“2 minutes!” said the intercom.
I raised my head and pulled out a magazine of 30 rounds. It clicked into place.
The next five minutes were an eternity that didn’t last a second.
Suddenly there was a bump. The LCAC (hovercraft) was on the beach and spinning broadside. Expecting green tracers or an RPG to rip through the cabin, I wasted no time getting off that boat. The fat kid sitting across from me was first out. His canteens, pushed by his fat ass, got caught in the narrow doorframe. I pushed him out of my way. He slammed across the hood of a Humvee as its gunner loaded a belt of 40 mike-mike into his automatic grenade launcher. I ran past a Navy crewman carrying his M-60 and a box of ammo. The bright African sun was a stark contrast to the dark troop compartment, and I was suddenly scared out of my fucking mind. The gunners weren’t set-up yet, and if we started taking fire, we were fucked.
I hooked around the corner of the LCAC. I was on a white sand beach, but it wasn’t Florida. The closest cover was the brush line 50-yards from the shoreline. At this point, my training just took over, and I zigzagged across the mini-desert praying to make it to the oasis, fully expecting to feel the sharp impact of a bullet. My helmet bumped up and down on top of my head, and then was in the brush. I took a knee and looked around.
No one followed me. I was all alone. In the instant of fight or flight, I (like a dumb-ass) had run in the direction of danger.
The next thing happened in less than 8 seconds. There was a rustle in front of me, and then a skinny African man rose to his feet and approached. He was wearing a white suit; I had on camouflage face paint. I raised my rifle, and looked two inches above my sights and into the center of his chest, finger on the trigger. My thumb moved the selector lever to “fire.”
His hands were up. He was speaking French. I don’t know a Goddamn word of French! I thought. I let the slack go back into my trigger and cussed at the man (who was only attempting to escape genocide and live without fear of village massacre) like he was a brand new recruit at Parris Island, and I was the meanest Drill Instructor ever to turn children into blood-sucking killing machines. The would-be refugee got the message and ran back down the hill, and I was relieved we didn’t make more of an acquaintance—I had almost blown him away.
Only now did I assess my situation.
I was on the western edge of a valley, and on the other side were the outskirts of Freetown. Holy fucking shit! There was a rebel occupying Freetown with Toyota pickup trucks packing 50 caliber machineguns. Fuck! They also had some light tanks! Holy fucking SHIT! They were less than 1000 meters away, putting me well “in range” of those guns. I looked over my shoulder. My whole platoon was still on the beach trying to get organized. Holy FUCKING shit! If something went down I’d get cut apart in the crossfire. I continued looking around. The main part of the city was burning down to the ground.
I remember my prayer. “Thy will be done.” I thumped the small Bible I carried in my left breast pocket, then lay down on the sand and contemplated digging a shallow hole.
Suddenly the light armored vehicles (LAVs) and armored Humvees drove off the LCAC and up the beach. A chopper landed a couple miles away and dumped a platoon of infantry off, followed by two more. Cobra gunships protected the transport helos, and I saw some snipers setting up about a mile away. Then the anti-tank section zeroed in on the light tanks and a jet screamed overhead and skimmed the treetops above the rebel force. I was relieved to see the rebels jump for cover.
Fuck YEAH motherfucker! The cards are turned now BITCH!
My platoon finally got online with me. I looked over and saw my dear friend Mad Dog. I’d never been so happy to see that ugly SOB in my life. He pointed his light machinegun (SAW) at a 45-degree angle from our front and did his Chicago-style chucking laugh. “Hugch hugch Harris, what the fuck you doin?”
Fuck you Mad Dog.
On my right side was the Doc squatting back on his haunches and holding his pistol with both hands. We looked at each other, and he grinned a determined smirk.
“Hey Doc, You got some Copenhagen?” I asked.
A Marine can always count on a Navy Corpsman to have some high quality chewing tobacco. He tossed me his can, and I put a chew in with an adrenaline-laced hand and tossed the can back. I toss it back. I inquired as to the whereabouts of Gunny as I packed the fresh Copenhagen with my tongue. Doc pointed, and I ran hunched over to see what my overweight superior had to say.
To be continued…
Author’s Note:
I need to make an important clarifying comment. Lucky for everyone involved, the rebel army didn’t shoot at us. If they had, we would have mercilessly blown them to shit, and I would have probably been the only US casualty. (And I think this is a very fortunate turn of events for the Boulder/Denver integral scene. HAHA!)
From my experience, I am against war in all of its forms and there are a lot of forms—ESPECIALLY internally. Call me a hippie, but I don’t care because I am speaking from my experience and not hiding behind something I read. War is something that I don’t understand, and I never will. That is fine with me. Yet even with no understanding of why it exists, I would go fight in a war, even the one in Iraq. And I don’t believe in the reasons why we are fighting it. Yes, that means I could die in a very bad way without a good reason. I don’t understand it either.
A lot of people are complaining about how much money the US spends on our military. There is a lot of truth to that claim. But from the experience that I have just written about, I want the guys and girls on the ground, in the mud, in the sand, wherever they are, to have the best shit backing them. When I saw those rebels take cover because one of our jets skimmed about 10 meters over their heads, the however many millions that jet cost and the expense of maintenance and training for the crew was all money well spent. That money kept me alive. Hoorah Marine Corps!
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