Generation Kill - Evan Wright [72]
This morning, as Trombley hands him back his fouled shitter, the usually unflappable Stafford seems on the verge of tears. “You shit on my shitter!” Stafford says, inspecting it at arm’s length, being careful not to touch the offending marks.
“Wipe ’em off or something,” Trombley says, trying to laugh it off.
“No.” Stafford stares at the shit stains, struggling to come to grips with the enormity of this offense.
Trombley starts to look worried. Stafford is one of the Marines in the platoon guys like Trombley look up to. Not only is he a full-fledged Recon Marine, but Stafford is one of those people who simply project absolute cool, no matter what—except for now.
“This shitter is the only luxury I have out here.” He looks at Trombley, deeply saddened.
“I could try to clean it,” Trombley offers.
“Whatever, dog.” Stafford cold-shoulders past him. “Screwby.”
In the final hour before stepping off, other Marines fix up their Humvees, test-fire their weapons—nearly half of which jammed yesterday—and question their leadership. “Why the fuck would Ferrando send us through that town?” one Marine in the platoon says, cleaning his M-4. “RCT-1 wouldn’t go through there with armor. No doubt Ferrando is basking in the glory of us having made it through. But we only made it because we got lucky.”
The lack of information provided to the Marines about their role in the grand scheme of things is beginning to erode morale. They simply don’t know that brazenly driving into ambushes is part of the plan.
“I’ll tell you why we’re being used like this,” a Marine in Second Platoon complains. “Our commander is a politician. He’ll do anything to kiss the general’s ass. The reason Dowdy didn’t go through that town yesterday is he probably cares about his men. Ferrando is trying to get promoted on our backs.”
On top of this mounting uncertainty, they have to deal with the men in the battalion they view as worthless incompetents. This morning they are paid a visit by Casey Kasem. In addition to not bringing enough batteries for their thermal night optics, another serious omission they blame on him became clear yesterday when the Mark-19s jammed in the ambush. To operate effectively in a dusty environment, the guns require a specialized lubricant called LSA. The men claim Casey Kasem forgot to bring it on the invasion. Without LSA, the guns jam constantly.
Casey Kasem traipses over and greets the Marines with hearty backslaps. “Outstanding job, gentlemen. The battalion commander thinks we did a stand-up job yesterday. I got some awesome footage outside the town, too,” he says, referring to his effort to make a war documentary. Casey Kasem kneels down by Colbert and asks in low, confidential tones, “Are your men having any combat-stress reactions we need to talk about?”
“Nothing that a little LSA wouldn’t help,” Colbert says.
Casey Kasem frowns. “As you all know, that was out of my hands.”
Casey Kasem has made reasonable-sounding arguments to me about why the shortages in the company are a result of matters beyond his control, but the men aren’t buying them.
As he walks off, Colbert observes, “People that were just annoying in the rear, out here their stupidity can kill you. It’s going to be awkward when we get home. I don’t know how I’ll be pleasant to these guys when we’re all together again back at the