United as one
IT’S MY GENERATION’S DAY OF INFAMY. We all remember where we were on 9/11. I was a Marine stationed in the northernmost part of Camp Pendleton, Calif. I casually went to bed one night, and woke up the next morning at war with terror.
This was it. All the training, experience and anticipation were for this moment. And we weren’t ready. We’d been so sure there was no way we could be hit at home, but here we were. No advanced tactics or superior weaponry imposed on us. Just brazen, effective terrorism.
The 24-hour news cycle dutifully played its role. I’ve never met an adult who can’t describe the live coverage of the second plane hitting the World Trade Center tower. Selfishly, my concern was for the Pentagon; I had friends there but no time or way to reach them. We had to secure our own perimeter now that we knew it was a coordinated effort, and the chaos of wondering what was to come next has never left my mind. Shock turned to anger as I took my turn at a checkpoint where a young infantryman found it amusing to give this desk jockey sergeant a refresher on how to best employ the machine gun pointing toward the southern California road that leads to my favorite local dive bar.
Everyone wanted to check in with friends and family. I was stationed at the base’s Reserve Support Center, helping answer the phone that never stopped ringing. One call I took was from a World War II veteran who said his uniform still fit, and he still had his rifle, and he wondered where he should report. Many reservists simply showed up at the gate because they couldn’t get through on the phone. Scared mothers wondered if I knew where their sons or daughters could be found, and my own dad helped free up the phone line by informing the rest of my family that Camp Pendleton was not in any immediate danger.
Americans stood together, ready to smoke out the enemy and shoot them on the run. There was a slight problem determining exactly who that enemy was, but it didn’t keep us from wanting to flex our patriotic muscle. From the bravado of Marines on the ground to angry newscasters of either bias reporting from Ground Zero, we were united as one in wanting to bring swift and absolute justice to whoever had the guts to disrupt the false sense of security we felt in the United States. Before that day, terrorism was something that happened in far-off lands, not something that could take the lives of Americans here at home.
Nearly 15 years later, most servicemembers will tell you they joined because of 9/11 and that they want to do their part to fight the global war on terror, or whatever it’s called now. Every one of them has joined or re-enlisted in a time of war. So it’s not a surprise to be sent to a combat zone. If you join today, you will participate in war at some capacity. That wasn’t always the case.
I GREW UP in an Air Force town in North Dakota, taking up imaginary arms with neighborhood kids and pretending to fight the Russians in our backyards. Pop culture in the ’80s glamorized war and camaraderie, and we worshipped the likes of Luke Skywalker, John Rambo and G.I. Joe. I had the best action-figure collection on my block. Movies filled the gap for a generation of warriors who didn’t talk about their Vietnam experiences, for reasons I wouldn’t understand until later.
After a year in college, I worked in Texas with my best friend from high school, but the home-improvement field wasn’t as lucrative as we’d hoped. Travis joined the Navy. I joined the Marine Corps. To me, there was no other service. Damn, those posters and commercials were cool! I could quote Gunnery Sgt. Hartman from “Full Metal Jacket” word for word, and I knew I wanted to be a combat correspondent just like Joker.
When I signed up with a recruiter, Public Affairs (journalism) was clearly my first job choice. But because of the needs of the Marine Corps, and some very fine print the recruiter neglected to reveal, I spent my first four years on active duty as a radio operator in the communications field. Looking back, I’m glad I got that foundation, but gaining life experience is not something you appreciate while young. I tried to move into Public Affairs every year but was denied each time. When it came time to re-enlist, the career counselor told me I could only enlist in communications because the Marine Corps really needed another radio operator. So I got out and joined the Marine Corps Reserve, where I found a program that allowed me to apply for long-term orders of my choice. I quickly learned the system and finally fulfilled my childhood dream of becoming a combat correspondent.
I spent the next few years performing the extremely easy task of making Marines look good. Public Affairs, for me, ranged from print journalism for base newspapers before the Internet was really a thing, to online broadcast journalism, escorting media, and working for the Marine Corps Motion Picture & TV Liaison Office to ensure an accurate portrayal of Marines in the entertainment industry.
At war, I began to realize that I was running the full spectrum of the Marine Corps. As I slept in the corner of an abandoned school compound with a few other Marines in Fallujah, where we had been ordered to train Iraqi soldiers we didn’t trust to fight an enemy we couldn’t identify, it dawned on me how far I had come. I rested with my rifle loaded and chuckled. I’d dreamed of being a Marine sergeant and a combat correspondent. Neither was anything like I’d imagined.
THE MARINE CORPS Communication-Electronics School is in Twentynine Palms, Calif., a perfect place to train Marines for the rigors of a war in a terrible climate. The heroes of Desert Storm were our instructors, and we gathered at their feet for the wisdom of real combat Marines – a rarity during my first several years in the Corps.
My class was among the first to allow women into the communications field, and to say the Marines on the ground had a difficult time adjusting is an understatement. I remember an old-school staff sergeant grumbling about how absurd he thought it was for women to even wear camouflage because they don’t go into combat anyway. How times have changed.
