There were about sixty of us, and I saw to my relief that no one was dressed much differently than I was. Several people had brought along cameras, which I had thought about doing but had decided against, mainly because I didn't want to give away the fact that I had never done anything like this before. Either these people had no pride or no common sense.
We reported to the officer in charge, and were told which one of five buses we had been assigned to, and to which team. At precisely 7:40 we were told to "form up," and board our buses. We roared off into the early morning light, up the street past the Supreme court, past the Capitol and the Library of Congress, and eventually out onto the Beltway.
Today we were to be MARINES. SEMPER FI. FROM THE HALLS OF MONTEZUMA...etc. In actuality, we were all Senate staffers, some of us older than others, some plumper than others. I was a fresh-faced recruit, having only been serving my country for a month so far, in the extremely important position of Systems Administrator -- which was a fancy way of saying that I was often on hands and knees with a screwdriver, trying to figure out why the printer wasn't working, or squirreled away at my desk, computer manual in hand, frantically trying to figure out why someone's computer insisted on printing out six copies of the same three page response to each of the eight thousand people who had written the Senator about abortion rights.
How did I come to be on a bus bound for a Marine base with sixty of my fellow Senate staffers? In addition to the work that I did with computers, I also occasionally aided the Legislative Assistant who was in charge of foreign relations for the Senator, which also encompassed military issues in general. This meant that articles, letters, and invitations -- both for the Senator and for the "Aide for Military Affairs" -- continually crossed both our desks.
One day in the middle of January, an invitation appeared that caught my eye. Printed on blood red paper, it was designed to do just that. Addressed to whomever handled military issues, it offered the chance to be a real marine. More specifically, it offered staffers the opportunity to: 1. Ride in a helicopter, 2. See the weapons of the future designed to protect the U.S. today, 3. Eat what marines ate during a "typical" day on patrol, and 4. "FIRE REAL WEAPONS." This last option appeared in dark, bold capitals, and went on to list a variety of different weapons to which we would be introduced. The Marines were no fools. They knew what the highlight of the day would really be. Here was our chance to blow away the bad guys. For those representing hardliners, the opportunity to get rid of some leftover sneaky Commie would be hard to resist, pretend or otherwise. For me, the lure of doing something different than spending a day with balky computers and staffers who shot me frantic, frustrated looks was impossible to resist.
To my amazement, I was given the okay for my mission. What would be a vacation day, would be viewed by the government as an in-depth, on the scene analysis of the US Marine Corps, by a dedicated staffer.
So there I was, on a bus bound for one of the many military bases near our nation's capitol, to board a helicopter that would take me to Quantico, the place of marine training and Tom Clancy novels.
Sure enough, when we arrived, there were several helicopters waiting for us -- huge SeaKnight birds (I was in the military now, I could call them "birds"). We disembarked and assembled according to team color. In the bright morning light, I scanned the troops with whom I would be serving. Would the team color siginify who was my friend and who my foe? Would I want to be in a foxhole with one of these people -- most of whom spent their days telling their senator whether they thought he should advocate more money for missles? The first disappointment of the day came quickly. Our commanding officer explained that the team colors were mainly so that the Marines had some idea of where we were during the day, as we would be divided up when we reached Quantico and rotated through different areas.
We were then issued our first piece of standard equipment: earplugs. Clearly, this was not a commercial airline ride which awaited us. Having never before been on a helicopter I carefully listened to what my commanding officer had to say. The most important thing was to do what we were told once we were aboard (this was a message that we continuously received over the course of the day).
Tentatively, we headed out to our assigned helicopter. A ramp came down from the back side of the helicopter, and we entered through the belly. The inside was sparse and not designed for comfort. There were two benches, one on each side of the helicopter. On the benches lay a number of straps...and several helmets. People began to move toward open space on the bench, and I followed. As we moved to sit down, we were instructed that one strap was to go around each shoulder, and that we were to put the helmets on (in true military fashion, they were one size fits all).
Now I have flown many times before, and never once was I told to put on a helmet. I had the feeling that the helmet would offer me the equivalent amount of protection as one of those little yellow masks that they are always talking about on commercial flights. Everyone picked up their helmet and put it on, adjusting the chin strap, so that it fit snugly.
I seemed to be having more trouble than the rest of my companions, due to the fact that my helmet was somehow defective. It fit, with a large amount of extra room, but every time I moved to attach the chin strap, the helmet would fall over my eyes. After several attempts to make the chin strap both longer and shorter (in the hopes that one of these would allow me to see), I realized that my comrades all had their helmets on and that the commanding officer was looking at me and moving his mouth.
I say moving his mouth because we had put in our earplugs before we put on the helmets, which was a good thing because the blades of helicopter had started turning almost immediately after we had boarded. There was tremendous vibration throughout the helicopter, and without the earplugs the noise would have been deafening.
