CplCrotty
07-15-04, 09:55 AM
The following is a little article/essay I've been working on. I was recently inspired to finish it up after reading Buzz William's "Spare Parts."
Hump, or Die!
By
Jim Crotty
"Hey Gang, get ready because I'm goin' to f*@#% ya!"
Those were the shouted words that greeted us in the early morning darkness as Gunnery Sergeant Jones, USMC, approached our platoon. We were standing in formation with our ALICE backpacks, steel pots and M-16's, outside the barracks of the Marine Corps detachment at Lackland Air Force Base. We were privates and pfc's, just out of the boot camps from either Parris Island or San Diego. We also recently finished six weeks of the U.S. Air Force Security Police Academy. It was early October 1983. In the Texas hill country outside of San Antonio this time of year was still considered the height of summer – 90+ degree temperatures with 90% humidity.
It was somewhere between 4:00 and 5:00 A.M. The majority of the Air Force personnel on the base were still fast asleep, in the comfort of their air-conditioned barracks. The Marines took pride in residing in the last of Lackland's WW II wooden-style barracks, ones that had been condemned by the Air Force. That should have been my first clue that military police school was not going to be a nice break from the sand, fleas and drill instructors of Parris Island. Quite the contrary, the Marine NCO's that oversaw our three months of training were determined to "pound the Air Force out of us" after our six weeks as students in the USAF Security Police Academy. And pound it out of us they did, by way of two grueling weeks of combat support training - Marine Corps style.
I have never experienced combat, I've only trained for it, and that was bad enough. I can't even begin to imagine what the experience of fighting for your life, and for those around you, is like. It would be all the physical, emotional and psychological stress of intense training multiplied several times.
It was because of my training experiences in the Marine Corps why my mind and heart always turns to the individual grunt when our country goes to war. With all the amazing technological advances in precision-guided weaponry and whiz-bang, computer simulated battlefields, it is still, and always will be, the "ground pounders" who must make that final, bloody connection required for the successful application of strategic planning and policy - up close and personal, where it counts.
I think the vast majority of civilians in the United States still look at war as distant and detached spectators, not knowing the severity of hardships our soldiers must go through in not only protecting our freedom, but also making an even more significant difference in the rights and freedoms of other less fortunate "innocents" throughout the world.
The only comparable occupations in the civilian world where every ounce of an individual's courage, physical stamina and emotional endurance are put to extremes are law enforcement, firefighting and emergency medical technicians - not surprisingly occupational fields filled with prior active duty and current reserve military men and women.
Field training in the military is something that you have to experience to fully "appreciate." A select few actually enjoy it. Most hate it, and here's why . . . Take all the daily comforts of home away, throw a 40 lb. pack on your back, put on combat boots and a steel helmet (now Kevlar), and then go on a "hump" (slang for forced march) in the middle of summer, or winter, for 20 miles. Then after you're completely and thoroughly exhausted, deny yourself any sleep for the next 48 to 72 hours. During that time you will do some more "humps" mixed with equal doses of night maneuvers, digging fighting holes and trying to find somewhere and some time to eat 20-year old c-rations (of course they have MRE's now). Bathroom breaks ? Try digging a "cat hole" behind some tree or bush to do your business. Showers? Bed? TV? Computer? Clean laundry? No way.
I had ten days of that in the hills outside Lackland Air Force Base in the fall of 1983. It left a lasting impression on me, to say the least. Boot camp at Parris Island was tough, but there were still some limits placed on the drill instructors, enforced with vigor under the watchful eyes of Marine officers, congressman and overprotective mothers. Despite those pressures the Marine Corps has been able to maintain the necessary challenges of recruit training, which is now paying off in spades on the battlefields of Iraq.
Once in the "fleet," which is all the duty stations outsides of Marine recruit training, the limitations and watchful eyes tend to go away, and that's usually when things get real interesting. During my time in combat support training at Lackland, Gunny Jones was THE MAN. No officers on-site to watch over him and very little in the way of restrictions imposed by standards of operating procedures. He was going to give his young privates a taste of the infantry based upon his personal book of knowledge and procedures - much of which was written on the battlefields of Viet Nam.
Everyday Marines are pushing themselves to the limits by way of combat training, whether amongst the pine woodlands surrounding Camp Lejeune, the dusty hills of Camp Pendelton or the desert terrain of Twenty Nine Palms. My Marine combat support training took place out in the hinterlands outside the main area of Lackland Air Force Base. Dusty hills filled with low scrub brush and scrub oaks, the only permanent occupants being packs of yelping coyotes, slithering rattlesnakes, wandering armadillos and about a billion overly-aggressive fire ants. Gunny Jones had his own little cabin with a comfortable cot. We slept, when given the opportunity, on the ground beneath canvas shelter halves. Inside Gunny Jones little field office was a hand-drawn poster of a human skeleton in a Marine uniform, complete with ALICE pack and steel pot. Above this stark image were the words "Hump or Die!"
