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  The mortarmen are lazy doughy white boys like Andrew Laughlin, a Private Pyle lookalike, but who is too meek to crack and become homicidal. There is also Ned Lewis, who is black and has arms like the steel mortar tubes he carries on hikes.

  The infantrymen are called grunts and crunchies. They are stupid and intelligent and cruel and beautiful and black and white and brown and yellow and fat and lazy and lithe and godlike and frightening in their dedication to death.

  We become grunts. We want to be basic, jacks-of-all-trades and masters of none, meat for the grinder. We want to pay for what we think might be the sins accrued in our hard lives by the time we are nineteen through violent death and become tragic heroes that other SOI instructors tell stories about in hushed tones.

  Our instructors are like drill instructors if drill instructors weren’t like hermetically sealed action figures. The SOI instructors are gritty and lean, with hollow eyes and acid wit. In garrison they fidget and stress and fuck with our time, make us clean, make us run, make us hurt. In the field the instructors loosen; they tell us war stories about Fallujah and Ramadi and Mosul and Nasiriyah, about climbing six-foot-high mud walls in full gear while baking in one-hundred-degree heat and taking enemy fire. In the stories there is always death, there is always loss. We sit on our packs in the coastal hills that smell like hot dirt and the sweat of the hundreds of thousands of Marines who came before us and we keep our faces solemn. We can never meet our instructors’ eyes so we stare at our boots instead.

  From us the instructors demand perfection and endurance and fortitude and leadership and an inhuman ability to stay awake. They expect us to see in the dark, to anticipate the movement of our enemy, to act as magnanimous killing machines.

  Still, they fuck with us in the field. They make us run in flak jackets with our rifles. They make us perform eight-count bodybuilders until we vomit our MREs in the dust. They make us run full speed, screaming war cries until our throats bleed. If we do not seek cover in the dirt fast enough, they tell us we are dead and our squad mates must pull our bodies to a casualty collection point and we run the range again and again—thousands of meters—until we get it right.

  The instructors bless some of us with squad leader billets. We are in charge of our peers in the field. We lead them and ensure they are prepared and try to be hard like our instructors. When our peers fail it is not their fault, it is ours. When we fall asleep in our fighting holes and neglect to wake our squad for a mission brief one of our instructors football punts our helmets and relieves us of command. Deep down we are relieved; we think maybe now we get to tell our own stories, that they won’t end in death. We are so young.

  When we all graduate and are sent to Third Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment at Camp San Mateo at the north end of Camp Pendleton, the machine gunners and other heavy weapons are sent to Weapons Company or are doled out to heavy weapons platoons in one of the line companies—India, Lima, or Kilo. We are expecting one of those three. But the needs of the Corps take precedence in the fleet and while we watch our fellow grunts receive their line assignments we are sent to Weapons Company where we’ll be made into mortarmen—tube strokers, gun bunnies. Everything we tried to avoid. We understand now; choice is an illusion. It is a good lesson to learn.

  Special Features

  This is me, in the present. I’m looking back at a movie of me in the past—Past-me. I’ll play you some of the movie and you can look at me, too.

  Allow me to commentate.

  The backstory: suburban childhood, chubby kid who got picked on, broken home, drugs and drinking, poor choices, shitty jobs, mounds of self-loathing, the decision to make a change, basic training, etc., etc. In light of all that, let’s skip to the chapter titled “A Bad Joke.”

  Watch and listen as School of Infantry instructor Sergeant Johnson tells Past-me and his class in late summer of 2005 they’ll be stationed at a unit in Hawaii and that their unit will be heading off to Australia and Okinawa and Thailand and other beautiful places. Past-me thinks this sounds fantastic. Past-me was scared and now isn’t, because there are no wars in those places that concern him. Only beautiful scenery and women and beaches and drinks with little umbrellas.

  Move on to the next scene weeks later where Sergeant Johnson informs Past-me and his class that he has lied and they’ll instead be moving just down the road to Third Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment at Camp San Mateo, a unit that returned from Iraq in April 2005 and will be heading back in January 2006.

