Spent Shell Casings Page 6

  POG; noun 'pōg: acronym for personnel other than grunt.

  Taken in literal form, the word is blunt and broad. It is important to understand that when POG is used derogatorily, as it always is, it is never meant to encompass fighter pilots, forward observers, or medics and corpsmen in the shit, stepping it out with the ruck-humpers.

  In every infantry unit in the military, there have always been guys who categorically have fallen under POG, yet have garnered the respect of all in the place. Arguably, this is achieved through the combination of their job efficiency, willingness to join in the muck and misery, and occasional acknowledgment of differences in the MOS lifestyles. When POG is unsheathed, it is almost always done so as a reminder to the elements of the military without the stomach to uphold its fierce warrior ethos, yet benefits from such at the job interview, the bar, and the high school reunion.

  The POG world is galactically different than the world of the grunt. This is best illustrated as a spectrum; from garrison to field to combat theater.

  Garrison:

  As stated above, the regimental lifestyle maintains certain unnegotiable tenets. Whether a grunt or a POG, a Thursday field day (something that would blow the mind of an uninitiated civilian, peering into the depths of anal retentiveness and OCD that seem to serve as the gluing used by senior enlisted) is basically the same thing. We all have to obey base speed limits, base uniform regulations, and the like. Here, the distinctions are at their slightest, and of course here is where most service members make it their career. It is no wonder illogical perceptions like “Every Marine a. . .” come forth from the garrison setting. In garrison, a person’s shooting ability, ability to work under duress—including lack of sleep and environmental extremes—doesn’t get exposed. But how nice a uniform is, or who has the most immaculate, shining high and tight, these are things that the garrison setting allows to be seen. But that same set of cammies would be covered in marsh algae or desert dust, if in the field, and possibly covered in blood and shit if out in a combat theater.

  Field:

  The “field,” to those unversed, simply refers to being outside, and to be training in some capacity. The first fact that should jump out to a sensible observer is that. . . wait, if such is the case of reporting thus far, then a lot people in the military don’t go to this. . . field at all. Bingo.

  This means available gym time is drastically different for service members who go to the field regularly, those who do occasionally, and those who never go at all. The juxtaposition of all the military details of humanity—the burly, ripped Marines on the posters and fighting mythical creatures on TV—are in fact typing at a desk or counting MRE boxes in a Quadcon44 when the media is released.

  However, many non-infantry military do go to the field. Here the distinctions start to stretch. For one, the support roles for the infantry generally are static: they don’t move. A field chow hall, supply tent, water site, etc., are all static as a means to be operational. Granted these sites can and do move, done with vehicles; however, once the new point is reached, static operations recommence. Why this is significant is because the POG-in-field is generally sheltered from the elements. The monsoon/scorching-sun cycle is a particular favorite to those who train in places like Okinawa or the southeastern United States.

  Aggregate months of chiggers, swamp ass, and the ruck marches that draw blood. . . this creates a very different psychological being.

  “There is nothing like a pissed-off lance corporal; 19, clean rifle, a little tired, and angry at the world.”

  —A Marine Corps sergeant major

  Combat Theater:

  And finally we arrive at the great divider: a bona fide armed conflict. Both garrison and field settings are where military training is conducted. The most simple but powerful distinction is thus: the infantry is meant to kill an enemy, and usually does so on foot. An astute critic would correctly point out that artillery, tanks, F-18s, etc., are also meant solely to kill the enemy. While true, the profound difference is the mode in which this is carried out. When I was in artillery, the motto “If you can’t truck it, fuck it” was adhered to like gender segregation at the Wailing Wall circa 1955. Trucks have wheels; planes have wings; the infantry has feet. Whether dropped out of an aircraft or given a ride in an Amtrak, the good work of the grunt is eventually done in a pair of worn boots.

