Despite our grumblings, first team was split apart and sent to the four corners of the earth for the next week of training.
LT ended up in Arlington, Virginia for a week-long Provincial Reconstruction Team course. He basically learned a lot about the mindset of our civilian counterparts along with a better understanding how we can coordinate on projects in Afghanistan. They were a few Marines from our Civil Affairs unit, some Army guys, and then civilians who were soon to be deployed. Word on the street was the soldiers did not get along with anyone--apparently they were a little too Army Strong. LT returned with the look of a man who now has nightmares about PowerPoint briefs.
Creole and Dominicano went to the rifle and pistol range. This is an annual training requirement: classes on aiming and breathing, practicing the firing positions (with such exciting names as "the low kneeling" and "the sitting"), and finally qualifying on paper targets from distances up to 500 meters. It's mostly considered a joke by the Marines but can degenerate into pure hell if the weather takes a turn for the worst. It rained a bit for our guys, but it was nothing compared to my time spent on the windy, snow-covered fields of Quantico. Once again I found myself as the old man, starting off a story with "You guys have it easy. I remember . . ."
Drama was supposed to go to the range as well, but he managed to find a way to screw that up. During the classroom instruction portion he "had" to miss some of the mandatory classes to take care of his bed bug problem mentioned in an earlier post. After talking to the range coach at my behest, Drama said it was fine and he would be able to continue on the range. Two days later he nervously explained that somehow he had misunderstood and could not participate after all. And so he lived up to his namesake yet again.
Mumbles and I were planning to drive to 29 Palms for several days to attend a counterinsurgency course but that was put on hold so we could instead take a combat medic course known as Combat Lifesavers. I had been CLS qualified (meaning I finished the course conscious and with a strong pulse) immediately prior to my last deployment but was pretty skeptical of its value. A bad instructor made the entire curriculum worthless. If this was to be our fate, however, I would make the best of it.
The course got off to a bad start. The instructor, a young Filipino Navy medic from the Regimental Aid Station, showed up twenty minutes late out of breath. Mumbles and I were sitting with a few other Marines from our detachment arguing about whether Sylvester Stallone's tattoos were real or airbrushed for his new movie "The Expendables". Obviously we were upset at having to cut short this valuable discussion.
We launched right into the classes (after troubleshooting the obligatory laptop-projector malfunction, of course) and began learning about hemorrhage control. Pressure dressing, tourniquets, hemostatic agents: all the medical knowledge we would ever need flew by in standardized PowerPoint format. This is what the military refers to as an information dump. There was little we were expected to retain; practical application and follow-on testing would cement our new skills.
The same format - class, application, testing - was followed for breathing and chest injuries. At exactly 1030, after less than three hours of class, we were pronounced done for the day. CLS is supposed to be a four day, eight hour course! I'm as lazy as the next guy and really liked the idea of getting off early but the Marine in me (now commanding over 50% of my brain) would not waste this training week. Mumbles and I went for a run, hit the chow hall, studied some Pashto (the language of Southern Afghanistan), and then did some machine gun drills before getting off for the day.
Day two was not much better. Heat injuries, shock casualties, burn casualties, triage, and casualty evacuation came and went in quick succession. Again, done by 1030. Again, Mumbles and I worked on other skills and rehearsed everything from the previous day before heading back to our rooms. The only cool thing was getting to administer IVs to each other; my right arm still shows some bruising from the fumbling handiwork of nervous 19 year-old.
Day three was the last day because we'd gone through the classes so quickly; Mumbles and I tested first and both passed easily. Apparently I had learned something in the last five years (since originally leaving active duty). The course was pretty much a wash, but I had salvaged some sort of value. Mumbles and I were slightly better prepared to deploy as Marines, if not practitioners of civil affairs. And life goes on.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
First Team
Armed with almost ten hours of sleep on Sunday night, I began the second week of training with my team. Days that are not composed of a strict curriculum (as was the case during Convoy Operations Course) allow LT and me to use a lot of creativity. There is no rule for what needs to happen on a given day, but everything must be tied into either building proficiency in our civil affairs mission or the basic Marine skills needed to operate in a combat zone.
This strange mix of the civil and the military is representative of our bastard child status in the Marines Corps. In no other unit would one go from PT (physical training) to machine gun drills to a brief on Pashtun culture in the span of three hours. As autonomous units we also need to focus on uncommon skills for enlisted Marines: powerpoint presentations, building assessments, Afghan agricultural crop information, and so on.