  Now, if we slow it down a bit—there! Just there, did you catch it? The fear in Past-me’s eyes, the color draining from his sunburnt face, the muscles of his jaw clenching, grinding teeth to powder. That’s the reaction to the pit forming in Past-me’s stomach. Follow the camera as it pans to Past-me’s point of view. We can see Sergeant Johnson in slow motion. Watch his dead shark eyes begin to teem with life and the barest hint of a smirk stretch over the wad of dip tucked into his lower lip. Sergeant Johnson is pleased. He is a combat veteran, a hard man, still young, maybe twenty-five. He knows the horror and fear and mind-numbing boredom of war. He misses those things—just as Past-me will come to miss them—and making Past-me and his training class feel frightened is a way he can experience a small slice of that pleasure. Past-me does not yet understand these complexities. In this moment, Past-me only wants to cover himself with blankets, clutch his stuffed dog, stick his thumb in his mouth, and forget about the world.

  Past-me does not do this.

  Instead, Past-me weeps on the pier in Oceanside, and weeps in the designated smoke pit outside the PX after graduating from the School of Infantry, and weeps in the lavatory on the plane to Iraq a few chapters in the future. In fact, there is a compilation section in the special features of this DVD devoted entirely to scenes containing Past-me weeping.

  Skip to the DVD chapter titled “Go Fuck Yourself, Young.”

  Notice Past-me’s interactions with senior Marines after being assigned to Third Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment in September 2005:

  Hey, Young! Get over here.

  Watch as Private First Class Past-me jogs up to the senior Marine without answering because he can’t remember the corporal’s name.

  I guess I don’t rate a greeting? Fuck me, right? I guess we don’t sound off, either. Know what happens to boots who don’t sound off, boot?

  No, Corporal.

  They get fucking dead, Young. You want to fucking die, boot?

  No, Corporal.

  Too fucking bad, because you’re going to fucking get your head blown off over there because you don’t have the fucking stones to sound off and no one will know where you are and you’ll just run into a building and some other Marine’s going to think you’re a fucking hajji and shoot you right in your stupid fucking face.

  Yes, Corporal.

  Get the fuck out of here, Young.

  Aye, aye, Corporal.

  Past-me is often told he will die. He is told he will die because he hasn’t cleaned his barracks room properly. He is told because he lacks attention to detail he will be shot in the face. He is told he will not only get himself killed, but that he’ll get his friends killed as well. Past-me is told he will die so often that at times he wonders maybe if he isn’t dead already.

  This next DVD chapter, “If You’re Scared, Go to Church,” takes place in January 2006 before Past-me and his company are to load the buses that will carry us to March Air Force Base, where they will board the plane that will fly them to war. See all the families of junior Marines walking around the barracks? Past-me’s family didn’t come. Past-me told them not to. Most of those families are from the surrounding Southern California area. They’re spending some last precious moments with their sons before sending them off to fight in a conflict they probably don’t support.

  Watch the barracks staircase. In about five seconds, a Marine—Sergeant Carmichael—is going to descend those stairs. He is short and barrel-chested and tattooed, with thinning red hair and a West Virginia accen
t. But you don’t need that information to know who he is. Simply look for the Marine screaming, If you’re scared, go to church. No one is quite sure what this phrase means, but it sounds intimidating.

  Sergeant Carmichael also screams, We are going to die. He tells Past-me and his comrades they are going to lose their legs, and their brothers are going to bleed out in their arms. Sergeant Carmichael tells the junior Marines he does not trust a single one of them and that they are going to get him killed, too.

  Sergeant Carmichael forces Marines to the position of attention in front of their families and makes them tell their parents goodbye forever. He says, Tell them you love them. Tell them you’re sorry. He screams until Past-me’s squad leader, Sergeant Mars, escorts him out of sight to a barracks room.

  Past-me knows Sergeant Carmichael has not yet deployed to combat and that he is afraid, just as Past-me is afraid. Past-me also knows Sergeant Carmichael is drunk, and Past-me wishes to be drunk as well. Past-me relishes the thought of losing his inhibitions and exclaiming to the world, I am going to die.

