For those of who who aren't familiar with the way wars are fought by Marines, this might help.
1) My call sign is “Fires”, because as the Kilo Company Fire Support Team Leader, I controlled all Fires. My call sign will always have a capital F. A lower case f, as in “fires,” refers to the bullets or bombs coming out of anyone’s weapon. There are friendly fires, and enemy fires.
2) There are 4 platoons:
1st Platoon- Call sign- “1 Actual”- Led by Lieutenant Toby, in Humvees.
2nd Platoon- Call sign- “2 Actual”- Led by Lieutenant Boden, on foot.
3rd Platoon- Call sign- “3 Actual”- Led by Lieutenant Hui (Vietcong) Chong, on foot.
Mobile Assault Platoon- Call sign- “ Kilo Mobile”- Led by Sergeant Cox in Humvees.
Captain Anderson is the Company Commander- Call sign- “6”
3) When we speak on the radio, we always say the call sign of the person we are speaking to first, so that we get their attention. Then we say our own call sign, so that they know who is speaking to them. If someone was blind, and I wanted to speak to them, I would say “Jim this is Donny.”
4) During most daylight hours, we had air support flying overhead, using their cameras to look for bad guys. We had all types of air support: F 18s, F 16s, Cobra Helicopters, AV8 Harriers, and Predator drones. Every where my Fire Support team went we carried a Toughbook laptop in a backpack that allowed us to see whatever the cameras on the aircraft could see. This video feed helped spill lots of enemy blood.
Technology rocks. Enjoy.
DISCLAIMER!
I want to make it clear that my experience in Afghanistan was weak compared to what many other Marines have done in the past, and even to the Marines who fought in the city to the south of me while I was there, in Sangin.
As exciting as some of my stories might seem to those who have never been to combat, they are nothing in the grand scheme of Marine battles and combat experiences. I am humbled every day by those who have gone into battle before me, into places much more violent and dangerous than the places I went. I worship the Marines, and the grounds these other Marines have fought on. Grounds like Sangin District, the Korengal Valley, Fallujah, Ramadi, Baghdad, Hue City, the Arizona Territory in Vietnam, Korea, the Puson Perimeter, Guadalcanal, Pelileu, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, Belleau Wood, Germany, France, and the list goes on. I wish with all my heart I could have been there with those Marines on all of those battlefields to enjoy the misery and camaraderie with a joke and a smile. Instead, I was placed into a mediocrely dangerous area with a decent amount of IED’s and enemy fighters, but with much better training than those who had gone before me. A lot of Marines died learning lessons the hard way in Afghanistan, making it easier for me.
I write about my experiences because I can, because it does not hurt me to do so. Those who had it worse than me, who saw more Marines die and get hurt, who patrolled through more mine fields, and who were not fully prepared for what they saw, don’t want to write about their stories because it hurts to think about them. I acknowledge this, and as you read about my experiences, I ask that you do too.
I promised myself I would write a book that Marines would love, and that many civilians would be disgusted by. So far, I have read 6 books about war that were written by Marine Officers. They were all great books, both entertaining and motivational, but written by a professional, for professionals. Not a single book has been as honest and open about the thrill and joy of hunting and killing the enemy as they should have been. Many of those books have spoken about killing and hunting being exciting, but I have yet to read a single book that describes the sick, twisted, and comical blood lust that was experienced by myself and most of the Marines I served with. Sometimes in combat, Marines act like giddy, immature, horny, schoolgirls who are getting ready for prom. I am happy to be the first to explain this truthfully, from my point of view.
As a Marine Officer, I am held to a higher standard of political correctness, especially when speaking with civilians. I am expected to speak about war, combat, killing, battles, and death, in a manner that does not offend anyone, does not scare anyone, and does not make the general population question my sanity.
Fuck that.
I am going to speak about war the way I was trained from day one by my Marine Corps instructors. This is the same way that I, and every other Marine I knew, spoke about it every single day up until we went to war, and every day we were fighting the war.
We speak about war the way a football coach speaks about the next football game. We speak about it like we love it, and can’t wait to do it again. Every day of classroom training at The Basic School involved watching several videos of Marines in combat. 300 students, all new Lieutenants, would laugh, yell, chant, and get hard ons watching videos of other Marines killing the enemy. We would dissect battles and discuss what was done well and what was done poorly. As we did this, I was reminded of high school football. Every week we watched film of our football games, doing the same dissection of our team, and our performance.
