Loon - Jack McLean [21]
Several years ago, a sniper terrorized the greater Washington, D.C., area for months. News outlets speculated that the shooter might be a highly trained ex-military sniper and, thereby, simple to locate. In fact, any marine who ever graduated from boot camp is capable of hitting and killing a human target at five hundred yards without a telescopic scope. Every time.
That’s five football fields.
It never leaves you.
On the afternoon prior to our graduation, Staff Sergeant Hilton gathered us in the barracks for a chilling peek at the reality that would exist for us outside the isolated confines of Parris Island. As we rustled into place around him, he held the orders for our permanent assignments over his head for us all to see. There was an MOS (Military Occupation Specialty) number and duty location for each of the remaining one hundred eight members of Platoon 3076. He began, as he always did, at the beginning of the alphabet with Private Thomas Jefferson Agbisit.
“AGBISIT.” Long pause. “0311, WESTPAC. Well, shit-for-brains, looks like the commandant wants you to go kill some fuckin’ gooks! OUTSTANDING.”
The names continued.
“ANDERSON.” Long pause. “0311, WESTPAC.”
“BERRINGTON.” Long pause. “0311, WESTPAC.”
“You lucky shits, you’re going to go see some ACTION. I hope like hell you worthless fucks paid attention here.”
After several names, there emerged a chilling recognition of the ultimate purpose for which we had been trained. Most of Platoon 3076 was going to war. The numbers 03 meant infantry. The 11 indicated a rifleman. WESTPAC was short for Western Pacific. For nearly all, that meant Vietnam. By the time he reached the L’s, my nostrils began to clear, and my senses heightened. I felt dizzy. Obviously the situation in Vietnam had changed dramatically during the brief period that we had been isolated in boot camp.
“McLEAN.” Long pause. “3042.” Long pause. “SUPPLY SCHOOL.” Long pause. “CAMP LEJEUNE.”
Huh? I was not sure what I had heard, but I did know what I had not heard. The number 30 meant supply, and the 42, I later found out, was a subset that meant mechanized. Mechanized supply.
“McLEAN—you DUMB motherfucker, you IGNORANT son of a bitch, you USELESS piece of shit, you … you … you … MAGGOT.” Staff Sergeant Hilton enjoyed editorializing about each marine’s new assignment. “Those assholes up in Washington have decided to teach you computers—whatever the fuck they are! Sounds like you’re not GOOD enough to go kill those little gook bastards.”
Then, no kidding, he actually smiled.
One minute earlier, I had been frightened.
Vietnam.
War.
Now I was disappointed. The United States Marine Corps was about war. There was a war going on, and most of my platoon mates were shipping out. But I wasn’t. It was a most disorienting feeling. I had difficulty identifying its source.
Supply school?
What a waste of all I’d been through.
There never was a time, from the moment of my enlistment, when I had actually given serious thought to going to Vietnam. I had pondered the idea, certainly, and had had many “what if” discussions with family and friends, but I had assumed that, were I to go, the choice would be mine. Years later, friends would ask how I could have been so naive, and perhaps they were right.
Now I wanted to go. And, supply school or not, eventually I would be going. We would all be going. The war was escalating rapidly. Most of my platoon had just been assigned to combat units and would be in Vietnam in a matter of weeks. Every one of us and thousands more would be needed to feed the burgeoning war. I knew that I had just dodged a bullet, yet deep down, below my unease, I knew that I had been given only a reprieve, for soon I too would be going to Vietnam to fight side by side with my Parris Island brothers. I felt a bubbling tingle of excitement, fear, and pride knowing that I would serve.
Really serve.
But yes.
Supply school first.
Graduation