I got to see many facets of each Marines' strengths, weaknesses, and personalities as they struggled through the eclectic training each day. The junior team members coalesced into a fascinating group that never fails to frustrate, confound, or amuse me. Sometimes they manage to do several at once.
Creole is a twenty two year old finishing up his first enlistment. His dark skin and hair make him appear distinctly Latino but he is actually of French, African, and Native American descent, something his height betrays. For the last three and a half years he was attached to a Motor Transportation unit here at Last Pulgas, and he has the spare tire around his midsection to prove it. Creole volunteered for duty in civil affairs because he wanted to deploy to Afghanistan, and even his new bride's constant requests to the contrary could not change his mind. Of the young guys, he is the most motivated and willing to dive into the messy business of (re)building Afghanistan.
The next member of the team is Mumbles from Guadalajara, Mexico. Although Spanish is his first language, he has no problems speaking English; his biggest problem is actually the inability to speak above a fifty decibel level. Mumbles was my driver to 29 Palms: trying to hear him over the diesel engine's roar proved to be the most frustrating experience in a seven hour traffic jam. He is dating a girl who lives up in Reno but, in true native Mexican style, spends the weekends visiting his mother in central Los Angeles. Mumbles is the only junior enlisted Marine with deployment experience: he spent six months in Iraq last year cooped up in the cab of a 7-ton (big armored truck).
Our youngest and smallest Marine is Dominicano. He stands around 5'5" and probably weighs 135 pounds, which will present some interesting challenges as our communications guy responsible for carrying batteries that weigh 2 pounds each along with the rest (the total probably equals his body weight). There is an off-again, on-again girlfriend in the picture but Domicano fancies himself a ladies' man and thus rarely mentions her. His quick wit is matched perfectly by his mouth, and he impresses me constantly with his ability to learn. He recently confided in me he wants to earn a B.A. in Political Science and return to the Dominican Republic and "fix shit".
Along with all other Marine units, we have a Navy Corpsman who is responsible for medical training and care. I have not made my mind up yet, but I am very worried about our guy, Drama. Although he was recently promoted to Petty Office Third Class well ahead of his peers, Drama has a 6 month pregnant Marine wife and just about every personal problem you can imagine. In less than three weeks I've dealt with bedbugs in his apartment, moving apartments at the last minute, complications with the pregnancy, a huge fight with his wife, and now arranging marriage counseling for the happy couple. His nickname is obviously well-earned, although on his better days I can see what a huge asset he could be to the team. Only time will tell whether he makes the cut.
These four people are the members of Team #1, Civil Affairs Detachment, for whom I am responsible. I am their counselor, mother, father, accountant, personal trainer, and main source of information. I am the first person they see every morning to start the training day, and the one who lets them off in the evening. Even though we have spent little time together, I already know this will be a great group. I've already wanted to kill each of them several times over, but my affections for them to continue to grow with each passing day. First team, my team, our team.
This strange mix of the civil and the military is representative of our bastard child status in the Marines Corps. In no other unit would one go from PT (physical training) to machine gun drills to a brief on Pashtun culture in the span of three hours. As autonomous units we also need to focus on uncommon skills for enlisted Marines: powerpoint presentations, building assessments, Afghan agricultural crop information, and so on.
I got to see many facets of each Marines' strengths, weaknesses, and personalities as they struggled through the eclectic training each day. The junior team members coalesced into a fascinating group that never fails to frustrate, confound, or amuse me. Sometimes they manage to do several at once.
Creole is a twenty two year old finishing up his first enlistment. His dark skin and hair make him appear distinctly Latino but he is actually of French, African, and Native American descent, something his height betrays. For the last three and a half years he was attached to a Motor Transportation unit here at Last Pulgas, and he has the spare tire around his midsection to prove it. Creole volunteered for duty in civil affairs because he wanted to deploy to Afghanistan, and even his new bride's constant requests to the contrary could not change his mind. Of the young guys, he is the most motivated and willing to dive into the messy business of (re)building Afghanistan.
The next member of the team is Mumbles from Guadalajara, Mexico. Although Spanish is his first language, he has no problems speaking English; his biggest problem is actually the inability to speak above a fifty decibel level. Mumbles was my driver to 29 Palms: trying to hear him over the diesel engine's roar proved to be the most frustrating experience in a seven hour traffic jam. He is dating a girl who lives up in Reno but, in true native Mexican style, spends the weekends visiting his mother in central Los Angeles. Mumbles is the only junior enlisted Marine with deployment experience: he spent six months in Iraq last year cooped up in the cab of a 7-ton (big armored truck).
