thedrifter
02-21-07, 07:52 AM
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tiniest taste of live fire brings front lines into focus
Jenny Sokol
Columnist
The Orange County Register
bjs92@adelphia.net
Talk about concentration. Even with bullets flying overhead, I still have the ability to daydream about lunch. I can vividly picture my lonely Fluffernutter sandwich in the back seat of a Humvee that drove into the distance hours ago.
Just when I'm wondering if there are time-outs from skirmishes for a bite to eat, the Marines I'm walking with break into a run. I hustle after them, oversized helmet and armored flak jacket banging against my body.
I have spent exactly one morning in pretend combat in the California desert of Twentynine Palms. I don't mean to whine, but my ears are ringing from the constant explosions, my back is buckling under the weight of my gear and my mind is focused more on my peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich than reporting on the live-fire exercise called Mojave Viper occurring around me.
Evidently, I am no Gordon Dillow.
I frequently sing the praises of our military men and women in this column. I acknowledge the hardships they face, today more so than ever.
Crouched in a bunker, you feel a tiny fraction of the cost. You hear the hissing squeal just before the bomb detonates and then, as the ground beneath you trembles, you feel the sand and heat whip against your face. Piles of ordnance litter the rocky desert floor; every so often stray bits of barbed wire catch on my pant legs.
Around me, men bark. "Get down, get down!" One fatigued Marine from this battalion stationed in Hawaii stumbles in a trench below me. Another Marine grabs him by the back of his collar and pulls him along, shouting phrases that only the Marine Corps would call motivational.
The ammunition is real and actual casualties occur occasionally on this range. This battalion deploys to Iraq in a month; the training feels startlingly true-to-life. Thirty feet to my right, a Marine designated as a fake casualty lies motionless in the sand, his body contorted in such a way that he should consider heading to Hollywood post-enlistment.
Members of his platoon wrap his head and lift him onto a field gurney as the battle continues. Other Marines tend to a dummy marked as an enemy wounded in action.
The "coyotes" – Marines overseeing the exercise – communicate via radios, guiding the evolution and stopping every so often to "teach, coach and mentor."
The head honcho yells in my ear, explaining that the Marines have been forced to simultaneously resolve three problems – suppression, ammunition reloading and casualty assistance.
Interestingly enough, I have three problems, too: A missing sandwich, a headache with Excedrin written all over it and the horrifying revelation that there are no bathrooms in war.
I'm no seasoned war correspondent, but my brief stint as a Dillow wanna-be has opened my eyes to the hardships that our troops face daily. From this day forward, every time I sink my teeth into a delicious Fluffernutter, my heart will sing their praises.
Contact the writer: bjs92@adelphia.net
Ellie
Tiniest taste of live fire brings front lines into focus
Jenny Sokol
Columnist
The Orange County Register
bjs92@adelphia.net
Talk about concentration. Even with bullets flying overhead, I still have the ability to daydream about lunch. I can vividly picture my lonely Fluffernutter sandwich in the back seat of a Humvee that drove into the distance hours ago.
Just when I'm wondering if there are time-outs from skirmishes for a bite to eat, the Marines I'm walking with break into a run. I hustle after them, oversized helmet and armored flak jacket banging against my body.
I have spent exactly one morning in pretend combat in the California desert of Twentynine Palms. I don't mean to whine, but my ears are ringing from the constant explosions, my back is buckling under the weight of my gear and my mind is focused more on my peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich than reporting on the live-fire exercise called Mojave Viper occurring around me.
Evidently, I am no Gordon Dillow.
I frequently sing the praises of our military men and women in this column. I acknowledge the hardships they face, today more so than ever.
Crouched in a bunker, you feel a tiny fraction of the cost. You hear the hissing squeal just before the bomb detonates and then, as the ground beneath you trembles, you feel the sand and heat whip against your face. Piles of ordnance litter the rocky desert floor; every so often stray bits of barbed wire catch on my pant legs.
Around me, men bark. "Get down, get down!" One fatigued Marine from this battalion stationed in Hawaii stumbles in a trench below me. Another Marine grabs him by the back of his collar and pulls him along, shouting phrases that only the Marine Corps would call motivational.
The ammunition is real and actual casualties occur occasionally on this range. This battalion deploys to Iraq in a month; the training feels startlingly true-to-life. Thirty feet to my right, a Marine designated as a fake casualty lies motionless in the sand, his body contorted in such a way that he should consider heading to Hollywood post-enlistment.
Members of his platoon wrap his head and lift him onto a field gurney as the battle continues. Other Marines tend to a dummy marked as an enemy wounded in action.
The "coyotes" – Marines overseeing the exercise – communicate via radios, guiding the evolution and stopping every so often to "teach, coach and mentor."
The head honcho yells in my ear, explaining that the Marines have been forced to simultaneously resolve three problems – suppression, ammunition reloading and casualty assistance.
Interestingly enough, I have three problems, too: A missing sandwich, a headache with Excedrin written all over it and the horrifying revelation that there are no bathrooms in war.
I'm no seasoned war correspondent, but my brief stint as a Dillow wanna-be has opened my eyes to the hardships that our troops face daily. From this day forward, every time I sink my teeth into a delicious Fluffernutter, my heart will sing their praises.
Contact the writer: bjs92@adelphia.net
Ellie