men.
His guidance for handling the ROE is almost the polar opposite of Fick's. "I spent five months in Somalia, and we got a lot of good kills out there," he says. He gazes at the men, not blinking, letting his credibility as a sniper-killer sink in. "But we let a lot more bad guys get away than we killed, and that's okay. Don't fucking waste a mother or some kid. Don't fire into a crowd. Those people north of here have been oppressed for years. They're just like us. Don't hurt them, even if you can justify it later under our ROE."
Gunny Wynn's gentle talk is interrupted by the sound of Marines screaming across the desert, "Gas! Gas! Gas!"
Everyone freezes for an instant. In the distance we see Marines in gas masks flagging us. They stand with their arms extended out, bending their elbows and tapping their shoulders—universal sign language for a gas attack. In their bug-eyed, black masks, they resemble insects.
FOUR
With explosions booming in the distance and now frenzied shouts of a gas attack, it's the first time I feel like I'm in a war. While the nonexistence of Saddam's weapons of mass destruction has almost become a bad joke in the wake of the invasion, on the morning of March 20, just south of the Iraqi border, with the bombing having begun, threat of a chemical attack is foremost on everyone's mind. It's one of the biggest fears among Marines.
The chemical-protection suits everyone wears are called MOPPs (which stands for Mission Oriented Protective Posture, but in military parlance, MOPP has become the name of the suit itself). On the outside they look like ordinary fatigues, though extra-bulky ones. Due to a supply fuckup, Marines have been issued MOPPs in dark forest-green camouflage, which makes them extra-conspicuous targets in the desert. MOPPs come in two pieces: pants, held up by suspenders, and a hooded jacket. They are fabric on the outside. On the inside they are lined with a plastic mesh that feels like the surface of a scouring sponge and is embedded with carbon powder, a barrier to most chemical agents. They are hot, stiff and scratchy, and have the bulk of wearing a ski suit after you have fallen into a lake.
They are always soaking wet on the inside, from sweat. Not only is the suit itself hot, but on top of it everyone wears the added sixty pounds of flak vests, ceramic plates and utility harnesses. One of the dumbest features of the MOPPs issued to Marines is that they don't have flies, so to go to the bathroom, a Marine has to remove his utility harness, his flak vest and his MOPP jacket in order to pull down his suspenders and lower his pants. Obviously, in a chemical environment they would have to poop or piss in their pants. Marines tried to get Depends diapers to wear underneath the MOPPs, but most were unable to.
To try to cool things down, a lot of Marines are "free-balling" in their MOPPs, going buck naked in them, but the scouring-pad liners make this an extremely uncomfortable option.
MOPP boots are the coup de grace to making the whole ensemble a torturous experience. These are rubber galoshes worn on top of Marine combat boots. The rubber boots must be worn with the rest of the MOPP at all times, even when Marines sleep at night. They are so clammy and sweaty and wobbly that at every step you take it feels like your boots are stuffed full of dead fish.
In a gas attack, there's a specific order in which Marines are trained to seal up their MOPPs. The very first thing you're supposed to do is shut your eyes and stop breathing. Then, with your eyes closed, within the next nine seconds, you're supposed to dig your mask out of the carrying bag strapped to your leg and put it on your head, making sure you have a good seal around your face. Then you can open your eyes and start breathing.
The bag the mask comes in is loaded with all kinds of other vital junk, too. Squeezed up next to the mask are Cipro packets (for battling Anthrax), charcoal pads (for neutralizing those nasty
His guidance for handling the ROE is almost the polar opposite of Fick's. "I spent five months in Somalia, and we got a lot of good kills out there," he says. He gazes at the men, not blinking, letting his credibility as a sniper-killer sink in. "But we let a lot more bad guys get away than we killed, and that's okay. Don't fucking waste a mother or some kid. Don't fire into a crowd. Those people north of here have been oppressed for years. They're just like us. Don't hurt them, even if you can justify it later under our ROE."
Gunny Wynn's gentle talk is interrupted by the sound of Marines screaming across the desert, "Gas! Gas! Gas!"
Everyone freezes for an instant. In the distance we see Marines in gas masks flagging us. They stand with their arms extended out, bending their elbows and tapping their shoulders—universal sign language for a gas attack. In their bug-eyed, black masks, they resemble insects.
FOUR
With explosions booming in the distance and now frenzied shouts of a gas attack, it's the first time I feel like I'm in a war. While the nonexistence of Saddam's weapons of mass destruction has almost become a bad joke in the wake of the invasion, on the morning of March 20, just south of the Iraqi border, with the bombing having begun, threat of a chemical attack is foremost on everyone's mind. It's one of the biggest fears among Marines.
The chemical-protection suits everyone wears are called MOPPs (which stands for Mission Oriented Protective Posture, but in military parlance, MOPP has become the name of the suit itself). On the outside they look like ordinary fatigues, though extra-bulky ones. Due to a supply fuckup, Marines have been issued MOPPs in dark forest-green camouflage, which makes them extra-conspicuous targets in the desert. MOPPs come in two pieces: pants, held up by suspenders, and a hooded jacket. They are fabric on the outside. On the inside they are lined with a plastic mesh that feels like the surface of a scouring sponge and is embedded with carbon powder, a barrier to most chemical agents. They are hot, stiff and scratchy, and have the bulk of wearing a ski suit after you have fallen into a lake.
They are always soaking wet on the inside, from sweat. Not only is the suit itself hot, but on top of it everyone wears the added sixty pounds of flak vests, ceramic plates and utility harnesses. One of the dumbest features of the MOPPs issued to Marines is that they don't have flies, so to go to the bathroom, a Marine has to remove his utility harness, his flak vest and his MOPP jacket in order to pull down his suspenders and lower his pants. Obviously, in a chemical environment they would have to poop or piss in their pants. Marines tried to get Depends diapers to wear underneath the MOPPs, but most were unable to.
To try to cool things down, a lot of Marines are "free-balling" in their MOPPs, going buck naked in them, but the scouring-pad liners make this an extremely uncomfortable option.
MOPP boots are the coup de grace to making the whole ensemble a torturous experience. These are rubber galoshes worn on top of Marine combat boots. The rubber boots must be worn with the rest of the MOPP at all times, even when Marines sleep at night. They are so clammy and sweaty and wobbly that at every step you take it feels like your boots are stuffed full of dead fish.
In a gas attack, there's a specific order in which Marines are trained to seal up their MOPPs. The very first thing you're supposed to do is shut your eyes and stop breathing. Then, with your eyes closed, within the next nine seconds, you're supposed to dig your mask out of the carrying bag strapped to your leg and put it on your head, making sure you have a good seal around your face. Then you can open your eyes and start breathing.
The bag the mask comes in is loaded with all kinds of other vital junk, too. Squeezed up next to the mask are Cipro packets (for battling Anthrax), charcoal pads (for neutralizing those nasty
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