To Marines, war is a sport. A very dangerous and serious sport, but nevertheless a sport.
When it comes to large-scale battles, invasions, and occupancy, the Marine Infantry is the best team in the world, in this sport.
When I deployed to Afghanistan, we brought one thousand Marines into a large area and were told, “Take care of the people, earn their trust, help them repair their city, build their Army, Police, and infrastructure, and kill as many Taliban as you can.”
The rules of this sport stated:
1) You cannot kill anyone unless they show intent to kill you first.
2) You cannot hurt civilians while killing the enemy.
3) You must provide medical care to all enemy and civilians who can be saved.
These are the equivalent rules in football:
1) You cannot tackle a player unless he has the ball.
2) You cannot hurt the fans or sideline players.
3) You must play with good sportsmanship and respect for your opponent, the fans, and the game.
Nobody in their right mind would dare call something as disgusting, horrific, and terrible as war, a sport.
Unless they were a Marine.
Play ball!
Operation Branding Iron Part II
We were in the middle of Taliban Country, far away from Battalion’s ability to support us. I was in the back of a large Humvee with my Fire Support Team and my Company Commander. We had a Predator drone overhead, with five bad guys in the crosshairs of its Hellfire missile, and my Commander was scared to fire because he risked losing his job if we killed any civilians. We knew these guys were not innocent civilians, and still, he would not make a decision.
On the video feed from the Predator drone, were five men who had just attacked us with machine guns and RPG’s. One RPG missed a truck full of my Marines by about three feet, causing the turret gunner to literally shit his pants, and still, my Company Commander would not clear me to kill these five men.
My Humvee was the Command and Control Vehicle for the Company. From the vehicle, my Commander could command the entire battlefield, and my team could control all Fire Support. Four of us sat side by side on one side of the Humvee facing our maps, radios, computers, and two flat screens mounted to the opposite wall of the Humvee. My Company Commander sat to my left, Lieutenant Kay, my Artillery Forward observer sat to my right, and Sergeant Dafflitto, our Aircraft Controller, sat to his right. Our eyes were fixed on the flat screen TV that was connected to our special Toughbook laptop, that was showing us the video feed from the Predator drone. On it showed five Taliban men sitting cross-legged Indian style in a circle, with weapons at their sides.
Every part of my body was on the verge of exploding. My palms were sweating profusely, my hands were shaking, and my stomach was tied in knots. I wanted to turn to my Company Commander and scream in his face at the top of my lungs, like a baseball coach yelling at an umpire, hopefully spitting all over his face as I yelled. “LET ME KILL THESE FUCKING COCKROACHES! YOUR HESITATION IS GOING TO GET MARINES KILLED! THEY JUST FUCKING ATTACKED US YOU WEAK MINDED FUCKING PUSSY!”
Then I wanted to throw him onto the floor of the Humvee and pummel his face with my fists until I heard both his orbital bones crack and the rest of my team had to pull me off of him.
I was angry because we might let five Taliban get away. I was nervous because I was seriously considering hitting my Company Commander. That might have quickly ended my career as a Marine Officer.
I kept my hands to myself, I kept my mind calm, and thought of a better way to convince him to let me kill these men.
On the screen were five men who needed to die. Not only did they need to die, they wanted to die. I swear I saw one of the men looked directly at the camera on the Predator drone and mouthed the words “Could you please blow me and my friends up? We would really appreciate it. This place sucks and all the virgins are in the afterlife!”
That could have just been my imagination, but I believed it at the time.
It was a known fact, that if someone joined the Taliban, they wanted to die. I was happy to oblige their wishes, and in fact, it would have been rude of me not to.
This is the story of how those five men made it perfectly clear to me that they were dying to die.......
“Kilo Fires this is Three Actual, we are taking heavy machine gun fire from the north. We are currently pinned down.” Lieutenant Chong was yelling over the sound of his own machine gunners returning fire. I could hear the third platoon machine guns rattling over the radio. I could also hear Marines yelling in the background; they were trying to figure out where the enemy fire was coming from.
“I Copy, third platoon is taking fire from the North. Can you give me a compound number?” I asked.
“Roger Fires, Standby” Chong responded.
“Break, Break,” Sgt Cox, Commanding the Mobile Assault Platoon, came on the radio sounding calm, as always. “Fires this is Kilo Mobile, our lead Vic is taking heavy and accurate machine gun fire from the east, standby for compound number”
“Copy Mobile, standing by for compound number” I replied.
