Marine Corps Stories: Tracer Round

Flashes of light punctured the air in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Marine Chief Warrant Officer 4 Mesina Griffitth looked at her smartwatch. A helicopter took off nearby and two others took to the air as well. Griffith’s lifted into the sky finally. As co-pilot of this aircraft, she and Chief Warrant Officer 3 Mennett Koly made the ascent. In the rear of the helicopter sat PFC Wayne Daugherty, Corporal Julio Davila, Lance Corporal Jefferson Bly, Staff Sergeant Alice Haverford, and Gunny Trista Poll.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Daughtery said.

“What are you saying, Tracer Round?” Corporal Davila asked, rolling his eyes. He called the PFC tracer round because his skin was light skinned black and his hair was as orange as the fruit.

“I’m talking about the Medal of Honor,” PFC said with too much enthusiasm.

“Tuh, the kid plays a video game, thinks it’s real, and wants to get a MOH,” Corporal Davila snickered.

“It’s spelled out there, Davila,” Staff Sergeant Haverford said. “You don’t shorten it.”

“Roger that, Staff Sergeant.” The corporal then turned to the PFC.

“Still, you’re thinking about something that is nearly impossible to obtain. You have to be in the teeth of it. You might get bitten and you still have to go on with your friends in the fight.”

“Okay. Well at least I’ll get a CAR.”

“Ah, yes the Combat Action Ribbon. I guess you could shorten that. They give those things out like candy,” Gunny Poll pointed out.

“I want it. At least I could achieve a Navy Cross or Bronze Star with a V device,” Daugherty said.

“Trace’, you still have to actually be in combat. It sucks. A lot. People say they ‘fall back on their training’ but there are certain things in combat that even all of your months of push ups and pull ups and trigger squeezing will never prepare you for in this realm.”

“I don’t care. I want the action. I want to be part of the scene,” PFC Daughtery asserted.

In the cabin of the helicopter, Chief Warrant Officer 3 looked out for small arms fire or surface to air missiles. Chief Warrant Officer 4 Griffith looked at the GPS coordinates.

“We’re going in for a few more miles and then gassing up,” she said.

“Roger.”

Back in the back of the helicopter, a nervousness coursed through Daugherty’s body. His knees went up and down like an elevator. He looked around and felt on his person for some dip and then remembered that all tobacco products had been secured.

“I can’t cope without my Cope’,” he finally said.

“Rest assured, Daughtery, when we finish this mission you’ll have all the dip in the world,” Haverford mentioned.

“Thanks for the reminder, Staff Sergeant,” Daughtery answered.

“So, you still think you can handle what’s about to come to you. The sand is going to swallow you whole,” Davila said. Malice dripped in his words. He clearly made the attempt to scare the junior Marine.

“Don’t worry, Tracer. You stick close to us and we can make sure you get all the decorations for your Blues,” Poll announced. She said this out of genuine concern as the den mother of the crew.

Davila wasn’t finished. “When those rounds go down range, what are you going to do? Are you going to freeze up like an ice pop? Are you going to be able to shoot on sight? Will you even be able to carry your gear?”

Daughtery’s nervousness increased with the corporal’s words.

“I’m not afraid. I’m scared because of my nerves but I’m all about it,” he said this low but he told the truth. His words contained a bit of pain and a few ounces of pride.

“‘Rah,” Haverford said.

“That’s the attitude, motivator,” Poll said. The senior Marines, especially female ones, always recognized even the slightest bit of motivation by junior Devil Dogs.

Davila interrupted this exchange of words to encourage. “You could die down there. You could get into a firefight and at the very least get severely wounded. Then you’ll have to go to the VA and get substandard care from well-meaning folks. That could be your future. Or you could just get killed.”

The senior Marines didn’t catch this line of talk as Davila whispered it and the two female Marines chatted up about guys and guns.

Daughtery’s knee stopped jumping and the color ran from his face. He envisioned an epic battle where he saw his fellow Marines bloodied and struggling against the enemy. He saw an IED explode in front of him and the burst scattered shrapnel and dust into the air…the fog of war.

“That’s not happening to me. To us. We’re going to destroy them. If they raise up, we’ll knock them down again.”

“I should just punch you right now. Not in the face, but in your chest and back where your mother won’t see your wounds. No one outside of this helicopter will even have a clue. And you’ll make up some sad, sorry story about how you fell out of your rack or ran into a wall or something. But it won’t be that. It will be because of my fists against your fragile frame,” Davila said icily.

“I’d like to see you actually try something like that. Come on, Corporal,” Daugherty challenged.

“Everybody just cool the hell down, goddamnit,” Lance Corporal Bly said. “You both are wrong. This isn’t about achieving medals. This isn’t about beating up on junior Marines. This mission is to take out a house defined as hostile to American troops. With you two having a spat over nothing as Marines are wont to do, you are distracting from the real reason we’re out here. So sit back, relax, enjoy the ride and shut the hell up,” Bly said. As a lance corporal, he could talk to both of them like that and not receive any repercussions.

The aircraft continued its journey into the capital of Saudi Arabia. The Marines all remained in flight and only the gunny and staff sergeant exchanged words and laughter.