Our youngest and smallest Marine is Dominicano. He stands around 5'5" and probably weighs 135 pounds, which will present some interesting challenges as our communications guy responsible for carrying batteries that weigh 2 pounds each along with the rest (the total probably equals his body weight). There is an off-again, on-again girlfriend in the picture but Domicano fancies himself a ladies' man and thus rarely mentions her. His quick wit is matched perfectly by his mouth, and he impresses me constantly with his ability to learn. He recently confided in me he wants to earn a B.A. in Political Science and return to the Dominican Republic and "fix shit".
Along with all other Marine units, we have a Navy Corpsman who is responsible for medical training and care. I have not made my mind up yet, but I am very worried about our guy, Drama. Although he was recently promoted to Petty Office Third Class well ahead of his peers, Drama has a 6 month pregnant Marine wife and just about every personal problem you can imagine. In less than three weeks I've dealt with bedbugs in his apartment, moving apartments at the last minute, complications with the pregnancy, a huge fight with his wife, and now arranging marriage counseling for the happy couple. His nickname is obviously well-earned, although on his better days I can see what a huge asset he could be to the team. Only time will tell whether he makes the cut.
These four people are the members of Team #1, Civil Affairs Detachment, for whom I am responsible. I am their counselor, mother, father, accountant, personal trainer, and main source of information. I am the first person they see every morning to start the training day, and the one who lets them off in the evening. Even though we have spent little time together, I already know this will be a great group. I've already wanted to kill each of them several times over, but my affections for them to continue to grow with each passing day. First team, my team, our team.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The LT
Sunday morning broke clear and cold over the Pendleton mountains as the sun spilled out onto Las Pulgas. I awoke quickly and showered, one resurfacing military habit among many. Shaving, dressing, cleaning--all these were accomplished within twenty minutes. I was determined to make the most of each day, and my mind was already focused on the work to be done for the upcoming week.
Before being dismissed on Saturday, LT had requested we get together to discuss the team's training schedule and along with some general thoughts on methodology. He lived near the 101 Diner on the Pacific Coast Highway in Encinitas, so we agreed to meet there around 1230.
Finding him in the normal Sunday brunch crowd was not difficult. LT stands a full 6'6" and weighs around 220 pounds. A narrow, intelligent face and piercing green eyes seems almost out of place on top of his large, muscular frame. Even a pair of thin framed glasses could not soften his overall appearance. He spoke deliberately and with good grammar, a deep baritone voice matching his appearance perfectly. I had to remind myself that this 2007 Notre Dame grad was actually two years my junior.
As a ground intelligence officer, LT had been to some of the most demanding training offered to new Marines, including the Infantry Officer Course. His first posting was with a Military Transition Team in Iraq, and he had only returned a few months ago from that deployment. Pushed into an intelligence job confining him to an office, LT quickly sought out another opportunity and landed at Civil Affairs.
LT was hard. None of his skills had had time to atrophy--he did not know yet how quickly the body and mind forget without sustainment. His expectations of me and the team would be very high, and this scared me. Well, it also motivated me but when I lay alone at night on my bed going over the day I would only see the deficiencies endemic to my "on again, off again" military career.
On this warm Sunday afternoon, however, the conversation was much more abstract. We spoke about the Civil Affairs mission, Afghanistan, politics, food, and women. I'm sure he learned more about me than vice versa, but he was an intelligence officer trained to gather relevant information--that and no one ever had to pull my leg to get me to talk. We conversed until the diner closed at 1400, then walked the four blocks to his westward-facing home.
Sunlight floated onto the porch where we sat with our feet (my shoes, his sandals) propped up on a off-white wooden patio table. I laughed thinking back two days to our conversations at 29 Palms: they were similar in content but took place on metal cots in a freezing K-span 100 miles from a name anyone would recognize. How many more of these informal debriefs would we have over the next year? In how many different places?
The day and the conversation began to cool so we parted ways about 1545, feeling more confident in the next week, each other, and our team. I walked with LT as far as the main road on his way to a haircut, shook his hand, and headed on my way. I drove north on I-5 slowly, letting the sun warm my face as my mind went over the day.
Before being dismissed on Saturday, LT had requested we get together to discuss the team's training schedule and along with some general thoughts on methodology. He lived near the 101 Diner on the Pacific Coast Highway in Encinitas, so we agreed to meet there around 1230.