During the time that my platoon went through the six weeks of Air Force Security Police school, we kept hearing the warnings from the Marines who were further ahead of us in training. Warnings about the living hell that was awaiting us.
The humps were pure hell. It's basically power walking with a huge weight on your back, and the constant yells of "close it up, close it up . . . move, move!" Miles and miles and miles, up and down hills, sweat pouring in your eyes and feet aching beyond belief. Once at our destination there was no time for rest.
At nightfall my platoon, along with two others that were in combat support training with us, would practice night infiltration and squad tactics, both on the offensive and defensive. Once back at our bivouac area, which often wasn't until about 3 A.M., we were tasked with cleaning our weapons - the never-ending chore of every infantryman. If we were lucky we would get maybe two to three hours to sleep before we were formed up again at daybreak for another 10 to 15 mile hump, and then the training process would start all over again. The name of the game was to see how much stress, both physical and mental, each Marine could handle while maintaining fighting effectiveness. Gunny Jones fully understood the old saying "more sweat in peacetime means less blood during war."
There were no set times for breakfast, lunch or dinner. It was each Marine's responsibility to stay nourished and hydrated - a painful lesson that I learned the hard way. On the fifth day, during a particularly long hump, I began to fade and fall behind. I remember becoming dizzy and disoriented. My fellow Marines tried to help me along, knowing full well the wrath that would come down upon me if I fell out. There was only so much they could do. I was a goner. The next thing I remember is the long column of Marines before me stopping in response to the shouts of profanity coming from Gunny Jones, who suddenly was headed straight for me, screaming and cussing the whole way.
"Oh, hey Gunny Jones, I think I'm . . . WHAM! I don't remember if he hit me with a right or left hook. I do remember my steel pot (helmet) and helmet liner flying off the top of my nearly bald head, disengaging with a force that snapped my chin strap. "God @#%*&, you little **&#^, who in the *#@&^ do you think you are!" I don't know if those were his exact words, but it's pretty close. At that point everything was a little fuzzy. To say I was dazed and confused would be an understatement.
WHAM! Another fist to my to my face.
What I learned later that day, after being sent to the base hospital, was that I was severely dehydrated, leading to a near heat stroke. Gunny Jones' "hits" were not those of anger, despite his colorful language, but rather hits to keep me alive. I had not kept myself adequately "fueled" those first five days in the field. Later Gunny Jones explained why he hit me. It's called tough love, and it's why leadership in the Marine Corps has been perfected to an art form.
(more)
Hump, or Die!
By
Jim Crotty
"Hey Gang, get ready because I'm goin' to f*@#% ya!"
Those were the shouted words that greeted us in the early morning darkness as Gunnery Sergeant Jones, USMC, approached our platoon. We were standing in formation with our ALICE backpacks, steel pots and M-16's, outside the barracks of the Marine Corps detachment at Lackland Air Force Base. We were privates and pfc's, just out of the boot camps from either Parris Island or San Diego. We also recently finished six weeks of the U.S. Air Force Security Police Academy. It was early October 1983. In the Texas hill country outside of San Antonio this time of year was still considered the height of summer – 90+ degree temperatures with 90% humidity.
It was somewhere between 4:00 and 5:00 A.M. The majority of the Air Force personnel on the base were still fast asleep, in the comfort of their air-conditioned barracks. The Marines took pride in residing in the last of Lackland's WW II wooden-style barracks, ones that had been condemned by the Air Force. That should have been my first clue that military police school was not going to be a nice break from the sand, fleas and drill instructors of Parris Island. Quite the contrary, the Marine NCO's that oversaw our three months of training were determined to "pound the Air Force out of us" after our six weeks as students in the USAF Security Police Academy. And pound it out of us they did, by way of two grueling weeks of combat support training - Marine Corps style.
I have never experienced combat, I've only trained for it, and that was bad enough. I can't even begin to imagine what the experience of fighting for your life, and for those around you, is like. It would be all the physical, emotional and psychological stress of intense training multiplied several times.
It was because of my training experiences in the Marine Corps why my mind and heart always turns to the individual grunt when our country goes to war. With all the amazing technological advances in precision-guided weaponry and whiz-bang, computer simulated battlefields, it is still, and always will be, the "ground pounders" who must make that final, bloody connection required for the successful application of strategic planning and policy - up close and personal, where it counts.
I think the vast majority of civilians in the United States still look at war as distant and detached spectators, not knowing the severity of hardships our soldiers must go through in not only protecting our freedom, but also making an even more significant difference in the rights and freedoms of other less fortunate "innocents" throughout the world.
The only comparable occupations in the civilian world where every ounce of an individual's courage, physical stamina and emotional endurance are put to extremes are law enforcement, firefighting and emergency medical technicians - not surprisingly occupational fields filled with prior active duty and current reserve military men and women.
