their rank by meritorious promotion in boot camp (I graduated as a Pfc. because of college credit), and some by default with about six months of service. The distinction between Pfc.’s and lance corporals, however, was much more significant.

  The lance corporals had graduated from their MOS schools and were two years removed from boot camp. They were the original Marines who had started the unit—the members of the first tribe.r />
  They were condescending, arrogant, and tightly united. I understood, after experiencing only three drills, how that could happen.

  They had been through a lot together.

  The reorganization of the December drill disbanded them. Moreover, the influx of NCOs and officers stripped the lance corporals of the temporary positions of power they had acquired in the former vacuum of qualified leaders. This was a source of dissension among the ranks of the lance corporals. Their separation from each other, combined with their loss of power within the company, put chips on their shoulders.

  No shoulders held bigger chips than those of Lance Cpl. Nagel and Lance Cpl. Draper.

  They believed they were the top dogs of the company, and they were not afraid to let everyone else know it. Lance Cpl. Nagel reminded me of Morrison from boot camp. Like Morrison, Nagel was a redneck punk, with a foul mouth and a sarcastic tongue. Draper was Nagel’s patronizing sidekick. He was a pompous snob with an attitude. Early on I had no doubt that I would grow to dislike them both.

  We started the December drill gathered in the newly renovated big classroom to learn about our company’s reorganization. The big classroom was actually nothing more than a rectangular steel S P A R E P A R T S

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  warehouse left over from the Vietnam era, but it had lights and propane heat (unlike some of the smaller classrooms that we used).

  For infantrymen it was like a conference room in a four-star hotel. It even had metal folding chairs and tables—pure luxury.

  Capt. Cruz didn’t believe in micromanaging his Marines, so he provided only the necessary information to get our training started.

  He explained that the reorganization of the company included the development of two LAV-25 line platoons, known as First and Second Platoons, respectively. Each of the four LAV-25s that formed a line platoon had a 25mm main gun supported by a four- to six-man infantry scout team that rode in the troop compartment.

  The line platoons also included new platoon commanders, platoon sergeants, and a mixture of first-year Pfc.’s and second-year lance corporals. I was assigned to First Platoon, located in barracks number 2016, under the new platoon commander, Second Lt.