the trip was Lieutenant Casey Kuhlman, the platoon commander I had “shot” during ProMet. We still barely knew each other, because we were in different companies within a large organization, and while he went to Okinawa as the executive officer of a rifle company, I stayed in the Stumps.
Colonel Steve Hummer, the commanding officer of the 7th Marines, was what we call a warfighter, the highest accolade an enlisted man can bestow upon an officer, and he was always preparing for the fight he was sure was coming. Hummer didn’t know exactly who, when, or where-only that it was coming and that he would have his Marines ready.
He had become a fan of my idea for a Mobile Sniper Strike Team that could yank snipers out of the shackles of yesteryear, and his eyes would almost glow when we discussed turning such a team of highly trained killers loose on a battlefield. A sniper platoon with fast-attack vehicles would give him a valuable new asset that would combine reconnaissance with a lethal strike team. So while the rest of my battalion went to Okinawa, Hummer kept me in California as his regimental chief scout/sniper, gave me bankers’ hours, and told me to stop talking and bring my idea to life.
With the colonel behind the plan, pushing and cajoling and opening doors, things actually began coming together. I needed special weapons, and a fellow sniper at another base was maneuvering that paperwork for me. For vehicles, I wanted to leapfrog over the available Humvees in favor of quicker desert-rat dune buggies. Hummer said, “Do it.”
I also needed men for my plan to work. Not just any troops, but those finely tuned overachievers from advanced schools such as Recon and Sniper. I wanted to take five to seven men from each battalion, personally train them in the new tactics, then have them train others. That’s where I ran headlong into the regimental operations officer, a bear of a lieutenant colonel named Bryan P. McCoy. Since Marines don’t grow on trees, any men I gained for my team would be subtracted directly from McCoy’s roster of combat personnel. He didn’t like that.
Casey once described me as not being very subtle: “If Jack likes you, he curses and insults you. If he doesn’t like you, he does the same thing, only nose-to-nose and louder.” McCoy and I had a number of spirited discussions.
While I could bully a lot of officers, he was a stone wall. He stands about six-six, weighs a muscular 240 pounds, keeps his light brown hair high and tight, and usually has a big cigar stuffed in his mouth. He tried to stare holes in me with his beady hazel eyes. McCoy is brilliant and kept cluttering up our arguments with quotes from Napoleon and Rommel. Nevertheless, the Boss supported my plan to put snipers on wheels, and I wasn’t going to let some S-3 regimental operations officer, even a tough dude like McCoy, stop me. I didn’t think anything could.
On September 11, 2001, our eighth wedding anniversary was less than a month away. My wife was in the kitchen, and I was getting out of the shower to start another day in Marine paradise. We would take our kids to day care, then Kim would go to her teaching job and I would head off for another argument or two with McCoy.
The telephone rang, and I picked it up in the bedroom.
No hello. “Turn on the television set!” It was the battalion commander’s wife, who was running the home front while her husband had the troops in Okinawa. “We’re being attacked!”
I snapped the power button on the remote, and New York swam into view on CNN. A tower of the World Trade Center was on fire, and as I watched, a big jetliner slammed into the second tower. I was stunned into disbelief and silence for a moment. “OK,” I said, and hung up the telephone, then jumped into my uniform and sped to the base, growing angrier by the minute. I didn’t know who had done this, but they were not going to get away with it.
A savage typhoon had stalled over Okinawa, where it was now about nine o’clock at night at Camp Schwab, the northernmost base on the island. A few poor bastards were pulling outside guard duty in the storm, while most of the battalion’s senior officers were in Korea for a conference. One major and a bunch of lieutenants were left in charge at the camp, including Casey, the executive officer of Kilo Company. He finished checking his e-mail, went to his room, and turned on the radio. At first, he thought he was listening to some
Soon after that, Threat Condition Delta was ordered by President Bush. That meant Marines were to “man the lines,” but there was little that the men of the mighty Bull could do other than snarl at the television set and check in by radio with the near-empty battalion headquarters. The word came down to just sit tight until things got sorted out, because it was pretty unlikely that Camp Schwab was going to be attacked that night. The twenty-five-year-old lieutenant and his fellow officers settled down to watch over their flock as the bad news unfolded. They felt helpless. It was a strange feeling.
Casey had come a long way to reach the Rock, on the far side of the world from his home in sunny Florida. He had grown up in the northwest section of Orlando, between the ocean at New Smyrna Beach and Disney World. As a kid, he visited the magical universe created by Walt Disney so many times he was almost on a first-name basis with Mickey Mouse.
Great distances did not trouble him, for Casey was almost migratory by nature. His father was from Michigan, his mother from Tennessee. Casey had been born in Chattanooga on September 3, 1976. A few years later, the family, now including a younger brother, moved to Florida, and from the third grade until he left for college, he lived in a 1,500-square-foot three-bedroom home that his mom had decorated with Mexican tiles. The family pets started small, with a basset hound, but by the time Casey left home, their pet was a 180-pound Newfoundland named Bailey, who liked to rest his huge head on the dining room table.
Casey once told me, “When I think of my childhood, it was complete normalcy.” His mother was a nurse, and his father became director of budgeting at a hospital and was fascinated by the early wave of home computers. He provided his boys some nifty games while he worked up a business in computer consulting for medical practices. That was Casey’s first step into engineering, and he never stopped.
He enjoyed sports but was more of a bookish kid, and reading Hemingway and Kerouac was more appealing than learning to surf. With a swimming pool in almost every backyard in the neighborhood, he and his friends didn’t need to go to the ocean to while away a summer. What he was really good at, and enjoyed, was the math and science classes in school, where he could make intricate sets of numbers add up, the formulas made sense, and attention to detail paid off with correct answers. A physics teacher guessing the future occupations of some students looked at Casey and said, “Engineer.”
He followed that very path, and narrowed his college choices to the University of Illinois and the University of California at Berkeley, although he had also been accepted at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Georgia Tech. His parents, both Republicans, quickly weeded the free-spirited Berkeley out of the possibilities, and Casey went to Illinois. He would graduate cum laude from the top structural engineering school in the country.
That’s also where his life changed dramatically and what he calls “the duality of me” emerged. He was paying his way through college with a Naval ROTC scholarship when he realized there was more to life than calculus and physics. It’s hard for me to believe today, because Casey stands more than six feet tall and is a muscular 190 pounds, but he was small in high school. Reading all of those books had instilled a yearning for adventure, and in his sophomore year he decided to test himself physically and to become a Marine-not just any kind of Marine but an infantry officer, a grunt.
He graduated in 1999, into a world that was generally at peace, and started his climb through the tough Marine training schools. Now, on this historic day, that was all over, and he found himself on Okinawa, with a typhoon howling outside, watching burning buildings on television and hearing President Bush tell the nation that its military forces were at the highest state of readiness. He had wanted adventure, and now, he had found it.
Nine-eleven put an end to my dream for a Mobile Sniper Strike Team, at least for a while, and I didn’t care. Even had it been authorized that day, it still would have taken another year to get off the ground, and now there was a risk that it had become my own personal albatross. We were suddenly planning for war, and I worried that I was going to be left behind, shuffling papers, while a shooting scrape was going on.
I went into a big staff meeting that day where contingency plans were being thrown down, changing hourly as
