Then there are the signs that line the highway that leads to and from the main gate. As far back as I can remember (and I was stationed here in the early 90’s) whenever a unit is coming back from deployment – whether it’s one of the current wars or even the six-month Mediterranean ‘floats’ – the fences that ring the base and line the highway are pasted with sheets, and placards, large and small, welcoming the men back. “Welcome Home, Corporal Chavez – Our Hero!” or “I MISSED YOU” are scrawled or painted on bedsheets and poster boards. They’re everywhere. I saw one of my favorites just before the gate:
“New Dress… $100
New Shoes… $50
New Lingerie… $75
Being ready to Welcome Home our Men… Priceless”
There are sentiments big and small, classy and tacky, funny and serious, intense and heart-rending.
Then there are the things you see as you drive around the base. There are unusual signs: “Tank Xing” with a silhouette of an M-1 Abrams tank on a yellow shield – people slow down and look both ways for those. No one wants to be flattened by an M1 on maneuvers. There are signs for landing zones – “TLZ Egret” next to open fields – or gun positions “GP-25”, where the mortars typically set up for firing into the impact areas. There are unit signs – “2d Reconnaissance Battalion: Swift, Silent, and Deadly” and other such mottos and logos. All of which would probably be a little disconcerting to the average person, but give me a smile as I drive around, realizing that my time around this is coming to an end. And my contribution to the whole is small, but a part of the Big Green Machine.
And then there’s the artillery. Camp Lejeune is small (relatively) and so the concussion from the big guns, the 155mm howitzers, never feels very far away. They fire from across the New River into the G-10 impact area (typically) and you can hear the whump of the gun firing and hear the thud/pop kind of noise as they use training rounds (no HE at the back end). Arty never bothered me. Hell, I flew attack helicopters and in the Marine Corps we were largely used as flying artillery, showing up to deliver hellfire missiles, and 2.75″ rockets, and – when I was a young, shiny lieutenant – we even had the 5″ Zuni rockets that flew straight where you pointed them and destroyed anything they hit. But now, the concuss of the big guns makes me flinch, mentally if not physically. I don’t know when it happened. It’s not terrible. I just don’t like it, anymore.
I could blame it on Afghanistan, but in this day and age, that comes across the wrong way. I’m not scarred, don’t have PTSD, and don’t want to do a disservice to men who have really suffered.
I don’t ever really remember being bothered by explosions in Afghanistan, at least not seriously. There were the 107mm rounds that the bad guys would occasionally lob at us. They are preceded by a whoosh (however brief), but you knew what a 107 sounded like and there was some kind of warning. The one-twenty-two’s however (122mm), old Katyusha rockets – remnants of the Russian invasion – they don’t make a sound. They just arrive. There is silence and then there is the proverbial “earth-shattering ka-boom” (like Marvin Martian used to say on Bugs Bunny). I remember walking to the chow hall – in sandals – one Saturday, with two buddies, and there was this ear-splitting explosion less than a hundred yards away. We all ducked and looked at each other.
“Was that a controlled det?” someone asked. “They didn’t announce any…”
That was the other part of the atmospherics. Occasionally, folks would find UXO (Un-eXploded Ordnance) or some other “stuff” that needed to be disposed of. IT would be done in a controlled demolition in our demo pits, specifically designed for this. The SpecOps guys were all trained on this, if we didn’t have EOD techs around, and it would be announced or published when it was going to happen – so people didn’t think we were being attacked and react to the rather loud boom when it happened. Occasionally, someone would detonate a little too much simultaneously (there are limits on how much you’re supposed to blow at once) and you could always tell because you would see some angry, bearded SF Sergeant Major headed toward the demo pits, cursing under his breath, later to be followed by the visage of some chastened and sheepish looking Sergeant in the chow hall.
So, maybe all of the “booms” – ours outgoing, theirs incoming, blowing up UXO, IEDs, suicide bombers out in town, and the plethora of high explosives has left me rather… I don’t know… less than enthusiastic about that stuff than I used to be. I don’t really like 4th of July fireworks anymore, either. Just a lot of flash and noise and I’ve seen – and heard – all of that I care to.
Notwithstanding the guns, it is nice to be around Marines and their families. Everyone is so respectful – not merely “polite” – but genuinely respectful (with rare exceptions) that being on base is calming. Reassuring. Safe. I remember now why we (the ex- and I) always tried to get base housing when I was on active duty. A nice place to raise kids. It’s not the most exciting place (if that’s your bag), but it sure is family-friendly… once you get over the big guns.