In the early ’90s, female Marines were still finding their place in the gun club, and there was some learning to be done both for them and for the good ol’ boys. There was a certain amount of animosity toward women because the physical expectations for them were lower: only a mile-and-a-half run and no pull-ups, just a flexed arm hang.
Back then, I wasn’t thrilled about women getting expanded roles in combat-related specialties like communications. Another old-school staff sergeant had me convinced that it was dangerous to have women anywhere near a combat zone. For example, we had to carry a heavy radio and set up big antennae. Could women even do that?
More important, if I was injured in combat, could the Marine next to me carry me out? There was also the idea that when a woman is in a dangerous situation, the men around her try to protect her rather than focus on the mission at hand – sort of a big-brother syndrome. And what would happen if a woman were captured? The scenario seemed absurd at the time, but the experiences of Jessica Lynch proved that reality to the point the military was willing to deny it.
Over the next decade, my opinion of women in the military changed dramatically. It was shaped not only by the young women with whom I served but by Marines like Sgt. Maj. Sylvia Walters, the senior enlisted Marine at El Toro, who broke barriers long before we ever donned the uniform.
Women’s roles in today’s military are far better defined by the things they have proven they can do. I know many great Marines who happen to be women, as well as some less-than-stellar ones; they are truly just like their male counterparts. In 2006, Maj. Megan McClung proved that roadside bombs are not sexist in any way. While deployed with I Marine Expeditionary Force, she was the head of Public Affairs for Al Anbar province and was escorting journalists into Ramadi when an improvised explosive device destroyed the Humvee, killing her and two other occupants. She was the first female Marine officer killed in the Iraq war.
In 2008, I deployed to Camp Fallujah, Iraq. I worked nights and usually ate alone in the nearly abandoned chow hall while I watched the news broadcast its version of what was going on. One night I joined a group of Marines in late-night dining: Sgt. Glen Martinez, Cpl. James Kimple, Cpl. Miguel Guzman and Cpl. Casey Casanova. They joked and had fun as Marines do, but at the same time were quite professional. I talked with Casanova specifically about her experience as a radio operator, remembering how difficult it had once been for women to be accepted into the field. Her team assured me that she was quite capable of her job and then made jokes about my age.
That night, my job of embedding media throughout Al Anbar province was delayed by a communications shutdown, the procedure to ensure proper notification of the families after Marines have been killed in action. With a heavy heart, I informed the casualty assistance officers about the deaths of four Marines I’d joked with over dinner a few hours before. They represented a perfect cross section of the diversity that is today’s Marine Corps. They inspire me to this day.
During my time in the military, before and after 9/11, I made friends of every color and creed. The best thing about my service, really, was the opportunity to meet so many great people I would have never crossed paths with otherwise.
Camaraderie begins at boot camp, where it’s instilled in you that you help each other in order to survive. At my first duty station, Marine Corps Air Station El Toro, my best friends were a Mexican named Eddie from California, a black named Al from Alabama, an Indian we called “Wolf” from New York and a white boy named Bill from Wyoming. Others would label them a Hispanic, African American, Native American and Caucasian, but political correctness doesn’t represent my friends or the pre-9/11 Marine Corps. We were just ourselves. We were taught that all Marines serve the same Corps, whether we are light green, dark green or something in between.
The military, the Marine Corps in particular, expunges our individuality, but not entirely. We still have our own paths, and this is no different after service. But as veterans, we are often put into categories. We are known as “post-9/11 veterans.”
I have close friends who are like family at my local American Legion post. They include veterans of OIF and OEF as well as those who served in World War II. And the better we get to know each other, the more we learn how much we are alike.
The media frequently misrepresents the military in support of its own agenda of either flavor. The military misrepresents itself for reasons beyond my understanding. I’m disappointed in its current lack of leadership, how those in charge are afraid of standing up for their own. But I am as proud of our troops in general as I could ever be. Anyone who has ever strapped boots on their feet and done their part to support the greatest nation on earth are my brothers and sisters in arms, and I love every one of them.
Transition assistance and PTSD have become catchphrases for the seemingly ubiquitous organizations with top-level do-gooders having left their career missions to rescue veterans they have labeled as broken. That’s not me. Nor is it the majority of post-9/11 veterans I know.
I appreciate today’s patriotic sentiment, and I’m grateful that the generation of warriors before us – those who fought in Vietnam – made damn sure that what happened to them doesn’t happen to us.
These days, Americans can separate their disgust of bad politics from their appreciation of servicemembers. That’s a sign of growth and maturity. Sometimes, I wonder if the pendulum might have swung a little too far the other way, as veterans who come home badly damaged from war can be exploited to advance marketing interests. While some did come home changed by war, even permanently damaged in certain cases, the fact is that we are far from broken.
Michael Hjelmstad is a former public affairs and new media chief for the U.S. Marine Corps, and a member of American Legion Post 43 in Hollywood, Calif.