Courage Under Fire

Wearing only his underwear, the sniper moved from position to position, shooting everyone he put in his sights.

At least the weekend wouldn’t be boring.

You discover different things about yourself when you’re put in a position that you never imagined. When yourself is tested in situations that are unexpected you only have a few options. One path the Marine Corps strongly encourages: Improvise, adapt, and overcome. On that evening, it was our only option. The sniper quickly became problematic.

Firewatch duty is pretty straightforward. You monitor your area for potential problems. Things such as fires (thus Firewatch), enemy attacks, problems with the troops, and even simple problems like maintenance issues. When you have Firewatch in your barracks—on the weekend—usually the biggest problem you will have to deal with are drunken Marines. I guess that’s what you get for starting a military branch in a tavern (seriously, you can Google it).

It was another typical Friday evening, Liberty (you are getting a “free pass” from working that day for the duration of the liberty as defined by your chain of command. veteran.com) had begun, and in typical youthful Marine exuberance, many members of my platoon had headed out for the bars—either on base or in town. I had Firewatch duty.

Firewatch duty was no big deal for me. I didn’t drink, and since this was only Infantry School and not my station in the fleet, I didn’t have anywhere special to go. Usually, my Fridays consisted of a haircut, some chow, maybe the PX, and some sleep. I know, wild times, right? Saturdays were different. On Saturdays, my Fire Team and I would get up early and head to the beach for the whole day. We would just be out in the sun, enjoy the water, and play in the sand. Typically that meant building sandcastles near the waterline and then fortifying them against the oncoming tide. Or, we would dig deep fox holes (fortified fighting positions) and then fill them in (because leaving a giant hole in the beach is not nice). Life was pretty good.

The sniper was new. He was unexpected. Very unexpected. Especially, when he’s one of your own.

I had known the guy since Boot Camp. He had been in my platoon then. He was average in height, slender in build (skinny. he was skinny), and had signed up to be in the Miltary Police. Still, every Marine is an infantryman, and the M.P.s get their training with the Grunts—the 0300’s. The Backbone of the Corps. This guy was not really cut out for this. At least that’s what the Drill Instructors said (over and over and over again). We were several weeks into our training and I think the reality of it all finally got to the guy and he had gone out to drown his sorrows with booze—for the first time ever.

Now, I don’t drink. Never have. And I plan on it being a ‘never will’. However, from what I understand, weight has a lot to do with alcohol absorption and tolerance and effect—still, I could be wrong. Anyway, with this guy—we’ll call him Johnson—having never consumed liquor before, this experience appeared to be only affecting him in the traditional fashion: Teetering and drowsy. Because that’s how he was returned to the barracks.

“We found him almost passed out on the bar counter. So, we dragged him back here. First timer.” Came the report from a couple of the Marines from our platoon as they helped him get undressed and into his bed. They were just looking out for Johnson. We’re all brothers, after all. They, however, were lucky. They were able to walk out of there before things became sinister.

Johnson would later convey to me how sorry he was for what he had done. The stress of the 0300 training had really gotten to him. He didn’t know that M.P. was not going to be for his full four-year contract. He had drank himself stupid and then made some really bad decisions.

As I believe I already mentioned, the nice thing about the weekend Firewatch is the lack of people. There is little to look out for and few bodies in the barracks. When I reflect back on that Friday night, I still am unsure how much better, or worse, things may have been if more Marines had been there.

BANG!

“Did you hear that?” My fellow Firewatch asked.

“Duh. I’m right hear. The real question is, where did it come from?” I responded. We were both now on high alert.

BANG!

Once again, a shot rang out. No doubt about it now, the shooter was definitely in our barracks.

BANG!

Another shot. Only this one was followed by a, “I got you!”

My fellow watchman and I turned to see a skinny, pale, platinum-blonde body dart from behind a locker to under a bed.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“The real question is, was he only wearing underwear?”

Yes. Yes, he was. It was Johnson. Johnson was darting about the barracks wearing only his government-issued tighty-whities and shooting anybody he could spot.

