Clint Van Winkle - Soft Spots: A Marines Memoir of Combat and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

RUM AND COKE SPLASHED onto the tiled floor when I bent down to pick up a dress blues blouse. The midnight-blue top, with its high-neck collar, red piping, and thick white cotton belt, had been tailored to fit snug around my trim body. Things had changed, though, primarily my waistline, and it would have taken some sort of divine intervention to get the anodized buttons anywhere close to their corresponding buttonholes. But that didnt stop me from trying.

No luck. I threw the blouse in the corner, rooted through the rest of the uniform pile. A desert-patterned boonie cover with a faded Marine Corps emblem ironed on the front was one of the few items of clothing I knew I could still fit into. I found the floppy-rimmed hat tucked beneath a pair of gabardine trousers, and slid it onto my head before finishing what little remained of the watered-down rum and Coke. Youre all fucked up, I said when I saw myself in the mirror. The bald-headed reflection staring back at me resembled the eighteen-year-old boy whod showed up for training at Parris Island in 1997 more than it did the twenty-five-year-old sergeant who had commanded a section of amphibious assault vehicles during the initial invasion of Iraq. Sergeant Van Winkle, the Marine Corps martial arts instructor, had disappeared long ago and left behind an out-of-shape college student named Clinta person Id grown to dislike.

The first year home from war had not gone smoothly, and with the redeployment of my old unit imminent and my younger stepbrother Matt still a few months away from completing his first tour in Iraq with an Army Scout Cav unit, I couldnt help but believe that I was letting everyone down by hiding out in a university classroom.

After pouring a fresh drink, I walked down a short hallway to the office and sat in a swivel chair. In the clutter on the desk lay a dusty Ziploc bag that contained an equally dusty notebook. Most Marines carried the same green notebooks. The small hardcover books were almost as important as rifles and ammunition. With so many moving parts, relying on memory was a surefire way to fuck things up. I took the notebook from the bag, flipped through its weathered pages.

February 14, 2003: the first entry. Corporal Shawn Kipper was sandwiched between Staff Sergeant David Paxson and me, stuffed uncomfortably into the middle seat of a Boeing 777 that the U.S. government had chartered to fly our battalion to Kuwait. Rifles and pistols were stored haphazardly in the overhead bins, mixed in with pillows and kiddy-sized blankets. Deuce gearwar belt with canteens, first-aid kit, and butt pack full of miscellaneous supplieslay tangled like a pile of spaghetti around boot-clad feet. Openmouthed, resembling a pair of oversized flytraps, Paxson and Kipper slept.

According to the onboard navigation screen on the bulkhead in front of us, the Celtic Sea was thousands of feet below. I looked out of the window, wondered if I would ever again get the chance to see the region. Only a few faint lights were visible from my vantage point, but looking at them sparkle made me think of what it would be like to be in a different situation: trolling in a fishing boat in the choppy water below, wrestling heavy nets of fish out of the sea. We were flying across the world to free a nation, but I only thought about our freedom. It was Valentines Day, but all I could envision was death.

Welcome to Kuwait, the first sergeant said over the planes loudspeaker. Jet-lagged and stuffed full, we gathered our weapons, deuce gear, and gas masks and headed for the exit. Heat seemed to press against my body when I made it to the door, as if it were telling me to think long and hard before stepping out into the blazing sun. I squinted, took a deep breath of the dry air, and followed Kipper down the gangplank.

Peace out, fools, Paxson said as soon as our boots made contact with the tarmac. He raised one of his heavily tattooed arms in the air, made a peace sign, then jogged toward Headquarters and Support (H&S) platoon. He had to get there fast, to help his platoon sergeant stave off any mutinous/illegal/unethical activity and beat the unruly group of Marines into submission before they got anyone demoted, arrested, or killed. He would then have to take at least one head count, probably four, before the plane lifted off into the clear blue sky, to ensure that none of his H&S Marines had changed their minds and decided to ride the plane back to the States. It was unfortunate that a locked-on Marine like Paxson, who was respected by everybody, had to coexist with the H&S knuckleheads.

Kipper and I took our places in first platoon, an assemblage that made H&S look like a Girl Scout troop. Seeing Kipper standing diagonally in front of me, I realized that his squared-away uniform contradicted the plump body it covered. Out of shape and about twenty pounds away from being within Marine Corps height-weight standards, his physique didnt fit the description of a Marine. If you went by personal appearance alone, you might have concluded, incorrectly, that he was a dirtbag Marine or maybe even a mean-looking sailora hard-charging corpsman or crusty Seabee. But unlike Paxson, Gunnery Sergeant Yates, and me, all active-duty Marines, Kipper didnt have to be in Kuwait or anywhere near the place. He couldve stayed home and watched the war on television like the rest of America, slapped a Support the Troops magnet on the back of his lifted truck, and called it a day. We wouldnt have thought any less of him had he decided to stay home with his new wife; hed already done his time. But he wasnt that kind of guy, and when Paxson informed him that the unit had received the warning order to deploy, Kipper didnt give it a second thought. He knew what he had to do.

There goes our freedom bird, I said to Kipper.

Yep.

Regret your decision yet?

Ask me in a few months.

I stepped out of formation, looked down the row of Marines I was in charge of leading. Besides boot camp and MOS (military occupational specialty) school, none of my third-section Marines had ever been on active duty. Theyd done the one weekend a month, two weeks a year routine up until that point. Even my active-duty experience was questionable. Neither a reservist nor a regular active-duty Marine, but a hybrid of the two and the bastard child of both, Id spent three years in the reserves before signing a three-year active-duty contract to work as a member of the Inspector-Instructor staff at the very same Norfolk, Virginia, reserve unit. So, while the Marine Corps had been my full-time job, Id never been in the fleet.

Third section, I yelled.

Yes, Sergeant, they replied in unison.

Weapons in the air.

Twelve M16A2 service rifles. All present and accounted for, I stepped back into formation, jotted down the number in the front of my green notebook. Staff Sergeant Sterlachini, the platoons senior section leader, called the platoon to attention, then put us at rest. Weapons high in the sky, he ordered. I raised my Beretta M9 pistol. He walked through the ranks, counted the number of weapons aloud, called everyone he passed a cocksucker, and threatened to skull-fuck the entire platoon if we didnt keep our goddamned mouths shut. We could never tell whether Sterlachini would really do the things he threatened or if it was all lip. A crazy, unhinged look gave us the impression that the wiry staff sergeant was capable of just about anything.