  Iraq is an example. Much like jobs that take one out into the field, only certain military occupations require one to leave the wire. Personally, I always felt bad for those who never left. I would have gone stir crazy and couldn’t help but imagine they all felt they were missing out on all the fun. That hypothesis was dismissed the moment we started getting large attachments around the time of Operation Phantom Fury. One case that sticks out was an engineer who refused to get out of the back of a five-ton truck. Chanting over and over, “If I get out of this truck I’m going to die, if I get out of this truck I’m going to die,” the pubescent was soon ripped off the bench by an unsympathetic platoon sergeant. To my knowledge he lived, but his intuition was rather ominous. Only several days after this little display of prophetic cowardice, engineers attached to us would start getting killed and injured at a bizarre rate. While our teams were staying whole, for the most part, our attachments were getting beat to shit. It was rumored that at its height, they were refusing to go out with us, which may have been true to some extent considering we ended up getting their sergeants as long-term attachments, who were likely (possibly reluctantly) “leading from the front.”

  Of all who operate in the battle space—infantry, motor transport, engineers, pilots—the infantry is the undisputed king of time outside the wire. Anywhere from days to months, a grunt lives in jungles, snow, deserts and seized houses.

  Lastly, infantry has the closest proximity to the enemy when combat occurs. Front lines, tip of the spear, forward area—you name it—unless someone fucks up somewhere, which happens, it is the infantry that goes blow to blow with combatants. This is a general rule, therefore not absolute. History is littered with contrary cases. Combat engineers, medical personnel, and, in extreme circumstances, cooks and clerks have all lived or died with bayonet, ammo can, or entrenching tool in their hands as the last weapon available. What is important here is a return to military theory. The significance of proximity to the enemy is that the infantry is intended to do so. This detail cannot be overstated; the grunt goes into the fray, knowing full good and well it will be he and the men of his ilk who will come face to face with. . . it.

  Morning, Headquarters Battery for the 10th Marine Artillery Regiment is running down Julian C Smith Boulevard in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Surveyors, Artillery Meteorological, Counter Battery Radar, Comm, Motor T, and Marine Corps admin all running and calling out cadence. Led by a genetically gifted woman, by all accounts a fine Marine—professional, serious, and later left to be a drill instructor—this proud, running support MOS formation approaches a T intersection. In this very formation, jogs a future gunslinger. Stuck in the middle of this slow-moving monster, out of the corner of my eye I notice a soggy, angry, giant millipede, green and metal, crawling steadily up to the intersection as well.

  It is grunts!

  Dirty, stupid, bullet-sponge grunts! They are conducting a ruck march, wet from sweat and a pre-dawn rain that our group had missed by several hours. Perpendicular to the road we are on, our formations are coming to an inevitable collision.

  The military has all sorts of customs and courtesies, some abided by more religiously than others. The Marine Corps is notorious for right-of-way related rules, as well as anything remotely dealing with safety. For instance, while entering and exiting vehicles, the junior ranking member is the first to enter, and the senior is the first to exit.

  My mind begins to spin—what is going to happen?—and my face begins to smile as the question is answered.

  Bursting through the belly of our pathetic, non-war-fighting bevy of careerists with no deployments, the commanding o
fficer of the grunt unit severs us with his men.

  The grunts—a little skinny, a little tired, tattoos exposing themselves out of weather-beaten camouflage, mortar plates, rucks, and crew-served weapons—flick us off as they march forth, screaming, “Fuck you, POGs!”

  The endowed sergeant leading our run, reduced to hugging the side of our stalled formation like a tree frog, winces and flinches at the catcalls as is if they were globules of spit.

  How I envied them, this passing horde of war-machine profanity. How I knew I had to leave artillery and join their ranks, or otherwise I would have been severely cheated out of a damn good time.

  9

  MYRTLE BEACH

  “There is such a thing as a ‘natural soldier’: the kind who derives his greatest satisfaction from male companionship, from excitement, and from the conquering of physical obstacles.”

