Mud On My Boots

“What are you doing? You had ten seconds left.”

I’m gasping at the edge of the pool, fighting down panic and struggling to recover a scrap of composure. In order to get my basic water survival qualification, one of the tests consists of four minutes of staying on top of the water unassisted. We are taught a couple of techniques for filling our uniforms with air, but I failed to execute them, and tried instead to tread water the whole time. Having never been a particularly strong swimmer, and not having any practice in over six months, I could sense myself wearing out fast—energy levels and composure dropped parallel to each other, and I broke. I paddled to the edge of the pool where I heard those disappointed words from the enlisted instructor.

I immediately get in line to try again, and this time succeed in floating with no issues. We finish the last couple of events and move immediately into the intermediate swim qualification. I’m exhausted and demoralized, ticked off with myself for being weak in the basics, annoyed that I was arbitrarily put on a list for the intermediate qualification even though its not necessary for any MOS I’m trying for.

“Sir, I don’t think I will be able to make it through this test.”

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows.

“Well, you’re gonna try.”

“…aye sir.”

I make it barely 100 meters through the swim before getting out of the pool.

The worst part wasn’t the failure—it was that I gave up. Maybe I still wouldn’t have made it through the full 250 meters, but I knew deep down even as I was getting out that I had more gas in the tank that morning, and instead of giving it my all I gave up early.

Its a mistake I won’t make again.

Man this sucks.

I peer out into the soupy black forest from underneath my camo tarp. My neck and back ache. For a lazy moment I close my eyes and rest my helmet on my rifle’s optic—not that I could see anything, anyway; my NVG is a blurry green blob and my eye protection is all fogged up.

The weather is “heinous,” as we’re so fond of describing it; a steady, drizzling rain that leaves no fabric dry. My gloves lied about being waterproof and my boots pretended to be, so I’m soaked to the bone. I’m shivering so bad that even with my camouflage and the dim light, I’m certain the notional enemy would be able to see me coming up this draw, and all I have for cover from their fire is a rotting log that wouldn’t stop a kick from me—much less a bullet.

Note to self—do the full terrain and weather portion of your METT-TC analysis next time you go to the field, and procure the appropriate gear.

My squad is pulling security during our company’s Patrolling Exercise, or PEX. Each squad alternates between rest, patrol, and security; today we’ve drawn the short straw, and are on a 6-hour security block before the first night patrol goes out and comes back. Finally, after an eternity, they file into the patrol base, and our platoon leadership tells us to bed down for a few hours of fitful sleep. Several get up with trench foot and “never-before-seen trench hand” the next morning.

But, next afternoon, the weather breaks. This time, it’s my squad that is on the long rest cycle before the last night patrol, when the waning sun peeks out of the clouds and beams down on myself and the Marines around me. I’m still damp and sore but my morale is sky-high; one more night security patrol, then we’ll break the PB, get lined out, and hike home. We still have a long night ahead, but the real work is almost done.

I’m laying on my iso-mat, boots and socks off, munching on the remains of my last MRE and talking quietly with a Marine to my left.

“Bro, I was so broke off last night, I was genuinely praying to God.”

“That’s good man.”

I take another bite, close my eyes for a moment in the sun again, and look back at him.

“Just remember to pray when the weather is good, too.”

“Shooters, at this time, face downrange.”

Its the night portion of Range 5, the culminating event of FEX-1; squad attacks, complete with buddy-rushing towards an objective in fireteams while firing live ammunition at targets.

We all turn around. It’s dark, but this time I can see well through my NVGs.

“Shooters, at this time make a CONDITION ONE weapon, and perform the correct night time brass check, ensuring that the follower has switched to the other side.”

I insert my thirty-round magazine with two tracers on the top. I rack the slide, remove the magazine and confirm that the follower is the other side and my weapon has correctly loaded.

Tomorrow, we’re going home. We’ve spent a week of training in the woods, and all day today doing rehearsals, dry-runs, and a couple of day-time live fire ranges. We’re not experts at it yet, but we’ve drastically improved just in the span of 18 hours.