Finding him in the normal Sunday brunch crowd was not difficult. LT stands a full 6'6" and weighs around 220 pounds. A narrow, intelligent face and piercing green eyes seems almost out of place on top of his large, muscular frame. Even a pair of thin framed glasses could not soften his overall appearance. He spoke deliberately and with good grammar, a deep baritone voice matching his appearance perfectly. I had to remind myself that this 2007 Notre Dame grad was actually two years my junior.
As a ground intelligence officer, LT had been to some of the most demanding training offered to new Marines, including the Infantry Officer Course. His first posting was with a Military Transition Team in Iraq, and he had only returned a few months ago from that deployment. Pushed into an intelligence job confining him to an office, LT quickly sought out another opportunity and landed at Civil Affairs.
LT was hard. None of his skills had had time to atrophy--he did not know yet how quickly the body and mind forget without sustainment. His expectations of me and the team would be very high, and this scared me. Well, it also motivated me but when I lay alone at night on my bed going over the day I would only see the deficiencies endemic to my "on again, off again" military career.
On this warm Sunday afternoon, however, the conversation was much more abstract. We spoke about the Civil Affairs mission, Afghanistan, politics, food, and women. I'm sure he learned more about me than vice versa, but he was an intelligence officer trained to gather relevant information--that and no one ever had to pull my leg to get me to talk. We conversed until the diner closed at 1400, then walked the four blocks to his westward-facing home.
Sunlight floated onto the porch where we sat with our feet (my shoes, his sandals) propped up on a off-white wooden patio table. I laughed thinking back two days to our conversations at 29 Palms: they were similar in content but took place on metal cots in a freezing K-span 100 miles from a name anyone would recognize. How many more of these informal debriefs would we have over the next year? In how many different places?
The day and the conversation began to cool so we parted ways about 1545, feeling more confident in the next week, each other, and our team. I walked with LT as far as the main road on his way to a haircut, shook his hand, and headed on my way. I drove north on I-5 slowly, letting the sun warm my face as my mind went over the day.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Home
After finishing the Convoy Operations Course in 29 Palms, our detachment headed back to my new home: Area 43, also known as Las Pulgas ("the fleas"). Located approximately halfway down Camp Pendleton on its north-south axis, Pulgas is the home of the 11th Marine Artillery Regiment--The Cannon Cockers. The regiment breaks down into batteries, and my unit, Civil Affairs, is attached to Headquarters Battery.
Before heading to 29 Palms, I had left everything I brought in my car, which I parked in the Headquarters Battery parking lot. We turned left on the first road past the baseball diamond/soccer field and I let out a long-held breath: the old Buick was where I left it and appeared intact. Petty theft is not unheard of on base, especially with vehicles loaded to the gills with military paraphernalia.
The convoy pulled onto the parade deck (a big concrete tarmac with metal bleachers on one end) parallel to the Civil Affairs building and we offloaded our gear. Being a Saturday, we could not turn in the vehicles so they were staged in a dirt lot several hundred meters down the road. We also had to take our radios and turn them once they were deemed suitably clean. After everything was completed to our leadership's satisfaction, we were let go and told to be back "on deck" and ready to train on Monday at 0630.
I had one of the Marines show me where the junior enlisted (Sergeant and below) slept, and he directed me to the Duty NCO, a sort of on-call Marine who takes care of problems during the evenings and weekends. She gave me the key to a temporary room used for newbies like myself and a rough sketch of how to get there. Despite my recent work with map reading, navigation, and GPS, I found myself lost in a series of small quadrangles and spent a full twenty minutes finding the room.
A flickering bulb greeted me when I flipped on the light switch. Dusty wall lockers, incomplete bed frames, and a small army of detached lamp shades filled what little space existed. I dropped my stuff off and wandered around Pulgas to get some food and a better sense of the place.
Immediately outside my barracks to the west is the Johnson Mess Hall, named after an old Sergeant Major from WWII. A tiny hill sits behind, crowned with the enlisted club and gym. To the southwest is the PX and parade deck along with most of the regimental headquarter buildings. Further on lies the Chapel, a small but clean white building occupying the highest point in camp.
Radiating out from the center of the base are supply, the armory, a tiny post office, and countless non-descript buildings of various uses--administrative, tactical, and so on. A new barracks is being built just north of my housing complex, and it promises the latest and greatest for the Marines of 2012 and onward.