Field training in the military is something that you have to experience to fully "appreciate." A select few actually enjoy it. Most hate it, and here's why . . . Take all the daily comforts of home away, throw a 40 lb. pack on your back, put on combat boots and a steel helmet (now Kevlar), and then go on a "hump" (slang for forced march) in the middle of summer, or winter, for 20 miles. Then after you're completely and thoroughly exhausted, deny yourself any sleep for the next 48 to 72 hours. During that time you will do some more "humps" mixed with equal doses of night maneuvers, digging fighting holes and trying to find somewhere and some time to eat 20-year old c-rations (of course they have MRE's now). Bathroom breaks ? Try digging a "cat hole" behind some tree or bush to do your business. Showers? Bed? TV? Computer? Clean laundry? No way.
I had ten days of that in the hills outside Lackland Air Force Base in the fall of 1983. It left a lasting impression on me, to say the least. Boot camp at Parris Island was tough, but there were still some limits placed on the drill instructors, enforced with vigor under the watchful eyes of Marine officers, congressman and overprotective mothers. Despite those pressures the Marine Corps has been able to maintain the necessary challenges of recruit training, which is now paying off in spades on the battlefields of Iraq.
Once in the "fleet," which is all the duty stations outsides of Marine recruit training, the limitations and watchful eyes tend to go away, and that's usually when things get real interesting. During my time in combat support training at Lackland, Gunny Jones was THE MAN. No officers on-site to watch over him and very little in the way of restrictions imposed by standards of operating procedures. He was going to give his young privates a taste of the infantry based upon his personal book of knowledge and procedures - much of which was written on the battlefields of Viet Nam.
Everyday Marines are pushing themselves to the limits by way of combat training, whether amongst the pine woodlands surrounding Camp Lejeune, the dusty hills of Camp Pendelton or the desert terrain of Twenty Nine Palms. My Marine combat support training took place out in the hinterlands outside the main area of Lackland Air Force Base. Dusty hills filled with low scrub brush and scrub oaks, the only permanent occupants being packs of yelping coyotes, slithering rattlesnakes, wandering armadillos and about a billion overly-aggressive fire ants. Gunny Jones had his own little cabin with a comfortable cot. We slept, when given the opportunity, on the ground beneath canvas shelter halves. Inside Gunny Jones little field office was a hand-drawn poster of a human skeleton in a Marine uniform, complete with ALICE pack and steel pot. Above this stark image were the words "Hump or Die!"
During the time that my platoon went through the six weeks of Air Force Security Police school, we kept hearing the warnings from the Marines who were further ahead of us in training. Warnings about the living hell that was awaiting us.
The humps were pure hell. It's basically power walking with a huge weight on your back, and the constant yells of "close it up, close it up . . . move, move!" Miles and miles and miles, up and down hills, sweat pouring in your eyes and feet aching beyond belief. Once at our destination there was no time for rest.
At nightfall my platoon, along with two others that were in combat support training with us, would practice night infiltration and squad tactics, both on the offensive and defensive. Once back at our bivouac area, which often wasn't until about 3 A.M., we were tasked with cleaning our weapons - the never-ending chore of every infantryman. If we were lucky we would get maybe two to three hours to sleep before we were formed up again at daybreak for another 10 to 15 mile hump, and then the training process would start all over again. The name of the game was to see how much stress, both physical and mental, each Marine could handle while maintaining fighting effectiveness. Gunny Jones fully understood the old saying "more sweat in peacetime means less blood during war."
There were no set times for breakfast, lunch or dinner. It was each Marine's responsibility to stay nourished and hydrated - a painful lesson that I learned the hard way. On the fifth day, during a particularly long hump, I began to fade and fall behind. I remember becoming dizzy and disoriented. My fellow Marines tried to help me along, knowing full well the wrath that would come down upon me if I fell out. There was only so much they could do. I was a goner. The next thing I remember is the long column of Marines before me stopping in response to the shouts of profanity coming from Gunny Jones, who suddenly was headed straight for me, screaming and cussing the whole way.
"Oh, hey Gunny Jones, I think I'm . . . WHAM! I don't remember if he hit me with a right or left hook. I do remember my steel pot (helmet) and helmet liner flying off the top of my nearly bald head, disengaging with a force that snapped my chin strap. "God @#%*&, you little **&#^, who in the *#@&^ do you think you are!" I don't know if those were his exact words, but it's pretty close. At that point everything was a little fuzzy. To say I was dazed and confused would be an understatement.
WHAM! Another fist to my to my face.
What I learned later that day, after being sent to the base hospital, was that I was severely dehydrated, leading to a near heat stroke. Gunny Jones' "hits" were not those of anger, despite his colorful language, but rather hits to keep me alive. I had not kept myself adequately "fueled" those first five days in the field. Later Gunny Jones explained why he hit me. It's called tough love, and it's why leadership in the Marine Corps has been perfected to an art form.
(more)