“Fires this is Three Actual, enemy machine gunner is in compound 12, 13, 14, or 15. Or possibly 22. How copy?” I turned to my right and said to Kay and Dafflitto “Did he really think that was helpful?” They chuckled, it was Chong, and we had come to expect this.
I turned back to my radio and stayed professional, although I had every right to be a smartass. “Roger Three, if you can narrow that down I can drop some mortars, but I need you to pinpoint the shooters”
“Solid Copy Fires, standby.” Chong was funny over the radio. He was from Vietnam and didn’t come to the states until he was 15. His English was terrible, and we reminded him everyday that we knew he was secretly a Vietcong. He would always laugh.
“Fires, this is Kilo Mobile. That machine gun fire is coming from compound 13.”
As he finished his last syllable I heard about ten loud snapping sounds over the radio. It was the sound of bullets hitting Sgt Cox’s truck. “Fires, my Vic is currently taking accurate machine gun fire.” Sgt Cox sounded bored, which was standard for him. The more crazy the situation, the more calm he seemed. Sgt Cox should have taken his hand off the handset, but I’m glad he didn’t, because everyone on the radio got to hear him yell. “WHALEY, LIGHT EM UP.” Seconds later the sound of Lance Corporal Whaley’s Mark 19-automatic grenade launcher filled every radio in the Company that was on the Company channel. It was a beautiful noise. “THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP.”
Through the radio, I could hear the sound of every grenade as it left the tube, and since the radio was still on, we could hear Sgt Cox say to his driver, “That gun is so fuckin awesome dude. Listen to that shit, it’s like, so relaxing.”
Through my turret, I could hear the sounds of the grenades exploding. “GUSH GUSH GUSH GUSH” I turned to my right and said with a big smile to Lt Kay and Sgt Dafflitto, “Goddamn that’s cool.”
Everyone in the truck started smiling, the boys were having fun.
“Fires, this is Mobile, we are returning fire with the Mark 19 onto compound 13.” Sgt Cox said this not knowing we already heard everything.
“Yeah we heard you Cox.” Most radio transmissions are very short, direct, and professional, but sometimes we get silly.
“Fires, this is One Actual.” I heard gunshots in the background as Toby radioed me.
“One, go for Fires”
“We’re taking fire, standby for compound number”
I looked to my left at my Captain Anderson with a confused look, as if to say "wow, this is a pretty heavy attack," then looked at my map, and responded to Toby, “Roger One, standing by.”
Things were heating up. I was quickly filling my map with all the new potential enemy positions. We use symbols for enemy positions, friendly positions, and even for the different types of weapons systems. This ensures that I know where everyone and everything is placed on the battlefield. They resemble the symbols used in a football playbook, but with greater variety.
I enjoyed understanding the entire battlefield; it gave me power and control, which I was always trying to wrestle away from Captain Anderson. Although I was the subordinate Officer, I believed I was better. Marine Corps discipline required me to do what he said, so I had to be sly if I wanted control. Since I was afraid of his poor decisions getting Marines hurt, I knew I had to control as much as I could. The platoon commanders and I talked between every mission, and even during missions, about his poor decisions and his hesitation on the battlefield. The platoons were almost always in front of me on the battlefield, getting shot at first, and I was often stuck one compound back with the Company Commander. I was our only buffer between his orders, and what the platoons actually did. If I understood the battlefield better than Captain Anderson, and he knew it, he would have to rely on my judgment, and let me make decisions. My goal was to know every inch of the battlefield better than everyone, so that I could keep the power in my hands, and make decisions that kept more of us alive, and more of the enemy dead. This goal pushed me to perform better and with more focus than I ever had in my entire life.
I now know why war vets keep talking about the war that occurred 60 years ago. In combat, they were the best version of themselves they had ever known.
I looked at my map and recognized the cleverness of the enemy strategy. The first attack on third platoon drew the whole Company’s attention to the northeastern front. This caused the Mobile Assault Platoon, who was farther north, to drive south, with their eyes on the buildings to the south. The enemy then attacked them from the flank as they drove. With all of our attention on those two attacks, the enemy attacked First platoon who was a kilometer to the south, on the other side of the battlefield, attempting to cause confusion. It was not working.