“Bang!” Followed by, “I shot you, again!” That’s when we noticed that Johnson was scoping in on us with an invisible sniper rifle—not his issued M16, so, no real ammo. Yup, he was drunk, but he was accurately using that pretend firearm. He would settle it into his shoulder. Close one eye as he brought the other toward the scope. Put a bullet in the chamber (apparently the rifle was a bolt action). Then breathe in, out, and shoot. “Bang!”

“What the crap…?!” My watchmate went one way and I went another, we tried to get to Johnson and tackle him. We had to. For ten minutes we had tried to tell him to knock it off and go back to bed, but he wouldn’t listen. He just kept moving from one set of cover(s) to another—literally. Johnson was jumping into the beds of other Marines, messing them up, shooting pretend enemies (and us), then running for new cover(s). Even drunk, the pun was not lost on him.

Now, if you don’t know anything about the military, know this, the beds are almost always made. They are made anytime you’re not in ’em. And, they are made well. And now, this nut-job was messing them all up. The top and the bottom bunks—mostly the bottom ones, but still…

“We gotta stop him! I am not going to have to remake every bunk in here because Johnson thinks he’s a sniper!” The other Firewatch was getting very angry very quickly. It had almost been a half hour of us trying to corner Johnson so we could drag him back to his bed. During this time, some of the Marines that had come back—for various reasons—had seen the bunks in a mess, had also been shot, sympathized with us Firewatch, and tried to help as best they could.

Eventually, we caught Johnson and got him in his bunk. We also tucked the sheets extra tight so he couldn’t move—in theory (he was so super skinny). Johnson wriggled and writhed. Nothin’. He was in bed. It didn’t take long before he stopped moving and fell asleep. Now, to be sure he was alright and not going to die, we listened to his breathing—just in case we had made the bed too tight. He was okay.

“Finally,” I said as we walked away. Just as we did so, we heard the sound of bare feet slapping on cement. We spun around. Johnson’s bunk was empty. We had been played!

“BANG! Got you!” Johnson had climbed a set of lockers. He had the high ground.

“Not again.” Fortunately for—and unbeknownst to—us, the story of what had happened was being slowly passed along at the bar and some other platoon members came back to see what was happening. They were not disappointed. Once again, we had reinforcements, and, for the next hour and a half, myself, my fellow Firewatch, and a handful of miscellaneous Marines would try to finagle Johnson back to his bed.

We tried everything safe that we could think of. He would not follow orders to stay in bed. We couldn’t bribe him. Additionally, to top it off, he was also surprisingly agile (when inebriated). And quite frankly, nobody really wanted to tackle his pale behind, especially because he was only in his underwear and we were nervous we might hurt him—as all of us were bigger than he was. Although we did want to punch him in the face. Seriously. So very much.

“I got an idea! Anybody know where Steele is?” In my efforts to corral the deranged, mostly naked sniper, I had forgotten our platoon’s ace-in-the-whole: Steele.

Steele was a member of my Fire Team and had developed an uncanny duplication of the voice of one of our Troop Handlers (a Troop Handler, in Infantry School, was like what a Drill Instructor was for Boot Camp, only not as yelly or mean). I figured that if Johnson was not going to listen to any of us, he might listen to the Corporal.

By the time Steele had been located and returned to barracks, Johnson had been pinned down in his bunk by four of us, while others watched and laughed (Johnson was fighting to break free as though his life depended on it). It took only moments for me to fill Steele in on the plan.

“Johnson! Ah-TEN-huh!” Barked Steele in our Corporal’s voice. Johnson went rigid as if he was standing on the Parade Deck for inspection. We all tentatively let go. So far, so good. Even though we were all right there and were looking right at Steele, you would have sworn our platoon Corporal was the one giving the orders. “Johnson, you will keep your eyes shut! You will go to sleep! And, you will not get out of that bunk the for rest of the night! Do you understand?”

“Aye, Corporal!” And at that, Johnson closed his eyes, passed out, and didn’t move for the rest of the night.