When you go into the field here at TBS (and I assume anywhere else in the Marine Corps), you must reconstruct time and reality. It is a monumental task. Over the past week, my company conducted FEX III, the most war-like of our evolutions. I slept only 14 hours; the other 102 I was conducting exercises. Probably like any experience of suffering and privation, a FEX exposes oneself in a way that all the little luxuries of society (like beds and showers) prevent. Since part of the learning experience of a FEX is experiencing the kind of privation that happens in combat situations, there is neither time for relaxation nor time fore eating built in. We must eat when we can and often go without food for long hours. What makes this especially demanding is the fact that everything about the FEX requires focus and discipline, from the long midnight security watches to the act of sneaking up on enemy positions for reconnaisance.
We spent four full days in the field, plus a morning dedicated to leaving. Monday we were helicoptered in and set up a defense, which we maintained until Wednesday morning. On Wednesday, we conducted a Movement to Contact, a platoon daylight attack, and a night ambush. On Thursday, we conducted a night attack. Each evening we manned LP/OPs (Listening Post/Observation Post), stood Radio Watch (listened to the Radio to see if higher called us), and kept a man posted on every Squad Automatic Weapon for security. In the daytime we conducted patrols, Leader's Recon, and held strong points. We engaged in combat with our peers, captured POWs, and suffered casualties.
Although the first day was clear, the rest of the week proceeded under steady, and it steadily got colder. We slept in wet sleeping bags (when we had time), we woke up frigidly at all hours in wet clothes, we lay prone in ice-cold water, we sat in chest-deep fighting positions that slowly filled with mud. I cannot remember being warm, although many times I achieved a sort of comfort simple from moving around. Yet this kind of discomfort the grueling pace of our activities fostered pride and cameraderie during and after the FEX.
The easiest way to explain this week is to say that the level of intensity pushed well past the point where I previously would have called it quits. Despite the cold and wet, I am proud to say that we went about our business in a professional manner. During movement to contact, which is a method of clearing terrain of enemy, we hiked through thick woodland at a fast pace with full load (70-100 lbs) on our backs, diverting units as needed to engage whatever enemy we encountered. It requires discipline to drop packs in precise order under fire, to engage the enemy with aggression, and then quickly retrieve the packs and run to rejoin the formation. It requires discipline to know what exactly your job is each time an engagement occurs. And it requires discipline to continue onward without food, without sleep, while cold and wet. But we did it. During the night attack, my squad and I crept to within 60 meters of enemy entrenchments without being detected, achieved surprise, and suppressed them with fire so our comrades could assault through. During the night ambush, we took down an order in driving rain, crept through dense underbrush in 0% illumination without the aid of lights or NVGs, ambushed a convoy, raided the trucks, and transported our spoils back in the same manner, while once resisting a counterattack by the enemy. Sitting down at my desk to write about it, I almost can't believe all we accomplished, despite having been there myself. The memory thrills me.
We did it. We accomplished the mission. In spite of physical hardship. And that is the greatest feeling in the world. My captain once told our platoon, "mental and physical toughness will take you a long way," and he was right. It is the mental and physical toughness that my platoon showed that enabled us to do our jobs so well despite the poor conditions and the intelligent, highly enemy. We were in the middle of war-like conditions, and we performed. Moreover, the actions of my Platoon enabled me to take part. I won't lie: every single one of us was discouraged and thinking of quitting at one point during the week. But we all covererd for each other and inspired each other (and sometimes had to kick each other in the ass to get moving). We were greater than the sum of our parts, and that sustained us. That made suffering seem incidental, except as an excuse to complain.
A few characteristically reflective moments stand out for me, the first being the helicopter ride in. The helicopter is an amazing machine. When you get in, and the engines wind up, it feels like there is no way the rotor can lift the aircraft. You seem to hear each individual rotor blade hitting the air as the aircraft struggles to lift off. But in the air, it is different - we made some turns so sharply that I could literally look straight down to the earth through the windows on the opposite side of the fuselage from where I was seated. Exhilarating? absolutely.
Another, oddly, was firing the machine gun. I may have mentioned already that I carried the M240G medium machine gun through the night attack, which included about 3 km of hiking to various control points (again, through dense forest), 1600 meters of creeping through woodland in the dark to get in position, and one glorious minute of firing. In fact, though I hated the M240G while hiking it, it fires so beautifully that I forgave it everything during the attack. I felt in that moment like I would never love a girl as much as I loved that weapon. It fires 7.62mm (.30 calibre) high-powered rifle rounds, which makes a lot more more noise than the smaller caliber M16 and SAWs (5.56mm/.2229 cal). It also a more physical weapon, with a powerful recoil. And it has a higher rate of fire and great reliability. I felt like Rambo. It was wonderful: the first burst I fired was supposed to be 6-8 rounds, but it ended up being closer to 20, because it felt so good to be pulling the trigger. I don't think I will ever forget the sight of that machine gun eating its chain of ammunition, or the feel of its buttstock slamming my shoulder, or the brightness of its muzzle flashes. It was (and I don't use this word lightly) almost orgasmic.
Now, it all is a pleasant memory. I am filled with more food than I ever thought possible to eat, and enjoying the inordinate warmth of my barracks room. My warm, dry rack is calling. I am off to what I am sure will be a great night's sleep...which in this moment is all I want in the world.
