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| Convoy
to Iraq It took several slow-driving days to get here from Kuwait. The convoy I traveled with, a collection of amphibious assault vehicles, light-armored reconnaissance vehicles, and heavy tanks -- all hauled by a fleet of tractor trailers -- hop-scotched from US military camp to US military camp. The caravan moved during the day, stopping frequently for checkpoints, flats, and other problems. The Marines rode in the back of their combat vehicles wearing full body armor. In the evening, the convoy pulled into staging areas, big parking lots full of military vehicles as well civilian trucks carrying water, food, and equipment. The noncommissioned officers -- sergeants, staff sergeants and gunnery sergeants -- wrangled the 40 or so young Marines into formation, where they assigned them in pairs to walk security patrol through the night, and announced the departure time for the following morning. Gunnery Sergeant David Myers would then march the rest of the crusty young men to the chow hall, everyone still wearing flak jackets and helmets. These Marines always wear flak jackets and helmets unless actually eating, showering, or sleeping. That's part of Marine discipline, Staff Sergeant Robert Moyer told me. They need to get used to the discomfort now, because they won't be able to yank off their gear up north. The next morning, the vehicles pulled out of the staging area, drove through a serpentine of barbed wire and concrete barriers, then across a dusty stretch of land and past an improvised checkpoint into Iraq. Very uneventful, reassuringly so. Along the way, small children dashed up to the side of the road and waved or gestured for the Marines to toss them food by putting the fingertips of their right hands to their mouths. But on the same highway just a few more kilometers into Iraq, there was a small contingent of British troops, some in vehicles and others kneeling next to berms of sand, scanning the horizon, rifles ready. In-country "Welcome to fucking Iraq," Gunny Myers cracked at the next formation of his Marines, the first one on the Iraqi side of the border. Later, after they had stripped off their body armor and salt-streaked shirts, I asked the crew of one vehicle what it felt like to be in-country. "Hot," said one, with purposeful understatement. "It's a little warm here,” joked another. These are young and gung-ho guys, 20 and 21 years old, never been in combat. They deploy blasé tough-guy attitudes, for me, I assume, and possibly for each other. "I'm not saying it's going to be like a day at Six Flags," one Marine adds, but he's psyched to finally be in Iraq and to be on the verge of combat. Lance Corporal Jerry Wemple, at 29 the oldest Marine on his vehicle, is the only on the vehicle who deployed to Iraq last year. He offered a cautionary note. "I don't think they're totally grasping what it's going to be like," he said diplomatically. Older Marines I have spoken to show a hardened matter-of-factness about what they do. I ask Staff Sergeant Moyer how he felt about heading to Iraq. "I just try to focus on the job at hand. Whatever happens, happens," he told me as we rumbled north on MSR Tampa, the highway from Kuwait to Iraq. But 24th MEU Marines have also been given talking points from higher-ups to use on the media. "Be the cocky obnoxious bastards you can be," commanded General James Mattis at a welcoming briefing their first week at Camp Virginia. Tell the press nothing negative. If they ask about the heat, tell them "no problem," tell them you're thinking of buying property on the Euphrates. Of casualties, he said, "we shall grieve in private." But, he added, make sure to tell those reporters, "watch us tomorrow." "Contact is likely," Gunnery Sergeant Myers told the men on the last day of the convoy, the last push north. "Ninety-nine percent of the people want us here. The other one percent we're going to fucking kill," he shouted. "Stay sharp the rest fucking way. Trust your training -- and trust your fucking senior Marines." There was no contact, no small arms fires or IEDs. But there was no warm greeting from local folks, at least as far as I saw from my perch atop an amphibious assault vehicle, only hard stares and a few bemused glances as the convoy trundled past shops, roadside vendors and homes in this city where they will spend the next six to seven months. |
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