BEYOND THE DROPZONE

GENERATIONS

Posted by W. Thomas Smith Jr. on 4 June 2008 at 12:20 am UTC

[An unexpected, almost Kiplingesque line in today’s New York Times — unexpected because the line was published by the Times — reminded me of why I was compelled to write a certain piece three years ago.  The Times’ line today was: “Taliban forces in southern Afghanistan are fleeing to the Pakistani border after being routed in recent operations by the United States Marines.”  My story three-years-ago touched on a single moment in time, an unbreakable connection to something I held so dear then, even more so today.]

GENERATIONS
By W. Thomas Smith Jr.

Their faces were an odd mix of happiness, sadness, and envy. Happy for me, but sad and envious all the same.

They were losing a squad leader who had taken care of them as an older brother watches over his kid siblings. But these really were not kids. They and I were U.S. Marine infantrymen – “grunts,” as we often were called by our non-infantry counterparts in those days (”grunt” being an affectionate term for a Marine infantryman aka rifleman – a holdover term from the Vietnam War – and generally applied to anyone who gets paid to slog through the mud with a rifle).

With only hours remaining in my four-year hitch as a grunt, I was packed and saying last “goodbyes” in the squad bay where we lived. Soon I would shoulder my seabag and cross one of many Camp Pendleton, California parade-decks toward a waiting taxi that would take me to the airport. There, I would board a plane for home and my new life as a civilian.

But not yet.

I was savoring my final moments as a rifle-squad leader in — what I believed was — one of the best platoons, of the best company, of the finest battalion in — what everyone knew was — the most decorated regiment in the entire Marine Corps.

The members of my squad, on the other hand, were doing what Marines always do: Packing gear, cleaning weapons, and bitching among themselves before shipping out once again. This time they would be “helo-ed out” to the USS Belleau Wood, which was waiting somewhere off the California coast.

On this morning of my life, I was a corporal of Marines. My charges – the so-called kids – were only lance corporals, privates-first-class, and privates; many of them so new their camouflaged utility uniforms had yet to take on that well-worn, faded, sun and seawater bleached “salty” look mine had.

I was thrilled to be going home – I had done my time – but I somehow felt guilty about leaving these young Marines to another corporal or sergeant… or worse, some boot lieutenant fresh out of Quantico.

“I wish I was you today, Corporal Smith,” one of the tall, smiling, deep-voiced, more-senior lance corporals said as he tightened the chin strap of his helmet, slipped his rifle-sling over his left shoulder and simultaneously shifted the heavy pack on his back. “But I’ll be there in another 22 months, five days and a wake-up.”

I approached him, reached around, and helped re-adjust his pack.

“I know, man, time’ll pass before you know it,” I said.

I had led these young Marines, trained them, ate with, drank, slept, laughed, joked, played ball, ran, pumped iron, shared stories about girls, sweated in the heat, shivered in the cold, paddled in the California surf until our backs ached, humped over mountains and through jungle, faced all sorts of physical dangers (though we didn’t realize it at the time), gone a-whoring with, and sailed with to the far ends of the earth.

They would forever be my little brothers.But in the subsequent months and years when I would begin that gradual devolution back into what we called “a slimy civilian,” they themselves would grow up and become corporals. They would become big brothers to others who themselves would become corporals.

Those corporals would then lead other Marines who would become corporals, 
who would lead others who would become corporals,
who would lead others who would become corporals,
who would lead others who would become corporals,
who would lead others who would become corporals,

who today are leading young Marines – who weren’t even born when I was a corporal – down dangerous streets and alleyways in places with names like Fallujah, Ramadi, and the Triangle of Death.

And I think about that every night before I close my eyes.

[Published in World Defense Review, July 25, 2005 — photo of W. Thomas Smith Jr., 1983]

— Visit W. Thomas Smith Jr. at uswriter.com. 

NOTE: The opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the author, and do not represent the opinions of World Defense Review and its affiliates. WDR accepts no responsibility whatsoever for the accuracy or inaccuracy of the content of this or any other story published on this website. Copyright and all rights for this story (and all other stories by the author) are held by the author.

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