“Fires, this is One Actual”
“Go for Fires”
“We are taking fire from Compound 32 in Sector 7 Zulu. Its nothing heavy, just pop shots. We’re going to engage with the 50”
Without prompting Sgt Dafflitto began directing the pilot of the Predator drone to look at Compound 32 in Sector 7 Zulu. Dafflitto was always on point.
I looked at my map and realized that if the Humvee with the 50 caliber machine gun was in the same position that Tony last reported, its fires would be coming a little close to second platoon. This is called “bad geometry. “
“One, this is Fires, make sure your fires are all oriented east, don’t fire anything to the north, I don’t want your fires coming close to second platoon”
“Solid Copy Fires, I’ll fix my geometry” Tony replied.
Lieutenant Boden, the second platoon commander, came on the radio with a smartass tone and said, “Yeah try not to shoot my platoon with the 50 cal. please.”
I smiled and looked at Captain Anderson, but he wasn’t smiling. He was talking to Battalion on SatCom. In his hands was the keyboard to the Blue Force Tracker, which he was typing on to relay our grid coordinates to Battalion. He focused all his energy into reporting everything as it happened, and left me to control things. I was ecstatic. As a young Lieutenant I was controlling an entire Marine Company. It was the happiest I had ever been in my entire 28 years of life, and I had a great life. There were many times in Afghanistan that I had a sentimental moment in the middle of something awesome or terrible, and thought, this is exactly where I belong.
This was one of those moments. I felt like I ruled that tiny little piece of the world. It was like playing Risk, Chess, and Call of Duty, with serious consequences.
I heard the 50 cal. rattling in the distance. It sounded lovely. I was imagining a bad guy getting ripped apart as I listened. I daydream a lot, and for a split second, I fell into a daydream. I snapped out of it and I looked down at my crotch. My dick was getting hard, again. Wow, I thought. I am really fucked up in the head. What the fuck is wrong with me? I secretly enjoyed the thought of my own sickness.
Just to double-check my own sanity I turned to Kay and said “Hey bro is your dick hard?”
He responded with a serious face and a nod, “I definitely have some blood flow, but I don’t think I’ll get fully hard until someone confirms a kill”
This made me feel a lot better about myself. I smiled knowing nothing was wrong with me, I was just a Marine.
It wasn’t the first nor the last time I got a chub in battle….
1) My call sign is “Fires”, because as the Kilo Company Fire Support Team Leader, I controlled all Fires. My call sign will always have a capital F. A lower case f, as in “fires,” refers to the bullets or bombs coming out of anyone’s weapon. There are friendly fires, and enemy fires.
2) There are 4 platoons:
1st Platoon- Call sign- “1 Actual”- Led by Lieutenant Toby, in Humvees.
2nd Platoon- Call sign- “2 Actual”- Led by Lieutenant Boden, on foot.
3rd Platoon- Call sign- “3 Actual”- Led by Lieutenant Hui (Vietcong) Chong, on foot.
Mobile Assault Platoon- Call sign- “ Kilo Mobile”- Led by Sergeant Cox in Humvees.
Captain Anderson is the Company Commander- Call sign- “6”
3) When we speak on the radio, we always say the call sign of the person we are speaking to first, so that we get their attention. Then we say our own call sign, so that they know who is speaking to them. If someone was blind, and I wanted to speak to them, I would say “Jim this is Donny.”
4) During most daylight hours, we had air support flying overhead, using their cameras to look for bad guys. We had all types of air support: F 18s, F 16s, Cobra Helicopters, AV8 Harriers, and Predator drones. Every where my Fire Support team went we carried a Toughbook laptop in a backpack that allowed us to see whatever the cameras on the aircraft could see. This video feed helped spill lots of enemy blood.
Technology rocks. Enjoy.
DISCLAIMER!
I want to make it clear that my experience in Afghanistan was weak compared to what many other Marines have done in the past, and even to the Marines who fought in the city to the south of me while I was there, in Sangin.
As exciting as some of my stories might seem to those who have never been to combat, they are nothing in the grand scheme of Marine battles and combat experiences. I am humbled every day by those who have gone into battle before me, into places much more violent and dangerous than the places I went. I worship the Marines, and the grounds these other Marines have fought on. Grounds like Sangin District, the Korengal Valley, Fallujah, Ramadi, Baghdad, Hue City, the Arizona Territory in Vietnam, Korea, the Puson Perimeter, Guadalcanal, Pelileu, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, Belleau Wood, Germany, France, and the list goes on. I wish with all my heart I could have been there with those Marines on all of those battlefields to enjoy the misery and camaraderie with a joke and a smile. Instead, I was placed into a mediocrely dangerous area with a decent amount of IED’s and enemy fighters, but with much better training than those who had gone before me. A lot of Marines died learning lessons the hard way in Afghanistan, making it easier for me.