  Past-me recognizes that this feeling, this need to exclaim and acknowledge, is how Sergeant Johnson, the School of Infantry instructor, once felt when he also thought he would die in war and how every other man who has ever gone to war has felt.

  Watch as I fast-forward through all of what comes next. Watch Past-me become what Sergeant Johnson became. Watch Past-me not die and wish he had. Watch Past-me struggle to live for something just as Sergeant Johnson once did. In 16x speed, watch Past-me haze new joins and bar fight his knuckles to shreds and cheat on his fiancée and volunteer to redeploy and drive drunk and burn bridges and hate everyone and himself—just to try to get back to that feeling of exhilaration at the thought of dying.

  Watch me.

  How to Make a Portable Partner (Patent Pending)

  Hey there, Devil Dogs. Are you feeling lonely? Are you currently training in the field—away from everything you know and love? Have you been awake for more than thirty-six hours? Has it been more than three months since you’ve seen or even spoken to a woman? Are you sick of chafing the sensitive skin of your nethers against callused, sand-covered hands? Well, have I got news for you.

  Thanks to Staff Sergeant Rick Footman’s easy-to-use-and-transport Portable Partner (patent pending), you’ll never go without pussy again. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t like other portable masturbatory devices; it’s a system all its own, designed for maximum comfort and portability.

  Never again will a faux flesh hole cluttering up your kit embarrass you. Never again will you have to wash your own (or, dare I say, someone else’s) spunk from hard-to-reach nooks and crannies. Never again will you experience the chagrin of losing or forgetting your expensive-brand pocket pussy—now that there’s the Portable Partner (patent pending).

  Other systems can cost fifty, sixty, even seventy dollars, while the Portable Partner (patent pending) is free. That’s right, free. All you need to do is put those grunt skills to work and beg, borrow, or steal.

  The story of Portable Partner (patent pending) and its creator, Rick Footman, exists alongside stories of Nikola Tesla and Gary Kildall, and all those inventors who have endeavored to increase the quality of life for their fellow human beings.

  The month was November of the year 2005, just before my first pump over to the sandbox during a joint training exercise. It was in the back of a Humvee: Rick revealed to me the genius of his invention as we bumped across the Mojave, tank engines screaming next to our vehicle, five-hundred-pounders dropping from fast movers overhead. Rick sat toward the cab of the Humvee, his slender Western lawman frame angled and sharp. The chinstrap of his Kevlar hung below his rectangular dimpled chin; mirrored sunglasses kept his visage blank aside from a widening grin spreading across his tanned, smooth cheeks. He noticed my enamored gaze and became serious.

  Young, would you take a look at something for me? he asked.

  Sure, Staff Sergeant, I said.

  The others in the back of the Humvee were silent; they spit tobacco and bumped around on wooden bench seats, sweat pooled at their throat protectors.

  Without warning Staff Sergeant Footman flipped the tan triangle of his groin protector into the air, revealing his testicles.

  See any silver in there, Young? He slapped the flaccid exposed flesh. My wife keeps complaining about gray hairs.

  Staff Sergeant, someone said. What’s wrong with your balls? They’re huge.

  And then, fellas, then Rick revealed his secret. Pay close attention.

  I’ll tell you, he said. I haven’t jerked off the entire month we’ve been here, but I’m really going to treat myself when we finish up tonight.

  You got a Fleshlight, Staff Sergeant? I asked.

  Fuck no, that shit’s expensive. I make my own.

  And there it is, gents. That’s how I learned Rick’s secret. The secret I’ll share here with you today so you won’t find yourself paying upward of fifty, sixty, even seventy dollars to get your rocks off, the secret of the Portable Partner (patent pending).

  First things first, you’ll need some miscellaneous items to build your own Portable Partner (patent pending). Keep in mind, these items can most likely be found for free on any camp, forward operating base, observation post, or patrol base. They can be purchased as well, but what’s the point? Marines make do. We overcome; we improvise; we adapt. No door? Circle charge. No weights? Tent poles and sand bags. No pussy? Portable Partner (patent pending).

