and women, civilian and military alike, living and working there, all dedicated to getting planes in the air. Closed in 1992, it was now almost a ghost town. We could take this place apart in combat drills and nobody would care.
I showed up for an unscheduled walk-through one morning, and the empty little town seemed to breathe, almost talking to me, as I prowled its streets, clapping my gloves together for warmth as a bitter rain lashed the area. The old base had two long runways, and although part of it had been given over to the Southern California Logistics Airport, the roosting places for airplanes were of no interest to me. Instead, I poked around the fourteen massive oblong dormitory buildings, the 1,641 individual housing units, and a hive of other buildings that ranged from what had been a hospital to routine office space. Wonderful. Cities are sniper country.
For several weeks, Marines from our base at 29 Palms had been invading and fighting in the town. Big tanks parked in the driveways of little bungalows, helicopters swooped over the rooftops, and helmeted Marines carrying rifles dashed across scraggly brown lawns. I already knew that the overall game plan called for massive assaults, platoon- and company-sized actions supported by tanks and armored vehicles that would crush enemy positions with overwhelming force. The planners believed any prepositioned sniper would be only a minor irritant, to be picked off early in the game. I wanted to teach them simultaneous lessons in mobility and humility.
People often ask why I did not try out for the prestigious Marine Corps Shooting Team, but the question usually comes from someone who does not understand that there is a world of difference between competition shooters and snipers. Pure shooting is only part of what a sniper does, for we also must master the arts of sneaking into an area, hiding, deception, and hunting. We are entirely different societies, although the Marine competition shooters are awesome to watch.
I personally didn’t care about being called a marksman, winning a medal or trophy, or becoming an Olympic shooter, because a competitive rifle expert must spend so much time at the training range that his body becomes programmed to do just that. By doing so, he loses the skill sets necessary to be a good sniper. Paper targets don’t shoot back, so it’s really kind of boring.
It is important for snipers to thoroughly understand that what we do is not a competition. The best sniper in the world will have no success if there are no targets, but even an average shooter can rack up a bunch of kills in an environment filled with possibles, so the numbers can lie. Put an excellent sniper in a target-rich situation, and amazing things happen. One of the best was a young Russian who mowed down German soldiers during World War II like a John Deere tractor tearing through a Kansas wheat field. The soldier’s name was Lyudmila Pavlichenko. That true rarity, a woman sniper, she terrorized the Eastern Front, with more than three hundred confirmed kills. For myriad valid reasons, American armed forces do not train women to be snipers, but this Russian Annie Oakley of the Steppes could stall an entire attack.
That, and more, is exactly what I planned to do during Project Metropolis, which was why I was out walking the deserted streets in a rainstorm. An attacking force has a tall order to fill when it tries to advance through warrens of buildings, maneuver through tight doorways, and run across open areas, snoop around corners, and wiggle through windows. From the point of view of a defending sniper like me, things couldn’t be much better. The historical casualty rate for an attacking unit in such fighting was estimated at 30 percent, and I intended to keep it at least at that level. This was my town, and it was golden with opportunity.
After my unauthorized tour, we went to work on insertion tactics to determine ways to get into the fighting zone, and then I took the boys inside the city to set up hides. In a real combat situation, we would have gotten into position early, so why not do the same in a war game? And why not do it in secret? We would never tell the enemy what we were doing. We established excellent rooftop positions, found spots deep in the shadows inside the buildings, arranged some other sneaky hides, and made ourselves at home.
Then we practiced moving quickly and aggressively from one hide to the next, taking advantage of the cluttered urban terrain. I had no intention of being a sitting target for a bunch of tanks and artillery or being overrun by infantry troops. In this miniwar, we would be fine just sneaking from one position of cover to another, but I could not help thinking of the future. When a real fight came along, we would need solid, hardened vehicles to safely cover long, exposed distances, and I wanted other Marines around to protect us with additional firepower, so we could concentrate on dominating the battle. Moving from place to place alone or with just another sniper would leave us much too vulnerable. Without good protection, survivability became the ultimate issue, and a dead sniper is useless.
For ProMet, though, our boots would serve us fine, and by the time the other side got to where we had been hiding, we should already be gone. Let them try to find us. Urban sniper movement can be a bitch to solve, and combat in tight quarters can be a terrifying business. Streets and alleys are ready-made kill zones, and closely packed buildings are obstacles for troops and vehicles alike. We could pop somebody from a rooftop and two minutes later be shooting from behind a bunch of street junk, staying on the move.
Instead of real bullets, everyone would be firing lasers and would be festooned with MILES gear, electronic devices that simulate shots from the various weapons. A hit triggers buzzers on the web gear and helmets of the “enemy” soldiers, and a person who is hit immediately lies down and pretends to be dead. He cannot give advice, talk on the radio, or participate in the fight in any way. All he can do is lie on his ass and wonder what hit him.
Our targets, I reminded the boys, were not the grunts in front. We wanted to reach over their heads and touch more important targets. Get the officers first, then any enemy snipers who might threaten us, then go after their forward observers and senior sergeants. In other words, decapitate the leadership. Next would be the crew-served weapons like big machine guns and rocket launchers. In a real war, we would also shoot the radios themselves. Put a bullet in the operator, and someone else can pick up the handset and make a call. Put the radio out of commission, and the operator makes no difference whatsoever. There was a whole long list after that, but the important thing for them to remember was to shoot priority targets that could make a difference, then get away from the advancing troops and do it again.
By the time I finished my final walk-through, visualizing the coming battle, and returned to my room, I was satisfied that we indeed had found something useful to do. I gathered the lads and gave them a final talking to. We all knew exactly what was expected-nothing less than changing the way some of the most influential people in the Marine Corps thought about the way snipers could be used in combat.
Dawn on the day the exercise began brought more cold, wet weather, and we were hidden in our positions, waiting, hours ahead of time. The attack force gathered outside of town, and after a nice breakfast, the USFOR leaders came out to play. Officers from foreign armies had been invited to observe ProMet and see how Marines could take a city. There were final briefings, equipment checks, and a lot of engines revving to life. The noise was incredible as they moved into position. Stealth was never a factor for them, but it is everything to a sniper. That’s what the manual says, so it must be true.
The defending force was already positioned inside the city, but we snipers, unloved little bastards that we are, were operating independently. Our positions were marked on the map grid lines of the commanders, but those were going to be obsolete after the first shot. I would not be playing fair today, because I believe it is sometimes better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. We were in our hides long before the first attacking unit of Marines crossed the starting line. Welcome to my world.
It didn’t take long. I was in a prone position, rifle at my shoulder, far back in the shadows of a room, with a table and some other junk stacked in front of me, invisible to anyone looking in with powerful binos. Thanks to having done this sort of thing for much of my life, I had hardly moved since wiggling into position hours earlier and clearly heard the noise of the advancing units. Jesus, they might as well have broadcast “Hey! Here we come!” on our radios.
A helmet peeked around a corner, and the game commenced. I let their lead squad go and held my position until one of my favorite targets came into view, a platoon commander talking on his radio.
That’s when I kicked in the second half of my plan. The book says that a sniper’s progress must be careful and slow, measured in feet and often in mere inches. Screw that. We hauled ass. By the time the attacking force figured out the source of the original shots, my boys were gone, and the USFOR wasted a lot of time sneaking up on empty houses.
Movement. Mobility. Aggressiveness. We shifted from hide to hide, from one place of concealment to another,