I tried to gesture back to the officer that "really, I didn't want to be the cause of any trouble, but there seemed to be something wrong with my helmet." I mouthed the words "broken" and "defective." After several moments of silent exchange, the officer unstrapped himself and strode over to me. I figured that he was simply going to give me a different helmet from wherever they kept their supply of such things.
Instead, he reached over, pulled the helmet off my head, and holding it in front of my eyes, turned the helmet around, placed it back on my head, and returned to his seat. The helmet wasn't defective, I was. I had put it on backwards. I hadn't even known that it was possible to put a helmet on backwards. Adding to my chagrin, I noticed that everyone else aboard was eyeing me with a look that said, "We may not know much, but we know enough not to put our helmets on backwards." I felt a sudden wave of pity for them for I realized that when we got to the firing range, I would probably have to kill them all in order to ensure that the story of my embarrassment never got out. Resolving not to humiliate myself further, I prepared for liftoff.
The ramp closed, the vibrations got more violent, and we were up. In order to see out, one had to look through the windows on the side of the helicopter facing you, as it was almost impossible to twist around to look out the windows behind you. I saw that all the helicopters were flying together in a tight formation. As one banked in one direction, all the others did as well. We flew out over the Potomac and headed for Quantico.
The ride itself lacked the excitement that I thought it would have. Aside from the vibration, the helmets, and the lack of a reclining seat, it felt much like any other aircraft ride. True, we seemed to have more maneuverablity than the average 727, but the drama I had expected was missing.
Small matter though -- I was on a helicopter bound on an important mission. My mind began to whip up exciting scenarios that would go along with my flying in a helicopter. The first was that we were zooming over enemy territory, preparing to open fire on the bad guys. The second was that we were important personages being rushed to an important place. The fact that we were flying in such a tight formation made me think that we would be easy targets, so I decided that I preferred the second scenario.
The landing was a gentle one, and it was quite a sight to look out the window and see several other helicopters land at the exact same time that we felt ours touch down. We left our helmets on board (I gave mine the once over to be sure that I did not make the same error on the flight back) and descended down the open ramp.
In a parking lot near a large airplane hangar, we were greeted by one of the many colonels we would meet that day. We were told that within the hangar next to us and one farther up the hill, there were all sorts of items that would interest us as well as coffee and donuts. We were encouraged to ask questions.
I strode in, not about to be bought off by the offer of hot coffee and donuts and prepared to expose the military for the tremendous waste that I knew existed. Strangely, there were no $800 dollar hammers visible, or coffee makers that worked under the stress of 40 Gs. There was an extraordinary variety of armored jeeps, personnel carriers, missles, troop carriers, mines, survival equipment, tents, and of course, a jet. Stationed by all of the equipment were Marines in camaflouge outfits, waiting to be asked questions about their wares. It was a heavy armaments "Soldier-of- Fortune" paradise.
The Marines, of course, were prepared. They were friendly, and willing to answer everything they could, or defer to the person who could answer most accurately. The one question I never did get clearly answered was what they were doing when they weren't standing around answering questions. The typical response to that question was a vague sort of gesturing and a comment about "running the machinery through its paces."
The morning passed without incident, though I can say that if I ever need to wire the Senator's office with land mines I'll have a much better idea of which type I should use. The one piece of information that was stressed was how necessary to the safety of the country whatever I was looking at was. Especially those items which seemed to duplicate those that might appear in other branches of the services. Every branch makes sure it has everything every other branch has, in addition to the hardware that makes it unique. Not because the other branches of the service are incompetent, but because the Marines are a little more competent than the others, or so the message ran.
Leaving the hangar, we were ushered to a runway where we were told to insert our earplugs. We were to see the AV- 8B in action. This is the plane that has the capacity for vertical takeoffs and landings (VTOL). Sure enough, the plane, with wings tilted skyward, rose straight up, hovered, and then began to move slowly forward as the wings readjusted themselves to the angle typical of most aircraft, and the plane rocketed away. The pilot had clearly been told to put on a show, as the plane leaped and rolled and executed all sorts of fancy maneuvers. It's one thing to see a helicopter to hover in the air, it's quite another to see a plane do the same thing.
At about twelve hundred hours it was chow time (one thing I'm pleased with is all the technical lingo that I picked up). A modern chuckwagon of sorts had been set up in one of the hangars. Generators had been hooked up to it, so that we could have a heated meal. We would be eating the same rations as a Marine on patrol. As we passed through the serving line, we were warned by those serving us what to avoid -- in terms such as "you'll break your teeth off if you try to eat the bread."