Several sports fields lie on the eastern portion of the camp near the main access road. Groups of pull-up bars sprout like metal weeds from almost every bare patch of ground. I stopped at the the edge of the camp and shivered suddenly. A cold breeze pushed me back to my barracks room, where I continued reading Craig Mullaney's "A Soldier's Education" and breathed the stale air of my temporary quarters.
Afternoon dissolved into a cold night as I listened to the sounds of young men preparing for a night out with their buddies. Music, bravado, and alcohol flowed all around me and I smiled at its familiarity. Almost like being at Stanford, except the testosterone's about fifteen times higher. I drifted off the sleep around eleven, the barracks finally abandoned by my neighbors in search of the elusively memorably night. I slept soundly, my roots digging tentatively into this new home.
Before heading to 29 Palms, I had left everything I brought in my car, which I parked in the Headquarters Battery parking lot. We turned left on the first road past the baseball diamond/soccer field and I let out a long-held breath: the old Buick was where I left it and appeared intact. Petty theft is not unheard of on base, especially with vehicles loaded to the gills with military paraphernalia.
The convoy pulled onto the parade deck (a big concrete tarmac with metal bleachers on one end) parallel to the Civil Affairs building and we offloaded our gear. Being a Saturday, we could not turn in the vehicles so they were staged in a dirt lot several hundred meters down the road. We also had to take our radios and turn them once they were deemed suitably clean. After everything was completed to our leadership's satisfaction, we were let go and told to be back "on deck" and ready to train on Monday at 0630.
I had one of the Marines show me where the junior enlisted (Sergeant and below) slept, and he directed me to the Duty NCO, a sort of on-call Marine who takes care of problems during the evenings and weekends. She gave me the key to a temporary room used for newbies like myself and a rough sketch of how to get there. Despite my recent work with map reading, navigation, and GPS, I found myself lost in a series of small quadrangles and spent a full twenty minutes finding the room.
A flickering bulb greeted me when I flipped on the light switch. Dusty wall lockers, incomplete bed frames, and a small army of detached lamp shades filled what little space existed. I dropped my stuff off and wandered around Pulgas to get some food and a better sense of the place.
Immediately outside my barracks to the west is the Johnson Mess Hall, named after an old Sergeant Major from WWII. A tiny hill sits behind, crowned with the enlisted club and gym. To the southwest is the PX and parade deck along with most of the regimental headquarter buildings. Further on lies the Chapel, a small but clean white building occupying the highest point in camp.
Radiating out from the center of the base are supply, the armory, a tiny post office, and countless non-descript buildings of various uses--administrative, tactical, and so on. A new barracks is being built just north of my housing complex, and it promises the latest and greatest for the Marines of 2012 and onward.
Several sports fields lie on the eastern portion of the camp near the main access road. Groups of pull-up bars sprout like metal weeds from almost every bare patch of ground. I stopped at the the edge of the camp and shivered suddenly. A cold breeze pushed me back to my barracks room, where I continued reading Craig Mullaney's "A Soldier's Education" and breathed the stale air of my temporary quarters.
Afternoon dissolved into a cold night as I listened to the sounds of young men preparing for a night out with their buddies. Music, bravado, and alcohol flowed all around me and I smiled at its familiarity. Almost like being at Stanford, except the testosterone's about fifteen times higher. I drifted off the sleep around eleven, the barracks finally abandoned by my neighbors in search of the elusively memorably night. I slept soundly, my roots digging tentatively into this new home.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Convoy operations
The rest of the week up to Saturday morning was spent at Camp Wilson on 29 Palms. It's a desert training environment several miles away from the main base, which is many miles away from almost anything resembling civilization. For all intents and purposes, I was completely isolated, and this was exactly what I needed.
Every movement from the billeting area (the half soda can I mentioned in the last post) with my team became an opportunity to get to know them better and slowly ease myself back into the life of a Marine Sergeant. I made the team walk in formation, listened to their problems (two are married, one has a girlfriend, one went through a messy breakup, another should have been promoted last month, et cetera) and laid out my expectations.
During this week I made large strides in terms of my perspective and attitude. It was great to focus on something besides myself for a change. All of my college experience up to this point has been characterized by self-obsession: do the work, snag the internship, get the grades, check the boxes to ensure that good career, meet the people. Thinking instead about how to best prepare my team for Afghanistan was like being reborn.
