Worth the Weight

“What they carried was partly a function of rank, partly of field specialty. As a first lieutenant and platoon leader, Jimmy Cross carried a compass, maps, code books, binoculars, and a .45-caliber pistol that weighed 2.9 pounds fully loaded. He carried a strobe light and the responsibility for the lives of his men.” - Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

The United States Marine Corps standardizes it’s fighting load and setup by unit and mission. Here at The Basic School, where newly-minted Second Lieutenants learn to be provisional rifle platoon commanders, we have strict requirements on what we are issued and carry and how to set it up. The number of items and their combined weight have increased dramatically since the 90s; according to a retired General (who served as an infantry officer in Vietnam and who spoke to my class last week) we carry far too much these days. As one of the men doing that carrying I am inclined to agree. That being said, it is hard to know what to cut; every item is useful and versatile, and it is often hard to decide before one gets to the battlefield what might be necessary.

Of course, we carry things that aren’t weapons or standard issue gear, as have all warriors throughout all of time. Things to help us in our duties, or ground us in remembrance of things that don’t include fatigue or fear or potential death.

On the collar of my uniform are pinned earth-tone Second Lieutenant’s field chevrons. Inside my eight-point cover are shiny silver First Lieutenant’s garrison chevrons, a reminder of the expectation of continued growth, proficiency and maturity that will is required of me as I anticipate promotion on November 15th, 2027.

In my left breast pocket over my heart is a plastic bag with The Warrior’s Notebook, a 3x5 spiral waterproof notepad I was given by the chaplain at Officer Candidate’s School. On the first page are written verses from Isaiah 26 that I wrote while reading my Bible on firewatch one night.

In my right breast pocket is a pair of boot-bands and lithium AA, AAA and CR123 batteries for “tactical reloads” of my NVG, headlamp, or PEQ illumination system.

My left cargo pocket contains a waterproofed Kodak Quicksnap camera (since I can’t take my phone but I’m absolutely going to document field exercises,) and a dummy-corded lensatic compass. In my right cargo pocket I keep two black ink Bic pens, a Leatherman Rebar multi-tool, and a “boonie” or field 8-point cover.

In my left rear pocket I keep two more Rite-in-the-Rains; one for general notes spiralbound in a zipped up cover containing pens and markers, and another which contains Op-Order skeletons and completed patrol orders. Sometimes these go into my plate carrier’s kangaroo pouch. In my right rear pocket is my wallet and a matte-black folding pocket knife.

“Weapon, Gear, Self: This mantra is an essential method for disciplined readiness. It guarantees your capacity to fight, sustain the fight, and persevere through it. You will prioritize the ability to employ your weapons system. You must thoroughly understand, maintain, and utilize your weapon system—whether it relates to your service weapon, your mind, or your unit.

Second to your weapon is the gear that supports the effective employment of your weapon. […] Hydrate, eat, and rest, but not until you are certain your weapons system is ready to be employed, and your gear is ready to displace within sixty seconds under all conditions.

Adhere to this checklist to build good habits as a Marine, and your Marines will follow your example.”

— Major Sean Kierman, Bravo “Blackjack” Company 2-26 Command Philosophy, “Go All In”

When training in the field, I sling-carry at the high ready a M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle equipped with a Trijicon Rifle Combat Optic and a AN/PEQ-16 and chambered in 5.56x45 NATO. In the fleet, they come equipped with a 1-8x variable Squad Combat Optic but we don’t need those so they called us back to the armory and removed it (“they took my freaking SCO, man!” I complained to a friend from another platoon.) I’m not allowed to switch it to full automatic, which is a shame, because it’s heavy barrel and recoil spring were well designed for it and would no doubt be a pleasure to utilize. I don’t carry it now but as an officer I qualified on and will someday also carry a Sig Sauer M18 chambered in 9mm.

I wear a USMC 2nd-generation plate carrier with two 17lb plates and side sapi plates I was supposed to remove but keep forgetting to take off until I’m in the field and they chafe and I remember. On the front is a patch with my last name and initials, my blood type, my EDIPI, and my rank. Clipped to the left side of the vest so as not to interfere with my shouldered rifle are Mechanix gloves and clear plastic eye protection when I am not wearing them. I wear an older-style USMC kevlar helmet with a rhino mount and a PVS-14 monocular NVG.

Around my waist sits a war belt with ranger beads for distance counting during land navigation, an individual first aid kit, a dump pouch, and three pouches for six magazines with one hundred and eighty roundes of 5.56x45 ammunition. Because I’m a former EMT, in addition to my issued first aid kit is a $8 pair of black stainless steel shears, a couple pairs of nitrile gloves, and other items I think I might need.

