Acvitation

I was visiting my parents in Fredericksburg, TX when I got the call. I looked at the caller I.D. and saw that it was my team leader calling - I also knew why. I was ordered to report to the unit at the Lakefront in New Orleans. Three days after that I would be in California training for the impending war. It was a relief to know that we were finally going after months and months of hearing “be ready to go at any moment”. It was the needed resolution to the suspension of the fate we all knew we held. 

After some somber celebration with my family that evening and after the ice storm had cleared the next morning, I made it back to the airport in San Antonio from where I flew back to New Orleans. I still had a few days until I had to report so I began to tie up my personal affairs. I moved out of my apartment and placed my belongings in storage. I caught up on my bill payments and began to think about my will and power of attorney. I also applied for a military leave of absence at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel where I worked and at Loyola University where I only had 5 hours of class until graduation, just a few short months away. 

With the major business done and my worldly affairs soon to be in the hands of my father, I had some time to say goodbye to my friends and the city in which I lived. I wandered from my apartment, a few rooms with high ceilings, wide-cut hardwood floors and the most wonderful garden between Bayou St. John and the Fairgrounds, past my customary places. I meandered by the Pitot and Degas Houses, Lola’s and Liuzza’s by the track, Café Degas and down the bayou itself where some Christmas lights still shone, reflecting on the still water.

That evening I made my goodbye to my musical friends. I saw the Panorama Jazz Band play for the last time down on Frenchman street before I left for Baton Rouge to meet some friends at Bogie’s. Since Matt was a bartender there, the owner threw a party for him, his friends and family. Matt and I got a little rowdy, more than would regularly be tolerated, and a little excessively drunk. In true Marine fashion and in the spirit fraternal love, we wrestled at the bar, threw ice and cups and garnishes at one another, and left a few welts on each other that would last several days – signs of the bond between two brothers whose lives would soon depend on the other. But if we weren’t the guests of honor, I feel certain we would have been less than politely tossed to the street.

Now, amidst the raucous, there came a moment when the reality of the situation began to sink in. Matt approached, “Sage, you got sisters right? Lauren’s getting worried and I don’t know how do deal with her.” I thought of my sisters and listened as he continued, “She gave me three rules to live by when we get over there: One, keep your head down; two, don’t ever volunteer for anything and; three, don’t be a hero.” I wanted to give him an answer, but I had no idea how I would comfort my sisters when they would begin to worry. I was saddened, but we partied on….

A few minutes later I hear Lauren call me from across the crowded bar. She wanted to make sure that I knew the rules she had for me when I go across the sea. I only half-listened to her thinking that I knew what was to follow. She began, “One, keep your head down; two, don’t ever volunteer for anything and; three, don’t be a hero - unless Matt is down.”

After many a thanks, many stern orders to be safe and to come home, and many drinks, the bar closed. We made our way back to Matt’s apartment. I left early the next morning before he awoke and drove back to New Orleans, hung-over. I wanted to attend the weekly staff meeting at the hotel to make a few goodbyes.

I was surprised to find the meeting had turned into a going away party for me, complete with a non-alcoholic champagne toast as everyone else had to go back to work. That was a good thing, alcohol and I were not on speaking terms at this particular time. 

At this meeting, and at the bar the night before, with my friends around town and the utter strangers who encouraged me in scores, I was undeniably humbled. Never have I seen or felt such true compassion, care and concern from so many people for whom my life had no real consequence. All alike they had the same thing to say, “Be safe, come home…” lingering just a moment before turning away. Merely simple words, but you should have seen their eyes... 

For this, my sincerest thanks.

Going “In Country”

         After three short days in New Orleans including one with our families, and several weeks of training in the desert at 29 Palms and the MOUT town in Camp Pendleton, the time had come. I found myself and everyone else from the scout-sniper platoon in the barracks room shared by two of our teamleaders.  In front of us stood our platoon sergeant and platoon commander armed with plastic cups and several bottles of cheap champagne. We talked about our fears, the uncertainty of our situation, our proud heritage as Marines, and most importantly what we expected from one another. We didn’t know what the future held, except that we would leave in three waves beginning in the early morning for Kuwait. We didn’t know if we would return home without life, or worse without limb or sight. But we knew that we had each other, and that the entire Battallion depended upon us for the support and reconnaissance we would provide. With the expectations clear, we were bound by tradition and by each other, and by the lives of those other Marines who depended on us. From then on, doubtless, we were willing to do “whatever it takes”.

         The wine was poured. To the lives of each other and to victory on the battlefield, to prayers for God’s protection and for courage, mettle, and steel the toasts were made. We spoke in turn until it had all been said. We then departed and returned to our respective racks. Most of us made last minute calls to parents, wives, children, and girlfriends before shutting off our cell phones for good. Soon we were to be airborne, more than a half-days flight to Kuwait.

        

We landed in the dark and gathered our gear, staging it in the G.P. tent assigned to the platoon. It at least provided shade when the penetrating sun rose. We soon learned, however, it didn’t stop the sand from flying in sideways during any one of the five mandatory daily sandstorms. Even through the walls of the tent, the tiny rocks stung. It was worse when you were outside. The sand made it through the openings in your sleeves and through the seams of your clothes. It even made it into your boots somehow, and into your scivvies. But worst of all was the sting it made as it entered your nose and your lungs and as it clogged your eyes having entered even through the tiny vents in your goggles.

         The sandstorms and the barren terrain were about all that I remember from Kuwait. It was desolate, just miles and miles of flat, hot sand. There were only a few exceptions to this. There were the burms the American forces had built around their positions, the occasional Kuwaiti civilization, and just a few large sand dunes to the northwest of our position. I cannot imagine what anyone would want from there except for oil. If I were Saddam I would have just continued slant drilling into Kuwait, and forgone the invasion in the early nineties. Who wants to occupy such a place?

         We were supposed to cross the border into Iraq in about three weeks after we acclimatized. In the meantime, we were keeping busy constantly op-checking and cleaning our weapons and gear because of the sand.  We BZO’d the M40s, M-14s, M-16s, SASRs, ACOGs and other optical sights that we had brought along. We also had our rules of engagement class given by the legal department and co-taught by the very sexy little, female LCpl. She checked her make up, and chewed ever so seductively on her pen with flirtatious eyes as the Gunny explained the rules for phase 2 and phase 3 operations. She was quite the spectacle and all eyes were on her… well, at least until her pen exploded in her mouth. Perfect. I now know for certain why the Marines don’t keep women on the front – it is quite hard to stop human nature. 

         On the third day in Kuwait, I went to medical to get my small pox vaccination, though I already had one when I was a child. Several of us could not get it in California because we had poison oak from some of the training in Camp Pendleton. After receiving that shot, as well as the fourth of six in the anthrax series, I stepped outside the hooch.