Read Online Generation Kill by Evan Wright - Free Book Online
Authors: Evan Wright
Tags: History
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short when Marines down the line shout, "Scud! Scud! Scud!"
Everyone MOPPs up again. This time, expecting missiles, we dive into a large pit—deeper than the Ranger graves we've dug—which Colbert's team excavated next to his vehicle. The way to avoid flying shrapnel from a missile detonating nearby is to get as close to the ground as possible, though you have to turn sideways because the mask ventilator protrudes several inches from the front of your face. Waiting for what presumably will be some sort of explosion, your breathing becomes rapid. Underneath the MOPP hood and mask, every internal sound is magnified. With each breath, you hear the mask ventilator apparatus clicking and wheezing like a hospital life-support system. Due to the odd acoustics of the MOPP suit, little grains of sand rolling down the side of your hood sound like bombs. What the MOPP basically does is encase you in your own private panic attack.
I'm directly across from Person. Our faces are inches apart. His chest rises up and down quickly. He's breathing rapidly, too, which makes me feel better. Maybe I'm not the only one panicking.
Eventually you get bored of lying in the hole, and you want to look over the edges and see what's happening. I edge up a little, looking for birds. If they're flying, it means there's no gas.
There's a series of explosions in the distance. Different from the blasts earlier. These are drawn-out sounds—gagoon, gagoon—followed by a series of sharp bangs. Then it's silent.
After the all-clear ten minutes later, Gunny Wynn walks over, grim yet excited. "That was a no-shit Scud attack," he tells the men.
"I guess this really is war," Colbert says.
"What's a Scud?" Garza asks.
Gunny Wynn smiles. "It's a missile, Garza, a pretty big one. They can load them with chemicals if they want."
Garza ponders this for a moment, then smiles. "That's awesome. I just lived through a Scud attack."
Later, Fick finds out the sounds we heard were not Scuds. While some Scuds were launched toward Kuwait City, out here in the desert, the Iraqis are firing Silkworm antiship missiles, one of which, according to Fick, landed 200 meters from First Marine Expeditionary Force headquarters south of us.
There are several more gas and missile alerts throughout the afternoon. Between them the Marines congregate under the shade of their Humvee cammie nets, recleaning all their weapons, linking individual machine-gun rounds into belts and talking. Sitting in little clumps, passing the weapons and gear back and forth while doing the intricate finger work, it almost looks like a ladies' sewing circle. No one talks much about the invasion they are supposed to launch in a few hours. If anything, their focus on routine humor and bullshitting is almost more determined than ever in the face of the impending assault.
The most flamboyant figure in Second Platoon is Reyes, the Marine on Team Two who on my first night in their tent talked about the romantic idealism of being in the Corps. This afternoon he sits beneath his team's cammie netting, cleaning his rifle, dressed in an outrageous camouflage overcoat his fellow Marines call his "Chicken Suit." Tufts of multicolored fabric hang off the arms and shoulders like feathers. He wears a similarly peacockish cover on his helmet, the ensemble complemented with heavy-duty orange goggles that somehow manage to look stylish. They call them his "J.Lo glasses." Reyes has the insanely muscular body of a fantasy Hollywood action hero. Before joining the Marines, he lived in a dojo, competed nationally in kung fu and tai chi tournaments, and fought in exhibitions with the Chinese national team. He is the battalion's best martial artist, one of its strongest men, and seemingly one of the gayest. Though he is not gay in the sense of sexual orientation—Reyes, after all, is married—he is at least a highly evolved tough guy in touch with a well-developed feminine side. With his imposing build, dark,
Everyone MOPPs up again. This time, expecting missiles, we dive into a large pit—deeper than the Ranger graves we've dug—which Colbert's team excavated next to his vehicle. The way to avoid flying shrapnel from a missile detonating nearby is to get as close to the ground as possible, though you have to turn sideways because the mask ventilator protrudes several inches from the front of your face. Waiting for what presumably will be some sort of explosion, your breathing becomes rapid. Underneath the MOPP hood and mask, every internal sound is magnified. With each breath, you hear the mask ventilator apparatus clicking and wheezing like a hospital life-support system. Due to the odd acoustics of the MOPP suit, little grains of sand rolling down the side of your hood sound like bombs. What the MOPP basically does is encase you in your own private panic attack.
I'm directly across from Person. Our faces are inches apart. His chest rises up and down quickly. He's breathing rapidly, too, which makes me feel better. Maybe I'm not the only one panicking.
Eventually you get bored of lying in the hole, and you want to look over the edges and see what's happening. I edge up a little, looking for birds. If they're flying, it means there's no gas.
There's a series of explosions in the distance. Different from the blasts earlier. These are drawn-out sounds—gagoon, gagoon—followed by a series of sharp bangs. Then it's silent.
After the all-clear ten minutes later, Gunny Wynn walks over, grim yet excited. "That was a no-shit Scud attack," he tells the men.
"I guess this really is war," Colbert says.
"What's a Scud?" Garza asks.
Gunny Wynn smiles. "It's a missile, Garza, a pretty big one. They can load them with chemicals if they want."
Garza ponders this for a moment, then smiles. "That's awesome. I just lived through a Scud attack."
Later, Fick finds out the sounds we heard were not Scuds. While some Scuds were launched toward Kuwait City, out here in the desert, the Iraqis are firing Silkworm antiship missiles, one of which, according to Fick, landed 200 meters from First Marine Expeditionary Force headquarters south of us.
There are several more gas and missile alerts throughout the afternoon. Between them the Marines congregate under the shade of their Humvee cammie nets, recleaning all their weapons, linking individual machine-gun rounds into belts and talking. Sitting in little clumps, passing the weapons and gear back and forth while doing the intricate finger work, it almost looks like a ladies' sewing circle. No one talks much about the invasion they are supposed to launch in a few hours. If anything, their focus on routine humor and bullshitting is almost more determined than ever in the face of the impending assault.
The most flamboyant figure in Second Platoon is Reyes, the Marine on Team Two who on my first night in their tent talked about the romantic idealism of being in the Corps. This afternoon he sits beneath his team's cammie netting, cleaning his rifle, dressed in an outrageous camouflage overcoat his fellow Marines call his "Chicken Suit." Tufts of multicolored fabric hang off the arms and shoulders like feathers. He wears a similarly peacockish cover on his helmet, the ensemble complemented with heavy-duty orange goggles that somehow manage to look stylish. They call them his "J.Lo glasses." Reyes has the insanely muscular body of a fantasy Hollywood action hero. Before joining the Marines, he lived in a dojo, competed nationally in kung fu and tai chi tournaments, and fought in exhibitions with the Chinese national team. He is the battalion's best martial artist, one of its strongest men, and seemingly one of the gayest. Though he is not gay in the sense of sexual orientation—Reyes, after all, is married—he is at least a highly evolved tough guy in touch with a well-developed feminine side. With his imposing build, dark,
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