Hungry as we were by then, the food wasn't that bad. The portions were fair, and while the food didn't have much taste, we were assured that this was not the cook's fault (the person who heated everything up), but the fault of the rations themselves. The thing that struck me -- about both the food and all the displays I had seen earlier in the morning -- was all the equipment one needs to carry all the equipment that one needs.
But all this was merely prelude to what had been billed as the main offering of the day. The trip to the weapons range. We were told to eat quickly and then form up with our team outside the hangar. There buses were waiting to take us to the guns.
The buses took us on a 45 minute ride through the countryside. We traveled on main roads, not trying to disguise the fact that we were about to become a heavily armed invasion force with the potential to do great harm to ourselves. Finally we arrived at the compound and were ushered in after the suitable code words had been given to the guard at the gate ("the group from the Senate is here"). We got off the buses and were told to head to the firing range.
As we strode to the range, excitidely talking of the weapons that we wanted to fire and oblivious to any danger, we were directed to one side of the field where we were to receive our "gear." Helmets (which I chose not to buckle remembering the fiasco earlier in the day) and flak jackets at the sight of which, the reality began to set in that this equipment was to protect us from the possiblity that something might actually discharge in our direction.
We headed to a row of bleachers that faced out toward the firing range. In front of us stood a lieutenant colonel, who was there to introduce us to the experts in charge of the various firearms we would be taking into our own hands. The weapons ranged from a 9mm pistol to a large tube shaped shoulder mounted weapon that was designed to put a hole in a tank. In between were submachine guns, rifles, machine guns, and of course, the ever popular grenade launcher.
We watched marines who had won all sorts of marksmanship awards decimate nearby targets. The marines were to load our weapons for us, would help us aim and then would let us fire away. Sort of a combination of Mr. Rogers and Rambo.
After being once again urged to insert our earplugs, we were turned loose. There were two of each of the smaller guns up to the machine gun level and lines quickly formed behind each weapon, as people wanted to be sure that they fired each one.
Here I was finally able to witness the lengths to which the Marines were willing to go. From all across the firing range, cameras popped out. Senate staffers, who worked everyday to cultivate the appearance that nothing surprised them, were suddenly eagerly requesting that colonels, lieutenant colonels, and perhaps a general or two snap a shot with the staffer and gun.
Imagine how the shot would be introduced.
"Is that a picture of you, Mary?"
"That? Oh, that's just me with my trusty submachine gun 'Rambo.'
"I didn't know you knew how to work a submachine gun..."
"Oh sure. That picture was taken during my secret mission to Iraq in Desert Storm. The general I commanded took the shot."
"I didn't realize that Iraq looked so much like Virginia."
"Well...there are pockets of growth in the desert. Now, let's get back to looking at the budget, Senator."
And the Senator would pay careful attention to whatever it was Mary was recommending, knowing that from 150 yards she could pick him off merely by squinting out of one eye and pulling a trigger.
I found myself wondering what would happen if your everyday private suddenly pulled out a camera and asked his commanding officer to take a picture of him holding his M-16. I have a feeling that he wouldn't be holding the M-16 for very long.
Of my experience with firing several guns I can say the following. First, pistols are heavier than they look. Those detectives who whip out their "piece" at the first sign of trouble have mighty strong wrists. Second, there is no danger of my wounding anybody or anything with a gun (unless perhaps I drop the gun on their foot). I can say with assurance that I did not hit the target in front of me. I did not even, as some people did, hit someone else's target. I do think that it is possible that my bullets eventually fell to the ground, but even that I lay no claim to, and can only credit gravity's aid.
What could these military men have been thinking when they saw these crack shot Senate staffers repeatedly aim and...miss? It's difficult to miss a tank with a grenade -- especially if the grenade launcher already has the set coordinates and all that remains is for someone to pull the trigger. One could blame it on faulty equipment, but for some reason, the Marines never seemed to miss with the same faulty equipment. Those monitoring foreign satellites must have known we were not real troops, otherwise countries armed with nothing more than sticks and rubber bands would have invaded by now.
After an hour's worth of expending live ammunition at who knows what cost to the American taxpayer, the helicopters arrived to return us to the base. We dropped our flak jackets and helmets in a heap, and headed for the copters. We boarded once again through the belly of the bird, and stumbled to our seats, our hands still vibrating from the firepower we had so recently been handling. The group anxiously watched as I attempted once again to put my helmet on, this time successfully, and we were off.
As we landed triumphantly back at the base where we had started the day, exiting the helicopters with the rotors still whirring above, I was sure that I heard strains of the "Ride of the Valkyries" as I ran for the bus.
The day was successfully completed. My status as a Mairne was probably somewhat in question, but certainly I had done my duty to ensure that democracy would be safe for another day. I had decided not to enlist.
Eric Rothshield is one of the few staffers in the U.S Senate who uses a 48 caliber shell for a paperweight. He claims to have caught the shell in his teeth during the Gulf War.