  —Gwynne Dyer, War

  SPRING 2004

  Fort Polk, Louisiana, home of the Joint Readiness Training Center; a vast particle-board city dedicated to urban operations—and within it, 2D Recon Bn had spent the past few weeks engaged in furious (battery-tampered) MILES45 shoot outs, or conducting OPs in the drenched, snake-infested woods on its outskirts. After the escalating training exercises, frequent lightning strikes, and a booze-fueled closing party with the Army Ranger cadre, our battalion went back to North Carolina.

  There is something about several weeks of repetition that invigorates the need to go out and let loose, to break off a piece of lay or just be piss drunk in some over-cushioned bed. A group coalesced; a plan formulated, bags packed, bodies stuffed into a jeep, five guys and I tore out of Camp Lejeune. Myrtle Beach was our destination. With another car packed full, shortly behind us, we were going to a condo owned by the parents of one of our own in attendance. A special perk of this weekend getaway was that it was the first time a handful of us got to party with two of our former RIP instructors. We had completed RIP, graduated ARS, and had spent a little bit of time in the battalion, and now we got to throw down with these righteous dudes. It was so cool; the dynamic of instructor/student dissolved instantly and in its place was the dynamic of senior operator/junior operator. However, that didn’t mean some sort of stereotypical stiff hierarchy was in place. An exalted brotherhood permeated in the jeep, drinking beer and laughing hysterically about anything from an embarrassing high school story to how the two had hazed the rest of us while we were paying our dues.

  The journey there was a blur of passing beer cans, getting wild with the grab-ass, and weaving fast through traffic, concerned only with getting laid and avoiding being the libo incident.

  Flash to a packed night club:

  Cholo, one of the RIP instructors, was one of the only Hispanic Recon Marines in our unit at the time. He had been the one I recited the final paragraph of the Creed to when I’d first arrived. Since then I’d learned his name and his ways. Loving being a gatekeeper, and possessing a slight sadistic streak, his round face emitted a certain smile whenever a subordinate required correction. But this night was no night for such. . . machismo. Cholo pulled out his freshest moves on the dance floor, accentuated red color popped, and with carefully timed spins in front of his targets.

  Adam, the other RIP instructor, was equally a work of art. Tattooed and built like the leader of a group of soccer hooligans, shot out of a cannon from some Massachusetts town, his energy and appearance could be menacing. That was until you spent a minute around him. For all the potential brutishness, he was one of the funniest and easygoing operators one could ever meet. He was able to do the rare balancing act of emitting almost constant humor while taking the work seriously. Having those around you acknowledging this efficiency was rare, but he somehow did it. Adam was also kicking it on the dance floor; however, he’d gone with the economy of motion theorem and picked up a blonde cougar; rawboned, in a miniskirt, and vaguely reminiscent of that televangelist wife with the forty-pound hair.

  And then there was Chris. He was the one who’d recited the second paragraph of the Creed that morning. Like Adam, Chris hailed from Mass. Without question, that state, for whatever reason, produced some of the hardest hitters. Chris was invulnerable when it came to the physical aspects of the job. During a team log run, he’d have almost the entire weight of the trunk on his shoulder, being taller than most the others—who were trying to pitch in and carry their share by pressing upward on the log with both hands. Fin work; I had the pleasure of being pulled by him, kilometer after kilometer. Wrestling, running, ruck marches, all just brief occupiers of time; requiring a slight deviation from his ultimate frat-boy existence. CKY, Metallica, and orgasmic screams from young women erupted in frequent burst from his barracks room.

  Chris had already gotten kicked out of the club twice and snuck back in the same. Our other guys were on the periphery, talking to girls, taking shots, and sporting the cleanest clothes they’d worn in over a month. I wandered around the edge of the dance floor, got blasted in the face by a hidden mist machine, and made my way to the bathroom to yet again unload the results of my love for the hops.

  Relieving myself at a urinal, I got shoved into it. “Hey, faggot,” Chris said while carefully placing his beer bottle on the chrome piping of his own urinal. I would have expressed disdain that the head of my dick had just stamped the fetid urinal wall if it weren’t for the distracting mob of bouncers that came rushing in.