I write about my experiences because I can, because it does not hurt me to do so. Those who had it worse than me, who saw more Marines die and get hurt, who patrolled through more mine fields, and who were not fully prepared for what they saw, don’t want to write about their stories because it hurts to think about them. I acknowledge this, and as you read about my experiences, I ask that you do too.
I promised myself I would write a book that Marines would love, and that many civilians would be disgusted by. So far, I have read 6 books about war that were written by Marine Officers. They were all great books, both entertaining and motivational, but written by a professional, for professionals. Not a single book has been as honest and open about the thrill and joy of hunting and killing the enemy as they should have been. Many of those books have spoken about killing and hunting being exciting, but I have yet to read a single book that describes the sick, twisted, and comical blood lust that was experienced by myself and most of the Marines I served with. Sometimes in combat, Marines act like giddy, immature, horny, schoolgirls who are getting ready for prom. I am happy to be the first to explain this truthfully, from my point of view.
As a Marine Officer, I am held to a higher standard of political correctness, especially when speaking with civilians. I am expected to speak about war, combat, killing, battles, and death, in a manner that does not offend anyone, does not scare anyone, and does not make the general population question my sanity.
Fuck that.
I am going to speak about war the way I was trained from day one by my Marine Corps instructors. This is the same way that I, and every other Marine I knew, spoke about it every single day up until we went to war, and every day we were fighting the war.
We speak about war the way a football coach speaks about the next football game. We speak about it like we love it, and can’t wait to do it again. Every day of classroom training at The Basic School involved watching several videos of Marines in combat. 300 students, all new Lieutenants, would laugh, yell, chant, and get hard ons watching videos of other Marines killing the enemy. We would dissect battles and discuss what was done well and what was done poorly. As we did this, I was reminded of high school football. Every week we watched film of our football games, doing the same dissection of our team, and our performance.
To Marines, war is a sport. A very dangerous and serious sport, but nevertheless a sport.
When it comes to large-scale battles, invasions, and occupancy, the Marine Infantry is the best team in the world, in this sport.
When I deployed to Afghanistan, we brought one thousand Marines into a large area and were told, “Take care of the people, earn their trust, help them repair their city, build their Army, Police, and infrastructure, and kill as many Taliban as you can.”
The rules of this sport stated:
1) You cannot kill anyone unless they show intent to kill you first.
2) You cannot hurt civilians while killing the enemy.
3) You must provide medical care to all enemy and civilians who can be saved.
These are the equivalent rules in football:
1) You cannot tackle a player unless he has the ball.
2) You cannot hurt the fans or sideline players.
3) You must play with good sportsmanship and respect for your opponent, the fans, and the game.
Nobody in their right mind would dare call something as disgusting, horrific, and terrible as war, a sport.
Unless they were a Marine.
Play ball!
Operation Branding Iron Part II
We were in the middle of Taliban Country, far away from Battalion’s ability to support us. I was in the back of a large Humvee with my Fire Support Team and my Company Commander. We had a Predator drone overhead, with five bad guys in the crosshairs of its Hellfire missile, and my Commander was scared to fire because he risked losing his job if we killed any civilians. We knew these guys were not innocent civilians, and still, he would not make a decision.
On the video feed from the Predator drone, were five men who had just attacked us with machine guns and RPG’s. One RPG missed a truck full of my Marines by about three feet, causing the turret gunner to literally shit his pants, and still, my Company Commander would not clear me to kill these five men.
My Humvee was the Command and Control Vehicle for the Company. From the vehicle, my Commander could command the entire battlefield, and my team could control all Fire Support. Four of us sat side by side on one side of the Humvee facing our maps, radios, computers, and two flat screens mounted to the opposite wall of the Humvee. My Company Commander sat to my left, Lieutenant Kay, my Artillery Forward observer sat to my right, and Sergeant Dafflitto, our Aircraft Controller, sat to his right. Our eyes were fixed on the flat screen TV that was connected to our special Toughbook laptop, that was showing us the video feed from the Predator drone. On it showed five Taliban men sitting cross-legged Indian style in a circle, with weapons at their sides.
