College With Guns

“You’ll do fine at TBS. It’s like college with guns.” - my OCS Platoon Commander

It snowed in Northern Virginia this weekend, as that major winter storm hit a large swathe of the Eastern United States. Nothing too crazy, but enough to shut down the base for a couple of days.

I sit in a warm barracks room aboard Camp Barrett. My rack is tightly made, 45-degree hospital corners at the foot end—one of the habits built at OCS that will not break until I share a bed with someone else—but my desk is the opposite. A pile of papers and laminate sheets sits on top of my printer, included in which are fumbling attempts at building out a tactical task card through excel printouts, an ARQ databook, and copies of orders. There’s a stack of books and notebooks on my right; Marine Corps Doctrinal Publications, my prayer journal, and a couple Rite-N-the-Rains (which reminds me, I have a combat order to write in that green one tonight.)

The bookshelf portion is better managed. Wayne Grudem’s Systematic Theology, Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove and Haliday’s The Marine Officer’s Guide, 8th Edition round out the civilian literature, while a stack of Marine Corps Tactical Publications (“Scouting and Patrolling,” “Marine Rifle Squad,” “Machine Guns and Machine Gunnery,” amongst others) anchors the other end. My graduation Bible sits in the middle. A plaque gifted to me by my uncle sits on the top shelf, cradling the Kay-Bar he carried in Desert Storm. There’s a mug from my alma mater and a Polaroid camera which I really need to use more.

The back of the desk functions as a bulletin board. Tacked there are pictures of people I love and a 2025 POI OVERVIEW, with, as of this weekend, every week of PHASE 1: INDIVIDUAL SKILLS crossed out.

I’ve got my boots kicked up and my Beats Studio Buds in. It’s a quiet, comfortable night. The sort that makes you reflect, zoom out, and run things back in your mind.

It’s Monday after commissioning. Check-in day for the newest company to begin the Basic Officer Course.

I’m wearing a suit and I’ve got a fresh high fade.

I stand in front of my SPC for the first time.

“You don’t have to stand at attention.”

I relax.

“But don’t put your hands in your pockets either.”

Back to my room. I take my suit off and don cammies that say “RHINEHART” and “U.S. MARINES.” For the first time I pin those shiny gold bars on my collar, and take a deep breath.

I walk out of the barracks and towards Haywood Hall for orientation. An enlisted Marine passes me and snaps a salute with a cheery “Good morning, sir.” I catch myself from turning to look for an officer behind me, and instead return the courtesy in flustered fashion. Oh, that’s me now. I make a mental note to work on that.

Friday before Holiday Block Leave. I shot expert on my M16A4 yesterday as we wrapped up rifle range. I’m packed and ready to go.

The Company Commander steps forward at our formation to offer some parting words of advice. He cracks a few jokes, tells us we’ve earned the break, and then says something like this.

“Remember this break, because you’ll have Marines you lead someday. For some, these will be the best two weeks of the year. For others, they’ll go home to hidden pain and unexpected sorrow, things that will not be easy to deal with. So check up on each other, and know we’ll be here to offer support if you need it, and you have a place to come back to early should you need to.”

I had no idea just how prescient those words would be. Thank God for wise leadership—may I emulate that someday.

Last day of pistol range week. My plate carrier is velcroed on tight, kevlar is “on the grape,” Sig M18 strapped to each person’s side. I’ve just shot expert for the second time and the weekend is a couple hours away, so even though I know what’s coming, I’m in good spirits. We’re lined up on the road in front of Weapon’s Training Battalion; three platoons have already left and it’s our turn next. It starts to rain. Our Staff Platoon Commander slides to the back of the formation and calls out to our Student Platoon Commander.

“Start it off.”

We begin moving. I’m a decent hiker and runner, and there is a cadence I think I can maintain forever. This is not that pace; it’s uncomfortably brisk, stretching your stride, but we are under strict orders not to run on hikes.

Until, of course, we do. For this is a range hike, and these hikes don’t abide by typical rules, and our commander has informed us we will undertake an “Indian run.” As soon as we cross the road and hit Application Trail, the platoon takes off in two columns. The Marines in the rear take off and run to the front, silently coordinating their timing and then passing a thumbs up to the rear for the next Marines to go. To speak or to break stride with one another or go too slowly would require a halt and ten bur-pees. This, of course, happens several times. But not as many as I thought. We’re getting better at this whole teamwork thing, I think.

