Machine Gun Fire from the South

Guest Author

It wasn’t terribly accurate, likely past the maximum effective range for the system, but it was enough to get our heads down and seek cover.  Adrenaline, a bit of fear, anger, confusion, focus… all these things washed over me at once as we low crawled through a thorn bush to a small berm a few yards in front of us.  The W Co Marines returned fire, suppressing the attack.  I was relieved the shooting was over, but not surprised that we had taken fire.  

The GySgt picked up the rifle and NVD while my team member and I conducted a post blast analysis of the IED site.  We took extra care in our search and evaluation since this device cost the life of a Marine.  We found typical remnants: plastic jug bits, wood, packing tape, wire.  Enough for a good chance on getting hits on biometric collection, hopefully leading to prosecution of the emplacer and/or builder.  And enabling me to paint a clear picture of how the IED worked and how it had been employed for my required report. 

I pulled my team member in and told him that the CE Marines were shook up, it was written all over their faces, but we had to get them to finish the sweep.  He said we should help them, lead them by example, and I agreed.  I went to where they were gathered and asked how they were doing.  Typical ‘hard-assed’ Marine answers like “good” or “fine” is what I received, but I knew better; their body language told a different story.  They were questioning themselves, especially the two that were in front of Rhode.  

I did my best to encourage them and let them know it wasn’t their fault.  Everyone misses signs now and again, even EOD guys.  Sometimes the bad guys get a win, that’s war.  I was lying to them, it was their fault, or I thought so anyway.  I couldn’t, however, let slip in word or facial expression that I thought so or they would see right through me and the shred of constitution they had left would be broken.  

We couldn’t afford these Marines to be combat ineffective.  My team member and I demonstrated better metal detector techniques and laid out a search plan.  

I put everything that had happened in the hour preceding into their nice little boxes and tucked them into crates and buried them deep in the back of my mind; there was a mission to finish.  I had to remain task oriented and emotionally numb.  These Marines were looking to me and my team member to get them out of there and eventually home safe.  

We swept the compound inside and out with no further incidents.  After spending a night in the compound, my team member and I drove back to the COP with the Company’s Quick Reaction Force that had responded following the IED and machine gun attack.  I wrote the report and bagged up the evidence.  

Shortly thereafter we processed through Camp Leatherneck, to Germany, finally to Camp Lejeune. My neat little boxes still buried in their crates.  We spent just shy of a week in Germany in an effort to slowly reintegrate into non-combat life.  Opportunities to talk out what we did or saw with each other or individually with a professional.  No time for that, where’s the beer? Are we home yet? I’m fine. Where’s the beer?

I came home assuming I had successfully stored these experiences away, never to be talked about again.  Try as I might, that wasn’t the case; I was changed, only I didn’t realize it.  Exactly two weeks after I held that Marine in my arms, I embraced my wife. I had forgotten who I had been before the deployment.  My wife lamented for years that she missed me, the old me.  I didn’t know what that meant or who else I was supposed to be, I thought I was the old me.  

It has been a decade since that day and I understand only some of the damage that trauma caused.  My previously low tolerance for bull-shit is nearly non-existent.  My ability to laugh and find joy in the little things is rare where it had been common.  I don’t find, or seek to find, community with people outside of a close trusted circle of family and friends.  I can’t stop moving, always fixing, doing, building. Can’t stop, or I’ll have time to think about it.

I wanted so badly to blame those CE Marines for Rhode’s death, but past the day of the event I put the blame on me.  I could have done more; I SHOULD have done more before we departed friendly lines.  Fifteen minutes with those CE Marines before leaving the COP would have saved Rhode’s life, fifteen minutes to make sure they knew what they were doing and give them a plan.  I’m not the guy who sits back and says “fuck it”, but that day I was and it cost a Marine his life.  

I have wrestled with that for ten years, every time I see him fly across the horizon of my mind.  I don’t know if I’ll ever let go of that guilt, I don’t know if I can truly forgive myself and my dereliction.  I pray that one day I meet Rhode at the gates of Heaven and can apologize and beg his forgiveness.   

Chase is a disciple of Christ, a husband, a father, a U.S. Marine EOD guy who questions everything earthly and doesn’t know what the easy way is.  He is an amateur woodworker and novice writer struggling to cope and move past a career of hurt and pain.  Cut this guy some slack, because God knows he doesn’t give himself enough.

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