The sun is all but forgotten in the western shadows. A few fire barrels offer a flickering glimpse across the litter strewn street. The night air begins to chill.

wup wup wup

Off in the treed distance a classic sound approaches.

wup wup wup

The chill is forgotten. An instinctive finger checks a safety, a final shifting of combat gear, a change of stance. Cock the ear to determine direction.

wup wup wup

The time is at hand. A thousand thoughts rush behind strained eyes.

wup wup wup

‘Remember why you’re here’ is the last thought as BRRRRRRP lights the nearby tree line. Anyone in there would be obliterated. The air ignites as the 25mm chain gun unleashes a rain of fire. Rotor wash now forces the streets litter into a swirling eruption of debris. The rush of adrenalin begins, the heat, the sweat in the cold air. It’s time…not for killing...to save a warriors life.

Tonight’s Military Operations on Urban Terrain (MOUT) Rules Of Engagement, guard this house, fight to the death. NO SURVIVORS is my battle plan tonight. The city streets now belch a hell of mortar blasts, firebombs, and RPG explosions. The black smoke begins to darken the landscape as ropes from the hovering birds guide their human cargo into harms way.

BRRRRRRRP    BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP

Looking around you can see stickers and car magnets and window flags and signs and banners, “SUPPORT THE TROOPS”. This Marines heart swells with pride when I hear of people sending packages to troops, sometimes to an individual, and sometimes to an entire unit. In the post office recently a woman was trying to determine the best way to send 2 cases of ‘Girl Scout’ cookies to her husband’s unit. Simple cookies representing little pieces of ‘Home Sweet Home’ in a land so far away. Letters and e-mails and magazines and newspapers, all to provide an easier life for those in harms way. Oh how fondly I remember mail call…

BaWHooom

The overpressure from the explosion buffets the air and blasts away my daydream. I can only imagine how many shards the door has become. Heavy foot falls and muffled voices fill the void up stairs. Down below I am in my firing position, a shadow within the shadows.

Then a soldier’s flashlight beam sweeps the corner across from me and steadies itself into the dark abyss to my right. “I HAVE A STAIRWELL, I HAVE A STAIRWELL,” he calls out to his teammates. Then the light sweeps further away, and I know he has made a crucial mistake by turning his line of sight, and attention, to another sector. I quietly step from the darkness to raise my weapon and teach him a lesson that will save his life.

pft pft pft pft

My training weapon stings him sharply and scolds him on his carelessness. And back into the abyss I disappear.

“I’VE GOT A HOT STAIRWELL” now goes the call. The light is back. It is sweeping the shadows, but this time does not even leave the pit of the stairwell. More foot falls from above; more lights add themselves to the lone beacon. The killer in me thinks, ‘With all of those different lights the top of the stairs MUST be full of targets! It’s time to save lives’.

pft pft pft pft     pft pft pft pft

My training weapon teaches a young corporal to disperse his men better. He now has two less troopers to get the job done. And back into the sanctity of the darkness I melt. Now the confusing screams of women pierce their way towards the lights. Sobs and panic stricken shrieks of fear add to the chaos and darkness. The lights begin a jouncing that can only mean feet are blindly on their way. I slide my weapon around the corner and fire, to save lives.

pft pft pft pft     pft pft pft pft    pft pft pft pft     pft pft pft pft

The young corporal again loses more troopers to my harsh lessons. And I slide back to the safety of the dark.

The lights freeze, and withdraw, but still always on the stairs! The women continue their echoing and sorrowful wails preventing clear thought and communication. ‘What the hell are they up to? It’s time for one last lesson to save some lives. Hit this kid with a frontal assault’.

Before the flash bangs can be delivered with their inevitable results, I bolt into the stairwell. My weapon and I assault this kid and his troopers with a loud cry of, “JIHAD FOR MOHAMMAD!” I know it will be my last volley, my last chance to teach lessons and to save lives. As predicted, I only get a few steps before being assailed with pelletized fire. I fall, inconveniently blocking the stairs.

The troopers rush, tripping and stepping, but still rushing. The basement is cleared, the women escorted out, and the HVT (High Value Target) subdued. Their mission is technically a success. But is mine?

As a veteran Marine of the Cold War Era, we trained to close with and destroy whatever Spetsnaz, Soviet Naval Infantry, or Central Red Army could throw at us. Today as that same United States Marine, I carry the patriotic drive to stand the wall, to face the challenge, to do all I can to see that my country is victorious in it’s endeavors.

I do M.O.U.T. training as a civilian roll player. Military Operations in Urban Terrain, Urban Combat, House to House, the Generation 4 battle field. By whatever name you recognize it, its all the same. It is the battlefield our warriors of today will face when duty calls.

You see, the civilian fridge magnets, bumper stickers and cookies, all mean so much to the troops whom receive that little glimmer of home. But my mission goes further. While many are doing what they can to make life easier for those in harms way, I hope I have found a way to do more. As much as mail call meant to me, packages at Christmas time in a land so far away, I strive to give more.

This night’s battle is fought with simulators, paintballs, and blanks, as well as adrenaline. The lessons are real enough, and the stakes are high. I pray that soldier will never take his attention off of another stairwell. I pray that the screams and tripping and cursing bring him home alive to the family and friends that miss him.

I hope to give a mother, a wife, a son or daughter, the opportunity to never know what a S.G.L.I. check looks like. I wish to offer them the fortune to never receive that flag from “a grateful nation”. I don’t want to give the troops an EASIER life while they are away. I want to give them, a LONGER one.

Was my mission successful? I may never know. But if I save one life, prevent one check from being paid, prevent one flag from being folded, then the bruises, scars, pain and cold, are worth it.

And THIS Marine will, when the opportunity arises, continue to serve his country, Honorably, Proudly, ‘till death do us part’.