On my back I carry the standard USMC FILBE main and assualt packs. Inside of my pack I keep an extra uniform, extra warming layers, a GoreTex top and bottom, folding shovel, full Camelbak, two full canteens, 100 feet of 550 cord, lensatic compass, map kit with pens and protractors, 1:50,000 and 1:25,000 topographic maps of Marine Corps Base Quantico, a bivy sack with sleeping bag and poncho liner, extra socks and underwear, a mission-dependent number of MREs, peanut M&Ms, a paperback English Standard Version Bible, cammie paint, toilet paper, baby wipes, black electrical tape, field hygiene kit, extra boot bands, weapons maintenance kit, carabiners, letter-writing gear, among other things.

“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. They were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of his rucksack. In the late afternoon, after a day’s march, he would dig his foxhole, wash his hands under a canteen, unwrap the letters, hold them with the tips of his fingers, and spend the last hour of light pretending.

They were signed Love, Martha, but Lieutenant Cross understood that Love was only a way of signing and did not mean what he sometimes pretended it meant.”

I too carry letters in my pack.

Folded in a plastic bag is a card sent to me while at Officer Candidate’s School by my church’s home fellowship group. The front has a hand-drawn gold eagle, globe, and anchor, the symbol of the Marine Corps. Over it in shadowy stenciling is a cross; beneath are written in beautiful calligraphy the words of Joshua 1:9—“Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you.” Inside are notes from people I love, and a sketch of a Marine with a helmet and rifle.

There are letters from my parents. From my Dad, a fellow warfighter: “I love you bud. Stay strong, dig deep, look out for those on your left and right!” A letter from my Mom has inscribed on the back is an explosion of crayon, lovingly and artfully presented by my three year-old brother, David. There is also a verse from II Samuel printed on square cardstock—“Be of good courage, and let us play the men for our people, and for the cities of our God: and the LORD do that which seemeth him good.”

There are other letters I leave at home; I can’t carry too many. There are a mountain of emails from penpals and friends old and new. Some are signed “your brother in Christ” and many are meant and signed “sincerely.” There are paper letters from people very dear to me and people who once were. Some are inscribed with “always” but the always wasn’t always it actually meant “briefly” or “just for now.”

The extra letters all remain in my desk or my inbox, but the weight of their words and the memories of ripping open a brown paper envelope with cursive handwriting or opening an email written by someone far off is zipped up tight in the same plastic bag as the letters that are actually there; I’ll retrieve both and read them under my tarp with my red lens when my Marines and the notional enemy are asleep, but I am not.

“They were called legs or grunts. To carry something was to hump it, as when Lieutenant Jimmy Cross humped his love for Martha up the hills and through the swamps. In its intransitive form, to hump meant to walk, or to march, but it implied burdens far beyond the intransitive. Almost everyone humped photographs. In his wallet, Lieutenant Cross carried two photographs of Martha.”

I also carry pictures.

Several are Polaroids. One is a black-and-white picture of my street, another a black-and-white picture of my four-year-old brother.

I carry wallet-sized pictures of my family and friends, stacked neatly and stowed in the back of my Warrior’s notebook. One of myself and three college buddies at the top of the Space needle. Another picture contains myself and two friends at the start of a 5k. I carry another photo of myself and my grandfather shortly before he died. I carry individual pictures of my little brothers. My cover has a spot on the inside where I’ll place a picture of someone whenever I meet her.

I carry a few intangibles; twenty-four years of life stored underneath my Kevlar helmet.

I carry memories galore. Childhood, visiting family, traveling, college, experiences and critical moments and conversations all in hazy technicolor flying through my mind.

I do not carry per se but am accompanied by ghosts, remembrances of people I have seen die and known to die, perhaps (though forbid it, O God) to be someday joined by some of the Marines who fight to my left and right.

I carry a large amount of hope along with the letters and the memories of letters; hope that by the time it stops being just training and these wars become real, there will be pictures and letters to take with me from someone who signs them “yours” and “love” and who means it for real and for ever. A hope that someday home will not be a patrol base or barracks room or 1-bed apartment, but a place full of close people and warm light and laughter. A hope that someday I’ll have something from which no call to arms that I currently heed could allure me.

I carry all of these things with me on patrol, in the field, day or night, towards the notional enemy and back to the barracks. Some day the enemy will be real and I will be more focused on him and less prone to daydreams but the gear in my pack will remain largely the same.

Some things I carry because I have to. Some things I wish I could leave behind. Some I cannot shed. Some I would die before they were taken from me.

I’ll probably add more weight as the mission dictates and I age and more knowledge and hope and memories get zipped up and stowed in the pack and humped over the ridgeline, until the day I can set them down; but that day is not today and not too soon.

I need to pack again tonight; I’m going to the field again on Monday. It might snow.

Thanks for reading. Enjoy some music 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