The ground slopes steeply downward about a mile and a half in; we’ve hit application trail. We cross the stream at its base and our SPC calls us to halt, while he continues moving up trail as it slopes back up.

“Each of you will fireman-carry another Marine and their gear until you reach me, then you will switch. Get moving.”

We start to organize. K is right next to me; relentless joker and a former minor-league pitcher, he’s a good dude and I know he’s not gonna drop me.

“How much do you weigh?” he asks, slightly out of breath.

“185,” I reply, more out of breath.

“Alright. I weigh 180.”

“Ok. I’ll carry you first.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. Pack and all. Ready—one, two, THREE.”

I lean down and sling him over my back. He goes fetal, keeping his legs close to my center of gravity, and we start moving. I stop for a break, briefly, before reaching our SPC after 100 yards of walking with 300 lbs of weight on my back.

K and I switch. It’s fully dark by now and the rain and sweat mix together, steaming off of us and weeping out of the sky.

“You’re gonna have to tell me where to go cuz I can’t see s— out of my eyepro.”

We reach the end, he drops me and the platoon gradually trudges in and forms up. I smile even as the rain runs down my face and my glasses fog up. He smacks my helmet.

“Good s— man.”

Later on, weapons maintenance commences in the hallway with “the usual”: a diet Coke, some music on shuffle, and plenty of jokes directed at the platoon sharpshooters.

Gas chamber day. We’ve all been dreading this, excited about it, or some mix of both. Every prior-enlisted Marine I know has told me stories of when they went in at bootcamp, with Marines vomiting and losing all composure. My Dad tells me of his time in the Army where he had to take his mask off and recite the Infantryman’s Creed.

Several enlisted Marines teach us how to put on MOPP gear and properly fit our masks. We do a few gas mask drills, then undertake a very brief workout to get the heart rate up—a 50 yard sprint, some jumping jacks, a few sets of burpees. Breath comes fast and the urge to take the mask off is surprisingly sharp, a little bit of physiologically-induced panic that I swallow down with force. My infantry officer friends have made it clear I must become comfortable doing “things” with a gas mask on, and this is just the start.

We line up at the door, knock and go in. My heart rate is still up but I’m slowing it down. My mask works great (A couple poor souls had bad seals.) There’s only one CS gas tablet smoking and I realize right away this wont be that bad. We break the seals of our masks, and barely inhale. We scream “GAS GAS GAS!” and then reseal and clear the mask. The back of my throat immediately begins to sting but I don’t get nauseated, nor do my sinuses run like crazy. We head outside and strip our gear off.

The worst of it came when we all showered later—all those crystals in my hair reignited.

“IT STINGS!” bellows my roommate as he sticks his head under the shower-head, still in uniform. I laugh in spite of myself.

Garrison nights. After the company secures, we’re let go for the day.

I’ll square away my gear for the next day, do laundry if need be, then carefully strip my uniform off, stage it for tomorrow, and put on “civvies.”

If it’s early enough, and we didn’t do anything strenuous that day, I’ll go running. 40lb flak and red lens on, and 5 miles on moonlit MCB-3 or Application Trail. Country music playing, if I’m in the mood for it. Or some folk. Or some early 2010s pop. Whatever sounds right that night.

I’ll get back, shower, stretch out, and wind down. Maybe I’ll hit a couple sets of pull-ups. I’ll read my Bible, write a few notes in a journal. I’ll continue reading Moby Dick on my Kindle. I’ll try to make a few FaceTime calls; the time difference makes it easy to call those I love back on the West Coast.

I’ll go to sleep, perhaps just a little later than I should, but looking forward to tomorrow. TBS doesn’t last forever, and it’s a privilege to wake up each day and put the uniform on as a student officer.

Thanks for reading. Enjoy some music on your way out.

I am a Marine Corps Officer, EMT, perennial student, and Northern California native intent on improving my writing skills. I’ll gladly consider all feedback, which you can direct to my email. You can also find me on Instagram @tduncanr