The training during the week was about perfect for a first week back. The entire group (two teams and most of our headquarters unit) sat in on classes for the first two days with only a little break to practice HEAT and MET. This basically entails sitting in a armored Humvee and MRAP, respectively, that rotates while you are in it, simulating a rollover. After they stop the vehicle, you have to free yourself, get out, and set up security. This becomes very difficult when you are suspended by a seatbelt across your neck from (what is now) the ceiling of an MRAP with fifty pounds of body armor and a rifle.
The third day was a testament to technological progress. Separate bays resembling huge silver eggs were arranged around a combat operations center (i.e. a trailer with high-speed computers in it). Inside each egg was a series of projectors and screen arranged 360 degrees around a model Humvee. Once the program loaded, our teams were able to see each others' vehicles on their screens and go through several convoy scenarios. The guys running the simulation could add other people, IEDs, Obstacles, and blow up our vehicles. After each exercise we collected in one room and discussed what we could have done better.
The fourth and final day was our live convoy training. The instructors left earlier than us (meaning sometime around 0500) and set up compressed air IEDs, pop-up targets, and the like. We ran through an entire route filled with these obstacles, covering less than 10 kilometers in eleven hours. Each time we stopped, the unit practiced immediate action drills for responding to ambushes, IEDs, small arms fire, and other likely scenarios.
My role for most of the training was just a vehicle commander (one of five) sometimes in the lead vehicle, sometimes all the way in the back of the convoy responsible for rear security. It wasn't until the final exercise on the last day I was bumped unexpectedly up to convoy commander.
This was something the LT had mentioned I might have to do. It involves directing all the vehicles, calling to headquarters to report any issues, and generally making sure we don't get killed or lost. I was not feeling terribly prepared for this less than 100 hours back into the Corps but I couldn't exactly tell them no.
We kicked off my convoy slowly--there were lots of problem with our radios (collectively referred to as "comm"). Eventually we all had to switch to one frequency, which complicated the radio traffic significantly. I let HQ know we were rolling past checkpoint 5, and they gave the green light to proceed on our way. About one kilometer later, I dispatched two vehicles to check out a wadi (dried river bed) running perpendicular to our route, and soon realized this would be my test.
"Victor 2, be advised, there is a MAM (military age male) squatting by the side of the road. He appears to be digging. How should I proceed? Over." This transmission kicked off a 45-minute period of nonstop radio calls and heightened anxiety on my part as I struggled to use my brand-new training and almost-atrophied skills to call in the reports, clear the IED our "insurgent" had planted, and question the detainee. Whether it lived up to my ever-increasing standards or not, we at least accomplished all the missions and I lost it on the radio.
After a good late night team PT session of pullups, carrying sandbags, dips, and situps, the LT and I talked with the team about the course we had just completed. We touched on point after point related to their professional, personal, and unit performance. The junior Marines stood around us, sweating from the workout despite the cold desert air, their faces flush with exuberance at the successful completion of the week.
I woke up the next morning at 0500, ready to convoy back to Camp Pendleton but a little sad our team's first training had to end. The men were beginning to stand our in my head as distinct personalities with problems, senses of humor, personality quirks. I paused while conducting radio checks in the predawn light, thinking of how far I'd come in five days. It felt great to be responsible for Marines again, to be part of something larger than myself. The moment passed and I turned to the next task before we could turn our vehicles toward home.
Every movement from the billeting area (the half soda can I mentioned in the last post) with my team became an opportunity to get to know them better and slowly ease myself back into the life of a Marine Sergeant. I made the team walk in formation, listened to their problems (two are married, one has a girlfriend, one went through a messy breakup, another should have been promoted last month, et cetera) and laid out my expectations.
During this week I made large strides in terms of my perspective and attitude. It was great to focus on something besides myself for a change. All of my college experience up to this point has been characterized by self-obsession: do the work, snag the internship, get the grades, check the boxes to ensure that good career, meet the people. Thinking instead about how to best prepare my team for Afghanistan was like being reborn.
The training during the week was about perfect for a first week back. The entire group (two teams and most of our headquarters unit) sat in on classes for the first two days with only a little break to practice HEAT and MET. This basically entails sitting in a armored Humvee and MRAP, respectively, that rotates while you are in it, simulating a rollover. After they stop the vehicle, you have to free yourself, get out, and set up security. This becomes very difficult when you are suspended by a seatbelt across your neck from (what is now) the ceiling of an MRAP with fifty pounds of body armor and a rifle.
