Sniper Alley

NEWS STORY: Helmetless Boardless Dad Helping Son Fined by OPD Cop, Found Guilty

This news article only appears to be the workings of "one crazy cop" to those who do not know Officer Gary Truscott. For those of us who have ever crossed paths with him this is nothing out of the ordinary.

Camp Horno. I arrive at 1st Marine Regiment, which appeared to be a rest stop between Las Pulgas and School of Infantry, a ghost town. It was early 2000. I had just re-enlisted 'cause wasn't shit going on in Orangeburg, and I was trying to get back to someone. Okinawa was not available so I selected California. The horror stories coming out of Lejuene were enough for me to stay away from there. Too fat to fit into my Alpha's, I came to the unit in civvies and had to check in in cammies. Yes, I know, it was a sign of wonderful things 'a comin' in the future.

The Ghost at Montford Point

December 1995, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina . Upon completion of Marine Combat Training (MCT) at Camp Geiger we were bussed to our next destination. Being young and ignorant I went into the Marine Corps under an "open contract" meaning I would be placed where I they felt I should be. This turned out to be as an Automotive Organizational Mechanic at Marine Corps Combat Service Support School (MCCSSS), Camp Johnson. As the buses pulled into the cul-de-sac of the old squad bays and admin buildings, I saw the look on the face of McGill, who was our platoon guide in recruit training. He was shaking his head "no", answering the question of whether or not we would be able to take some form of leave prior to the start of MOS school. "Damn." I thought to myself. We had just spent a few weeks in the bitter cold woods of North Carolina and were really looking forward to some time with our families before our next step in training. It looks as though it would not be so, or so we thought. I guess enough bitching and complaining about having already purchased tickets home, and the fact that none of the schools were picking up any new classes due to the time of the year, the word was given that anyone who had purchased a ticket home would be allowed to go home, but had to be back on the 1st (or was it 3rd?) of January. I was OUTTA THERE!
Of course I made it back in time, changing into my Alphas in a bus station bathroom with 4 or 5 other Marines. but this story is not about my time in MOS school, it's moreso about the place itself, Camp Johnson, or as it was once called, Montford Point.
From 1942 until 1949 Montford Point served as a recruit training depot for the Marine Corps first black Marines. One the other side of the camp, a short walk (in Marine terms) from the baracks we would eventually be moved to were the old squad bays used back in those days. Most had been transformed into classrooms. The one my class used housed rows of old 5-ton (M923) cargo trucks. We were aware of how old the buildings were, and towards the end of our school I remarked at how I was disappointed in not seeing any ghosts during our time there.

Maaaad 3521 Skillz

Me: Gonna knock this oil change out!
Truck: ...
Me: Got the truck jacked up, jack stands in place.
Truck: ...
Me: Drainplug removed, draining oil.
Truck: ...
Me: Now to change the oil filter. Wait, I don't have a strap wrench.
Truck: ...
Me: No problem! (As George Lopez) I GOT THIS!
Truck: ...
Me: (removing my belt) Check this out...

Round 1: Me/Belt VS Truck - Truck wins
Round 2: Me/Screwdriver and Hammer VS Truck - Truck wins
Round 3: Me/Ratchet Extension and Hammer VS Truck - Truck wins
Round 4: Me/15/16 Wrench and Hammer VS Truck - Truck wins

(45 mins - 1 hour later)

Truck: ...
Me: Hmmm... Maybe I should try turning it the OTHER WAY!
Truck: idiot.

Round 5: Me/Belt (pulling in OPPOSITE direction) VS Truck - ME WINS!...
... = automatic FAIL

Me: ... (completes task with head hung in shame...)

Tuesday, September 11, 2001

It was around 6 something in the morning. I woke up with enough time to jump into my cammies and head out the door. I made it a habit to turn on the television to the news every morning as I prepared for another work day. While buttoning up my blouse I paused to watch a breaking news story about some small plane or something that crashed into a building in New York. "Damn." I said with a bit of astonishment. I left my room and headed over to the junior Marines' barracks. I was lucky enough to have my own room in the Sergeant barracks, having been promoted a few months earlier. No more community showers and people banging on doors during reveille, lance corporals and pfc's getting drunk and horse-playing in the halls, and the number one reason I loved being in the Sergeant barracks... NO DUTY, on post, that is. You still had to pull duty in the junior Marines' barracks.

The Voice

Last night I went to bed immediately after blogging. My mind, still geared in recall, presented me with an open Pandora's Box of nightmares. I awoke, drenched in sweat, frightened, angry, confused. I lay there for another hour and a half trying to calm down and get back to sleep. The voice had returned. Not voices, just one voice. I cannot hear the voice, but it is not mine. It has no accent, it has no sound, as far as I can tell, meaning I can not hear anything audible, yet in my head the voice is speaking. It's like reading silently to yourself, you see the words, and you read them without the use of audible vocalization. 

The PTSD Monster Part 4: Quarters

We sat out in the Kuwait desert for far too fucking long. For over a month we sat there, throwing rocks and doing whatever bullshit to keep from going stir-crazy.
The convoy there was something something I won't forget. First off the ship, February 14, 2003. Managed to get half of the vehicles offloaded before the sandstorm became too intense to continue. We were stranded ashore until the storm passed. Took the time to take a few pictures. Not sure if it was that night or the following night when we did a quick convoy to where ever-the-hell-it-was tent city. We took off at night, that, I remember. I remember driving fast. The Kuwait police had all the intersections blocked off, so it was a straight shot until we veered off into the desert.

The PTSD Monster Part 3: It Ain't Safe Here No More...

It ain't safe here no more...


I remember being at bar / restaurant  with outside entertainment in California a few years back. A place I had been to before. This time was different. Sitting outside around one of those fire pits, I remember it being cold, or what is considered cold by southern California standards. It was a fair amount of people out there. I began to feel uneasy. Annoyed. Not by someone bothering me, but by the people, the audience there to watch the music group play. They were around us and on the balconies above. They were clapping, laughing, dancing, and pissing me off. I felt the walls closing in around me.