Dispatches from Iraq — The Call
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January 2004 — The United States Marine Corps rarely calls senior reserve officers to active duty with their combat units. I did not expect that to change when the United States invaded Iraq in 2003. What the Marine Corps needed was trigger pullers. I was a Colonel, a part-time one at that. My time split between my civilian career as a consultant and a Marine Corps officer in the Reserves. My service had not been very exciting stuff up to that point. All that changed with a phone call.
My wife and I were in the North Carolina on the Outer Banks, and I had left my cell phone on so the family could reach me. I expected a distraught or lonely family member when the phone rang. Instead, it was a someone else with an unexpected request. The caller was the Assistant Operations Officer from the 1st Marine Division, and he was looking for volunteers.
He stated that the Division needed an officer, with an engineering background, who would coordinate the Division’s infrastructure reconstruction effort in Iraq. The work included reconstruction of roads, wastewater plants, water supply infrastructure. These were things that the United States Marines don’t normally do. They were better at blowing things up. I had to think for a moment. He was asking for a lot, and the details were sketchy. But being the good consultant that I was, I said that I could do it. He sounded quite relieved and informed me my reserve unit would place me on active duty. I was excited, as I was not expecting this. My wife and family were not, as they were not expecting it either.
The weeks following were a whirlwind of activity as I scramble to get uniforms, will and powers of attorney up to date. All while organizing the turnover at my job and saying goodbye to friends and family. Finally done and on my way, I left with a promise to keep everyone posted on my adventures. As I waited at the airport, I grabbed a newspaper to pass my time. As always, I checked my horoscope for the day. It read, “You are beginning a journey into the unknown with new friends.”
My new friends were waiting for me at Camp Pendleton, California. Home of the 1st Marine Division. Their first order of business was to get me ready for life in a combat unit. A ritual of patience, courage and strength. The process starts at the Division Headquarters Administrative section. This is where I present records to confirm that I am who I say I am. A young Marine takes my frayed service record jacket that holds 25 years of my life diligently recorded by past clerks. He moves in slow motion to his desk. Slowly and methodically, he reviews the files. I wonder if perhaps I am trapped on the event horizon of a black hole. There seems to be no escape, and time has stopped. Rank has no privileges either, as everyone must have correct paperwork. Eventually, though, the young Marine deems me administratively correct, adds yet another slip of paper into the record jacket, and allows me to leave.
Next, it is on to the medical center. The administration section tested my patience’s. A team of Corpsman, navy equivalent to an Army Medic, will test my physical courage. They do this by giving me a shot for every known, and some unknown, disease on the planet. The higher in rank, the more shots they seem to give. After that, blood is taken. They poke holes in every place that they missed with the shots and consider their task successful if you cannot move either arm. With a cheerful smile, they send me on my way, safe knowing that the enemy can do no worse to me.
Finally, my physical strength is tested. I am required to report to the Regimental supply to draw gear. It is a warehouse in a remote section of the base. It seems parking within a half of a mile of the supply building is not allowed. Inside a structure, probably built before my grandfather was born, they issue my combat gear. Pack, sleeping bags, helmet, canteens, cold weather gear, hot weather gear, extra boots and uniforms, goggles, rain gear, flack jacket and more. I then sign my life away, agreeing not to lose damage or otherwise deface the government property that I have received. Then comes the true test. I then must haul the 200 pounds of gear back to my car. My guess is that those who cannot reach their car are sent home. Deemed as unfit for duty.
After successfully completed the above, I have one more task to do. It is the most important, and for me, it is the symbol of admittance into the unit. I go to the armory and there I am issued my weapon. It is a pistol. A black Beretta. It fits neatly into my shoulder holster, and I will carry it for next 7 months. Day and night it will never leave my side.
Though only a few weeks, it feels like years since the late-night call. I have passed into another world. I have become part of something bigger. As Ronald Reagan once noted,” Some people spend an entire lifetime wondering if they made a difference in the world. But the Marines don’t have that problem.” I am not sure what waits for me, but there is no doubt it will test my mettle and give me that chance to extend my hand into the flow of history. I just hope I don’t screw it up.