The third day was a testament to technological progress. Separate bays resembling huge silver eggs were arranged around a combat operations center (i.e. a trailer with high-speed computers in it). Inside each egg was a series of projectors and screen arranged 360 degrees around a model Humvee. Once the program loaded, our teams were able to see each others' vehicles on their screens and go through several convoy scenarios. The guys running the simulation could add other people, IEDs, Obstacles, and blow up our vehicles. After each exercise we collected in one room and discussed what we could have done better.
The fourth and final day was our live convoy training. The instructors left earlier than us (meaning sometime around 0500) and set up compressed air IEDs, pop-up targets, and the like. We ran through an entire route filled with these obstacles, covering less than 10 kilometers in eleven hours. Each time we stopped, the unit practiced immediate action drills for responding to ambushes, IEDs, small arms fire, and other likely scenarios.
My role for most of the training was just a vehicle commander (one of five) sometimes in the lead vehicle, sometimes all the way in the back of the convoy responsible for rear security. It wasn't until the final exercise on the last day I was bumped unexpectedly up to convoy commander.
This was something the LT had mentioned I might have to do. It involves directing all the vehicles, calling to headquarters to report any issues, and generally making sure we don't get killed or lost. I was not feeling terribly prepared for this less than 100 hours back into the Corps but I couldn't exactly tell them no.
We kicked off my convoy slowly--there were lots of problem with our radios (collectively referred to as "comm"). Eventually we all had to switch to one frequency, which complicated the radio traffic significantly. I let HQ know we were rolling past checkpoint 5, and they gave the green light to proceed on our way. About one kilometer later, I dispatched two vehicles to check out a wadi (dried river bed) running perpendicular to our route, and soon realized this would be my test.
"Victor 2, be advised, there is a MAM (military age male) squatting by the side of the road. He appears to be digging. How should I proceed? Over." This transmission kicked off a 45-minute period of nonstop radio calls and heightened anxiety on my part as I struggled to use my brand-new training and almost-atrophied skills to call in the reports, clear the IED our "insurgent" had planted, and question the detainee. Whether it lived up to my ever-increasing standards or not, we at least accomplished all the missions and I lost it on the radio.
After a good late night team PT session of pullups, carrying sandbags, dips, and situps, the LT and I talked with the team about the course we had just completed. We touched on point after point related to their professional, personal, and unit performance. The junior Marines stood around us, sweating from the workout despite the cold desert air, their faces flush with exuberance at the successful completion of the week.
I woke up the next morning at 0500, ready to convoy back to Camp Pendleton but a little sad our team's first training had to end. The men were beginning to stand our in my head as distinct personalities with problems, senses of humor, personality quirks. I paused while conducting radio checks in the predawn light, thinking of how far I'd come in five days. It felt great to be responsible for Marines again, to be part of something larger than myself. The moment passed and I turned to the next task before we could turn our vehicles toward home.
First day back
I arrived at Camp Pendleton late Sunday night (April 4th) and snagged a temporary room for the night. The headquarters unit was already expecting me at 0730 so I only had a few hours to kill. Sleep didn't come easy, I was too excited about returning to the Corps after a year and a half away. Unfortunately, I hadn't even spent a day back in the Corps yet, and would describe myself as 5% back into "Marine mode".
The next morning was a great example of how much prior planning can avert headaches. I think I spent less than three hours running around base and managed to: 1) check in to the 1st Marine Division, 2) get my orders to 11th Marines, 3) get an ID card made, 4) register my vehicle, 5) start my financial paperwork, and 6) get issued all my field gear.
11th Marines is located at Las Pulgas (AKA Area 43) about twenty minutes from the main southern gate at Pendleton. I pulled up with my Buick full to bursting with all kinds of junk and reported in to my unit, Civil Affairs. My Lieutenant (from here on out known simply as "LT") met me and cheerfully informed me I had about fifteen minutes to assemble my Flak Jacket and find a Kevlar Combat Helmet--I was going to be a vehicle commander in our convoy to another Marine base out in the desert called 29 Palms.
Less than an hour later I stood equipped with most of my gear assembled, a borrowed helmet, an M4 rifle, and an armored Humvee with three Marines I had never met and a large M240B medium machine gun. "Welcome back", the Detachment Gunnery Sergeant told me, "You're now responsible for these guys and that vehicle. Make sure everything is good to go."
We left shortly after our convoy brief. It was a jumble of route names I didn't recognize, acronyms that had been created since my last tour, and a passenger list with only one familiar name: Treseder. I felt lost and completely unready. I wanted to raise my hand and call a timeout so I could review a few of my old notes on radio protocol and vehicle inspections. No one heard my mental request, and I tried to look like I was completely at ease. Unfortunately, it worked.