  All right, now beg, borrow, or steal: one hand towel (bigger than a washcloth, smaller than a body towel), two to three heavy-gauge rubber bands, one latex or other synthetic medical glove. Last, some kind of lubricant.

  Now we’re ready to begin assembly. You’re going to want to fold the towel length-wise, like so, to a width of about seven inches.

  Take your glove and place it on left side of the towel. Fold four of the latex fingers down to the palm of the glove in order to create a single tubelike structure.

  Next, roll your towel around the glove to the necessary tightness. We don’t judge here, folks; not all men are created equal.

  This step might be a bit complicated for you knuckle-draggers out there, so pay close attention. Secure rubber bands 1 and 2 before folding the cuff of the latex glove over the end of the rolled towel. Then, use rubber band 3 to secure the cuff in place.

  Last, holding the device vertically, insert the tip of the lubricant bottle into the opening of the device. Coat as desired. Now of course this step is completely up to you, friends. To each his own, I say.

  And there you have it, the Portable Partner (patent pending).

  Stay awake on post, pass the time, relieve some tension, prolong your life, guard against prostate cancer. It’s the affordable, single-use, do-it-yourself pocket pussy. The Portable Partner (patent pending): so you’re not the only thing getting fucked on deployment.

  Choir of Angels

  A memory: We stand on line in the middle of Mojave Desert darkness in November of 2005 spotlighted by Humvee headlights, our shadows casting long and twig thin on the sand and rocks crawling with night animals.

  Our seniors stand in bristled silence, sucking on cigarettes, glowing cherries the red eyes of predators. Even farther beyond our spotlight is Amboy Crater—Old Amboy—towering black sand against a black sky. Our seniors tell us it’s where Lucifer landed after his fall from heaven. They tell us it’s where Charles Manson raped and murdered babies.

  We stand at the position of attention, our bare pale legs covered in folliculitis. I imagine our infected flesh bloating and sloughing from our bodies—bodies shivering and swaying from exhaustion as the dome of space lowers over us, sucking heat from scrub, mortar tubes left on the gun line, our bone marrow.

  I am thinking I might die of hypothermia, or that we’ll all be beaten to death. Maybe the freshest of us, big black Cedric Brown, who smiles more than anyone I know and has the motivation of ten men, or Charlie Beaston, whose dis
arming Oklahoma drawl has made us forget his newness, are not thinking this, but the rest of us know of what our salts are capable—we have seen their Handycam movies from Fallujah of bloated, bullet-riddled corpses and burning buildings. We remember their cheery, teenage voices tossing frag grenades down staircases and explaining the various fluids leaking from exit wounds. I imagine they’ll drive our beaten and crippled bodies out to Old Amboy, dump us down the hollow. They’d sleep like babies.

  In the outer dark, a moonbeam bobs along the gun line: Private First Class Smalley. Short and slow, with thick glasses digging in on the ridge of his too-big, cratered nose—hundreds of Old Amboys. Behind Smalley’s lenses his eyes are sleepy and crossed. He stuffs his gums with Kodiak wintergreen and the shavings stick in the crevasses of his teeth and chapped lips.

  Smalley, a voice from the outer dark calls.

  Yes, Corporal?

  Your boys are going to stand out here all fucking night, Smalley.

  Yes, Corporal.

  Unless you shit me those fucking aiming stakes.

  Without aiming stakes we cannot fire our mortars. We cannot get the gun up. We cannot hang a round down the tube, fingers wrapped around the football shaped fuse, knuckles clenched white. We won’t be able to revel in the gut-shuddering blast or the delayed splash of impact.

  Adam Flynn, my mortar team’s assistant gunner, seethes next to me. Smalley is our ammo man. They are our stakes that have been lost. We know it is our fault for not policing Smalley. Now everyone will be punished.

  Tomorrow is the last day of mortar fire before our obsolete mortar platoon integrates with the Combined Anti-Armor Teams to form Mobile Assault Platoons. Before we have to again learn some new tactic of fighting. Adam and I want to remember the thing we have come to love fondly. We do not want to spend the shoot being hazed.

  Smalley’s light continues its trek, pausing at each mortar position to count the aiming stakes in the carrier bags.