Every part of my body was on the verge of exploding. My palms were sweating profusely, my hands were shaking, and my stomach was tied in knots. I wanted to turn to my Company Commander and scream in his face at the top of my lungs, like a baseball coach yelling at an umpire, hopefully spitting all over his face as I yelled. “LET ME KILL THESE FUCKING COCKROACHES! YOUR HESITATION IS GOING TO GET MARINES KILLED! THEY JUST FUCKING ATTACKED US YOU WEAK MINDED FUCKING PUSSY!”
Then I wanted to throw him onto the floor of the Humvee and pummel his face with my fists until I heard both his orbital bones crack and the rest of my team had to pull me off of him.
I was angry because we might let five Taliban get away. I was nervous because I was seriously considering hitting my Company Commander. That might have quickly ended my career as a Marine Officer.
I kept my hands to myself, I kept my mind calm, and thought of a better way to convince him to let me kill these men.
On the screen were five men who needed to die. Not only did they need to die, they wanted to die. I swear I saw one of the men looked directly at the camera on the Predator drone and mouthed the words “Could you please blow me and my friends up? We would really appreciate it. This place sucks and all the virgins are in the afterlife!”
That could have just been my imagination, but I believed it at the time.
It was a known fact, that if someone joined the Taliban, they wanted to die. I was happy to oblige their wishes, and in fact, it would have been rude of me not to.
This is the story of how those five men made it perfectly clear to me that they were dying to die.......
“Kilo Fires this is Three Actual, we are taking heavy machine gun fire from the north. We are currently pinned down.” Lieutenant Chong was yelling over the sound of his own machine gunners returning fire. I could hear the third platoon machine guns rattling over the radio. I could also hear Marines yelling in the background; they were trying to figure out where the enemy fire was coming from.
“I Copy, third platoon is taking fire from the North. Can you give me a compound number?” I asked.
“Roger Fires, Standby” Chong responded.
“Break, Break,” Sgt Cox, Commanding the Mobile Assault Platoon, came on the radio sounding calm, as always. “Fires this is Kilo Mobile, our lead Vic is taking heavy and accurate machine gun fire from the east, standby for compound number”
“Copy Mobile, standing by for compound number” I replied.
“Fires this is Three Actual, enemy machine gunner is in compound 12, 13, 14, or 15. Or possibly 22. How copy?” I turned to my right and said to Kay and Dafflitto “Did he really think that was helpful?” They chuckled, it was Chong, and we had come to expect this.
I turned back to my radio and stayed professional, although I had every right to be a smartass. “Roger Three, if you can narrow that down I can drop some mortars, but I need you to pinpoint the shooters”
“Solid Copy Fires, standby.” Chong was funny over the radio. He was from Vietnam and didn’t come to the states until he was 15. His English was terrible, and we reminded him everyday that we knew he was secretly a Vietcong. He would always laugh.
“Fires, this is Kilo Mobile. That machine gun fire is coming from compound 13.”
As he finished his last syllable I heard about ten loud snapping sounds over the radio. It was the sound of bullets hitting Sgt Cox’s truck. “Fires, my Vic is currently taking accurate machine gun fire.” Sgt Cox sounded bored, which was standard for him. The more crazy the situation, the more calm he seemed. Sgt Cox should have taken his hand off the handset, but I’m glad he didn’t, because everyone on the radio got to hear him yell. “WHALEY, LIGHT EM UP.” Seconds later the sound of Lance Corporal Whaley’s Mark 19-automatic grenade launcher filled every radio in the Company that was on the Company channel. It was a beautiful noise. “THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP.”
Through the radio, I could hear the sound of every grenade as it left the tube, and since the radio was still on, we could hear Sgt Cox say to his driver, “That gun is so fuckin awesome dude. Listen to that shit, it’s like, so relaxing.”
Through my turret, I could hear the sounds of the grenades exploding. “GUSH GUSH GUSH GUSH” I turned to my right and said with a big smile to Lt Kay and Sgt Dafflitto, “Goddamn that’s cool.”
Everyone in the truck started smiling, the boys were having fun.
“Fires, this is Mobile, we are returning fire with the Mark 19 onto compound 13.” Sgt Cox said this not knowing we already heard everything.
“Yeah we heard you Cox.” Most radio transmissions are very short, direct, and professional, but sometimes we get silly.