  “How many times do we gotta fuckin tell ya shitheaddddd?!”

  “Yeah, that fuckers back again.”

  “Get him!”

  Chris was put in a whirlwind of shaved arms, black shirts, and curses as his unsecured dick flapped about. Falling back on his training, he grabbed his beer and zipped up his pants simultaneously. The coordination was that of a professional juggler, I thought, as I watched them drag him off the tile and out into the main lobby.

  Stowing my own member and biting my bottom lip, I proceeded out after him. In a matter of seconds some of our brothers had appeared and were trying to reason with the swarm. Chris, holding his beer like the Statue of Liberty, was keeping at bay the circle of increasingly determined bouncers. He looked like a leopard, mouth open and hissing at a group of baboons on the offensive.

  No time for diplomacy, I grabbed the closest one, an approaching reinforcement ascending the stairs from the dance floor. His attempt at tackling me opportunely put my left forearm under his chin, which made for a glorious, feet-lifting choke hold as he dangled on the last several steps of the staircase. This Napoleonic security official swung to and fro as his goatee rubbed against my favorite tattoo, and his fists on my legs and body fell so short of hurting.

  Before “it” happened, I remember one of our own pleading for me to let him go, and that I was only making matters worse. Suddenly, some horizontal object, the shade of white, hung suspended in my sight. I thought, How odd a thing to see.

  Next thing I knew, I was on the carpet, pinned, cheek smashed to the floor with someone’s boot on my head. “You give up? Yeah—you fuckin give the fuck up.” someone said, with a very precise face-shove into the floor. I had been clotheslined by a monster among their staff. As I lay there, the one whom I’d made struggle so valiantly on the stairs had to be held back by several others. From my angle, he may have been crying, tears of frustration maybe, or it may have been a sporadic douse from Chris’s wildly protected beer bottle.

  Like an old black and white movie, or western with a comedic flare, Chris and I were literally thrown out. Two bags of human-limbed trash were heaved out the front door and dumped to the ground at the feet of a group of hot college freshmen types. In my short flight, I had almost careened head-first into a hot dog vendor. I was in no mood for such embarrassment in front of zombie-eyed blondes, stolid in heels, standing almost in a formation of their own with one hideous fat friend in the pack. Slowly rising up off my back and rolling up and onto a shoulder, I was eye level with all those supple, shaved legs. I licked my lips, unnerving both one bouncer and one girl�
�Pussy.

  In no mood, Chris and I, in some instant wordless agreement, sprang up and crashed into the wall of bouncers; dutifully guarding the vulnerable entrance. A few punches were thrown, and a “you’re so tough with your ponytail and your one earring, you fat faggot” was spewed at a middle-aged one. A hand grabbed my Adam’s apple, and just prior to admitting defeat Chris bounced into the picket line, sprawled out like an X.

  We were done. Cholo came out of the club and started pushing our chests—Chris, me, Chris, me—a demented game of checkers, back to the jeep.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, guys” said Cholo, walking back inside. I watched him fix his collar and softly sculpt his hair with the palm of his hands, and the irrefutable feeling came over me: That was fucking amazing! As we leaned on the jeep to laugh until our ribs hurt, it didn’t take long to find Adam; passed out in the backseat with his cougar. Neither would stir no matter how hard we banged or yelled.

  Locked out of the jeep and banished from the club, blood pumping too hard to do anything remotely rational, we decided to walk back to the front entrance. We had a corner to round and then had to make our way past some concealment—then we would most certainly cause a hilarious and violent reaction. Prior to rounding the first corner, I noticed a side door wide open. Chris had some gaze in his eyes and was looking straight forward like a marathon runner. I let him go ahead. Slipping inside the doorway, I set my eyes on a small, red box on the wall, one whose potential interaction with my fingers titillated a surging anarchistic fantasy.