As the convoy commander gave the signal to head out, I steeled my resolve and tugged on the armored Humvee door; it's 350 lb weight a reminder I was not in the civilian world anymore. The vehicles (called "Vicks" in military radio jargon) rumbled to life and pulled out of the parking lot.
Besides my driver not remembering to switch the transfer case to 4-low on our drive (and thus slowing the entire convoy to a crawl on several inclines) nothing too crazy happened. LA traffic, which is not anymore fun in a military convoy, turned our 4-hour movement into a 6 and a half hour ordeal. We arrived in one piece and I silently congratulated myself on not doing anything stupid.
After finding our housing (a large building resembling half of a 150 foot soda can on its side) and fueling up the Humvees, we turned to the all-important tasks of hygiene and hitting the rack (AKA sleeping). Everyone was bone tired and just threw their gear down, but I was now 15% back into Marine mode and remembered enough to make all the guys from my team (#1, of course) put their cots together.
I spoke briefly with the LT about how the day went, our training schedule, and even swapped a few personal stories. He and I immediately hit it off--this was going to be a great deployment. Up to 20% Marine, my thoughts rested squarely on whether I would live up to his expectations of me as a college-educated and experience Sergeant.
When I was in Iraq I always brushed my teeth by the moonlight for some reason and I immediately slid back into this habit. Something about not having lights, I guess. As I stood in the darkened desert with a full starry sky sitting patiently over my head, I shook my head slowly and a smile half appeared.
Welcome back, indeed.
The next morning was a great example of how much prior planning can avert headaches. I think I spent less than three hours running around base and managed to: 1) check in to the 1st Marine Division, 2) get my orders to 11th Marines, 3) get an ID card made, 4) register my vehicle, 5) start my financial paperwork, and 6) get issued all my field gear.
11th Marines is located at Las Pulgas (AKA Area 43) about twenty minutes from the main southern gate at Pendleton. I pulled up with my Buick full to bursting with all kinds of junk and reported in to my unit, Civil Affairs. My Lieutenant (from here on out known simply as "LT") met me and cheerfully informed me I had about fifteen minutes to assemble my Flak Jacket and find a Kevlar Combat Helmet--I was going to be a vehicle commander in our convoy to another Marine base out in the desert called 29 Palms.
Less than an hour later I stood equipped with most of my gear assembled, a borrowed helmet, an M4 rifle, and an armored Humvee with three Marines I had never met and a large M240B medium machine gun. "Welcome back", the Detachment Gunnery Sergeant told me, "You're now responsible for these guys and that vehicle. Make sure everything is good to go."
We left shortly after our convoy brief. It was a jumble of route names I didn't recognize, acronyms that had been created since my last tour, and a passenger list with only one familiar name: Treseder. I felt lost and completely unready. I wanted to raise my hand and call a timeout so I could review a few of my old notes on radio protocol and vehicle inspections. No one heard my mental request, and I tried to look like I was completely at ease. Unfortunately, it worked.
As the convoy commander gave the signal to head out, I steeled my resolve and tugged on the armored Humvee door; it's 350 lb weight a reminder I was not in the civilian world anymore. The vehicles (called "Vicks" in military radio jargon) rumbled to life and pulled out of the parking lot.
Besides my driver not remembering to switch the transfer case to 4-low on our drive (and thus slowing the entire convoy to a crawl on several inclines) nothing too crazy happened. LA traffic, which is not anymore fun in a military convoy, turned our 4-hour movement into a 6 and a half hour ordeal. We arrived in one piece and I silently congratulated myself on not doing anything stupid.
After finding our housing (a large building resembling half of a 150 foot soda can on its side) and fueling up the Humvees, we turned to the all-important tasks of hygiene and hitting the rack (AKA sleeping). Everyone was bone tired and just threw their gear down, but I was now 15% back into Marine mode and remembered enough to make all the guys from my team (#1, of course) put their cots together.
I spoke briefly with the LT about how the day went, our training schedule, and even swapped a few personal stories. He and I immediately hit it off--this was going to be a great deployment. Up to 20% Marine, my thoughts rested squarely on whether I would live up to his expectations of me as a college-educated and experience Sergeant.
When I was in Iraq I always brushed my teeth by the moonlight for some reason and I immediately slid back into this habit. Something about not having lights, I guess. As I stood in the darkened desert with a full starry sky sitting patiently over my head, I shook my head slowly and a smile half appeared.
Welcome back, indeed.
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