Morale is in a good spot and though I’m tired, I’m ready to execute.

“At this time you are now in a tactical situation; over to the billet-holder.”

One of my roommates is the squad leader for this iteration, and immediately signals us to form a squad column, fireteam column. I’m the leader of the first fireteam. We silently shift into the correct formation and begin stalking through the woods towards a field.

He signals for us to get down on one knee, then pulls me out of the formation for leader’s reconnaissance. We stalk to the very edge of the treeline, accompanied by an instructor, who whispers a scenario to us. The squad leader chooses to call for indirect fire support, and the mortar fire may not be real, but it sounds sound is.

WHAM!

“FIRST FIRETEAM GO!”

WHAM!

I send out the three Marines and then rush out with my last fireteam member as the squad banana-peels out of the forest and gets in the prone, NVGs down and weapons up. Before the squad leader can quite finish getting the squad online, Ivan targets pop up.

I scream “CONTACT FRONT!” and begin firing as the whole squad opens up within the same second. I fumble a little bit with my IR laser system but manage to score a couple of direct, orange-flashing hits.

Moments later, the expected command—“FIRE AND MOVE!” and I take off, bawling for the Marines to my left and right to take the next bound. We continue to dash forward—to the unspoken cadence of “I’m up, he sees me, I’m down” and the implicit pattern of “set—moving—move”—and dive into the prone before either firing from there, or getting up on one knee to take aim over the crests of rolling micro-terrain.

This goes on over a couple hundred yards for a few breathless minutes. Its chaotic but I feel pretty calm even as I struggle to stay online, manipulate my night gear, hear commands, and engage the enemy, all at once. Eventually we are “RECEIVING NO FIRE!” and shift into “COVER AND MOVE!” until we reach the objective, where we fan out into a security pattern before the instructors call “CEASEFIRE-GREEN!” and clear out our weapons.

I’m exhilarated. That was, literally and figuratively, an absolute blast. Now the night is over, the week’s exercises done. No one shot me in the rear. Our staff platoon commander doesn’t praise us directly, but we can tell he is pleased with how things came along.

A couple of hours later, after being lined out and eating an MRE, I toss a couple of hand warmers into my sleeping bag and crawl inside contented, dreaming already of the shower and sleep I’ll get the next day.

Phase II has been unique. Weather-induced friction has led to frustration, canceled events, and back-to-back field and physical training that has worn us down.

But, it hasn’t been without good memories. In fact, Bravo 2-26 will likely be all the more memorable because of the unexpected changes and challenges we’ve experienced. Snow days, platoon PT. on the ice, classroom sessions, bad-weather field events, and tests in sub-optimal conditions are all an integral part of the winter TBS experience, and I’m thankful for each opportunity to laugh, push myself, and “fight through it” that this part of my training has brought.

There are many unpleasant aspects of the training we do. It is very often long, tiring, boring and tedious. Someone once told me that The Basic School would do everything in its power to demotivate me, and they were right; its a grind.

But its success at that was never a guarantee, and it has definitely failed to this point. I still have infantry at the top of my MOS preference list, for nothing has occurred yet—neither hike nor brief nor obstacle nor test nor moment of decision—that I haven’t, or can’t in the coming weeks, overcome. I still relish in the fact that I get paid to run around a massive Virginia forest with guns and guys my age. I’m conscious of the fact that I will never get to have this experience with a bunch of my peers again.

So, halfway through TBS, I’m still choosing to make every moment count. I’m deciding to be the optimist. I tell everyone, truthfully, that “I’ve never been ‘in the black’ a day in my life.” When I’m physically worn, I remind myself that I won’t be in field forever, and there is a shower, a rack, and hot food waiting for me upon ENDEX. When I’m bored, I remember the friends and family at home eager to hear about what I’ve been doing. When I fail at something, I don’t let it get to me, I just allow it to be my fuel for the next attempt. When I succeed, I thank the Lord and try not to let it get to my head.

When breath comes fast, I suck it in through bared teeth and a bright smile.

Thanks for reading. Here’s some music for you on your way out.

I am a Marine Corps Officer, former 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