“Fires, this is One Actual.” I heard gunshots in the background as Toby radioed me.
“One, go for Fires”
“We’re taking fire, standby for compound number”
I looked to my left at my Captain Anderson with a confused look, as if to say "wow, this is a pretty heavy attack," then looked at my map, and responded to Toby, “Roger One, standing by.”
Things were heating up. I was quickly filling my map with all the new potential enemy positions. We use symbols for enemy positions, friendly positions, and even for the different types of weapons systems. This ensures that I know where everyone and everything is placed on the battlefield. They resemble the symbols used in a football playbook, but with greater variety.
I enjoyed understanding the entire battlefield; it gave me power and control, which I was always trying to wrestle away from Captain Anderson. Although I was the subordinate Officer, I believed I was better. Marine Corps discipline required me to do what he said, so I had to be sly if I wanted control. Since I was afraid of his poor decisions getting Marines hurt, I knew I had to control as much as I could. The platoon commanders and I talked between every mission, and even during missions, about his poor decisions and his hesitation on the battlefield. The platoons were almost always in front of me on the battlefield, getting shot at first, and I was often stuck one compound back with the Company Commander. I was our only buffer between his orders, and what the platoons actually did. If I understood the battlefield better than Captain Anderson, and he knew it, he would have to rely on my judgment, and let me make decisions. My goal was to know every inch of the battlefield better than everyone, so that I could keep the power in my hands, and make decisions that kept more of us alive, and more of the enemy dead. This goal pushed me to perform better and with more focus than I ever had in my entire life.
I now know why war vets keep talking about the war that occurred 60 years ago. In combat, they were the best version of themselves they had ever known.
I looked at my map and recognized the cleverness of the enemy strategy. The first attack on third platoon drew the whole Company’s attention to the northeastern front. This caused the Mobile Assault Platoon, who was farther north, to drive south, with their eyes on the buildings to the south. The enemy then attacked them from the flank as they drove. With all of our attention on those two attacks, the enemy attacked First platoon who was a kilometer to the south, on the other side of the battlefield, attempting to cause confusion. It was not working.
“Fires, this is One Actual”
“Go for Fires”
“We are taking fire from Compound 32 in Sector 7 Zulu. Its nothing heavy, just pop shots. We’re going to engage with the 50”
Without prompting Sgt Dafflitto began directing the pilot of the Predator drone to look at Compound 32 in Sector 7 Zulu. Dafflitto was always on point.
I looked at my map and realized that if the Humvee with the 50 caliber machine gun was in the same position that Tony last reported, its fires would be coming a little close to second platoon. This is called “bad geometry. “
“One, this is Fires, make sure your fires are all oriented east, don’t fire anything to the north, I don’t want your fires coming close to second platoon”
“Solid Copy Fires, I’ll fix my geometry” Tony replied.
Lieutenant Boden, the second platoon commander, came on the radio with a smartass tone and said, “Yeah try not to shoot my platoon with the 50 cal. please.”
I smiled and looked at Captain Anderson, but he wasn’t smiling. He was talking to Battalion on SatCom. In his hands was the keyboard to the Blue Force Tracker, which he was typing on to relay our grid coordinates to Battalion. He focused all his energy into reporting everything as it happened, and left me to control things. I was ecstatic. As a young Lieutenant I was controlling an entire Marine Company. It was the happiest I had ever been in my entire 28 years of life, and I had a great life. There were many times in Afghanistan that I had a sentimental moment in the middle of something awesome or terrible, and thought, this is exactly where I belong.
This was one of those moments. I felt like I ruled that tiny little piece of the world. It was like playing Risk, Chess, and Call of Duty, with serious consequences.
I heard the 50 cal. rattling in the distance. It sounded lovely. I was imagining a bad guy getting ripped apart as I listened. I daydream a lot, and for a split second, I fell into a daydream. I snapped out of it and I looked down at my crotch. My dick was getting hard, again. Wow, I thought. I am really fucked up in the head. What the fuck is wrong with me? I secretly enjoyed the thought of my own sickness.
Just to double-check my own sanity I turned to Kay and said “Hey bro is your dick hard?”
He responded with a serious face and a nod, “I definitely have some blood flow, but I don’t think I’ll get fully hard until someone confirms a kill”
This made me feel a lot better about myself. I smiled knowing nothing was wrong with me, I was just a Marine.
It wasn’t the first nor the last time I got a chub in battle….