Reflections of a Firstie

Thanks to those who encouraged me in private messages, I have returned to share an update to my journey...and what a journey it has been the past year. Please excuse the length. I tried to reduce this outline to the most memorable moments of my time in Quantico. Some parts are deliberately omitted (IYKYK). I don't know what lessons may be gleaned from this experience, and thus I'm not sure if it's of any significant use, but I hope it is at least entertaining.

TBS
Check In - I checked into TBS on 10 June 2019, waiving most of my basket leave so that I could be among the first of my classmates to begin TBS. Check-in was hectic, and much like I-Day it went by in a blur. My one clear memory from that day was checking into my room. As I entered the room, I noticed I was the first to occupy the space. I took the lone bed as opposed to one of the bunks on the other side of the room. As I began unpacking another Lt entered. He was a tall, fit, young guy. He introduced himself and began to unpack. I'm not sure what it was, but looking into his eyes and shaking his hand, there was a familiar scent to him, but still something slightly different. He didn't come from the Naval Academy, I knew that, but still had a similar air to him. I eventually worked up the nerve to ask him where he went to school. "Oh, uh...I graduated from West Point." I just chuckled and nodded. He then said, "You graduated from Navy didn't you?" Yep, he caught it too. Our other roommate, a large, broad-shouldered guy from a ROTC program eventually moved in as well, he was a 'brown-bagger' though and we didn't see much of him. However, my Army roommate and I became quick friends with common goals. He, like me, was a History major in school and desired to become an Infantry Officer. In the coming months we pushed and challenged one another (he pushing me more than I him probably) with our goal of Infantry in mind.

Meeting the SPC - All 300 something odd fresh Lts were gathered in a large classroom in Heywood Hall. The CO, a Major, introduced himself, gave a short speech and introduced his staff. When called, my SPC crisply stepped forward. He was an 0302 (Infantry Officer), also a prior enlisted 0311 with a combat deployment to Afghanistan under his belt. He was the image of what one would imagine an Infantry Officer to be. Perfect uniform, square jaw, physically fit. Later that day I was called into his office as one of the first to have initial counseling with him. I sat down and gave him my bio sheet. He quietly read over it. I desperately tried to read his face for any reaction to what I had wrote, but there was none. He laid my bio on his desk and quickly pulled out a notebook and scribbled some notes down then looked me in the eye and asked, "So why did you want to join the Marine Corps?" But sir, that was written out in the bio you just read. I quickly answered with the same response I wrote. This did not satisfy him. "Lt. B, I read that already. Now tell me why you really joined." So I blurted it out in it's simplest form, "Sir, I want the honor and privilege of leading Marines." "In what MOS?" "Infantry, sir." The entire time we were locked in eye contact. I knew flinching away would be folly. I can't remember exactly what he said next but it was something to the effect of, "We'll see, Lt. B. You have to prove to me that you can do that." "Aye, sir. I will." The rest of the meeting went as one would expect. Questions about family and admin stuff. I walked out replaying those first moments of the exchange in my head. Prove it. There I was, hardly two weeks commissioned, and I had to prove to a combat hardened Captain that I deserved to lead and serve alongside Marines like him. Was I up to the challenge? Could I do it? I was determined to give it my all.

Mock MOS Selection 1 - Upon returning from FEX 1, we had our first mock MOS selection. There wasn't much to base our lineal standing on, mostly academics. As they called out the names for each third, I found myself at the very top of the second third. Good place to be, I thought. We lined up in order outside a conference room, each Lt marching inside, coming to attention before the staff and reciting their preferred MOS. Sergeants yelling out to us when a certain MOS allocation had been filled. Lts frantically checking their list of preferences. There were 33 Infantry slots (11 per third). Being the first in my third, I knew I was guaranteed a spot. I marched in, came to attention, and looked to my SPC who stared back at me. "Good evening Gentlemen, 2nd Lieutenant B, 0302." My SPC nodded. The XO dismissed me.

The Attack - FEX 2. Leading up to this I had not had a garrison or tactical billet. Finally, I got my wish and was slated Platoon Commander for the last attack...the Main Pack Attack. For those who have experienced it, the words might recall less-than-fond memories. For me it was my chance to finally prove to myself that I could lead a platoon in a combat situation. But we had to get through the first several days first. My platoon began the FEX in the defense. Let's just say it did not go well. The following two attacks were, in the words of my SPI, "A disaster." In the words of my SPC, "You all should be professionally and personally embarrassed." Immediately following debrief of the last attack my SPC took me aside and gave me a FRAGO for my attack. He did not look up from his notes once. I could feel his disappointment in the platoon. He finished the FRAGO, snapped his notebook close and looked up at me. "Any questions?" I blanked. Surely I had questions, something that needed clarification, or some extra information that could help my planning. "No, sir." He gave a quick nod, "You've got work to do tonight," and began to walk away. He suddenly stopped and said, "It better be good, B." "It will be, sir. I won't let you down." Ah, nice one Middy B. *internal face palm* I returned to my platoon's bivouac site to see my classmates exhausted and demoralized. It was late and I knew all they wanted to do was sleep and get the FEX over with and return to the comforting embrace of Camp Barrett. I spent the night talking to my Platoon Sergeant and Squad Leaders, doing comm checks, supervising the building of the terrain model, and sitting in my bivvy sack writing my order under a red lens. I may have gotten an hour or two of sleep before the watch called reveille. I was hoping the few hours of sleep would renew the platoon. It did not. The thought of carrying out another attack, and with the weight of the main packs on our backs, was disheartening to all. As everyone meandered around the terrain model, I checked for signs of my SPC and my Tac Observer. I had just a few moments to rally the troops. "Listen y'all, I know we've had a rough go these past couple days. I know you're tired. I also know that we can end this thing with a win and our heads held high. I simply ask that you give me whatever you got left in the tank and I promise we'll come out on top." I briefed my order and gave the command to cross the line of departure. During movement to the ORP, I ran up and down the lines trying to encourage everyone, desperately trying to hide my own exhaustion. We made it to the ORP, I gathered my recon element and told my platoon sergeant, "I'll radio you with any updates. If I'm not back by 1200 and you haven't heard from me, take the platoon to the IRP and I'll meet you there at 1210." "Roger that." We found the EN BP and marked our SBF and Assault positions. "Echo 1 Bravo, this is Echo 1 Actual, over." Static. Comms down. Great. What now, Lieutenant? Great question. We carry on. As we made our way back we spotted an EN patrol and hit the deck. They know we're out there, they're hunting. I checked my watch, 1155. We're not gonna make it back to the ORP in time. Finally the patrol disappeared in the opposite direction. We were out of time. I looked to my recon element, "To the IRP. Run." All tactical posture and sense of stealth was abandoned as we sprinted to the IRP. 1208, "Lt. B, where is your platoon?" "They're coming." 1209, "Lt. B, what if they went on the attack without you?" the Tac Observer kept nagging. "They'll be here." Please be here. 1210, I saw my PS come through the tall grass into the small clearing. Game on. "Hey man, sorry I couldn't reach you. Do we still have comm with higher?" I asked. "Negative, even the 117 is down." Great. No IDF. "Okay, you're gonna have to occupy the SBF Hot Pos by force. We'll wait for the saws to open up before we begin our flank." We split up. He went with the support element and I went with the assault element. As we loaded the assault position, the squad leaders got everyone on line and we waited. What if the SBF got lost? What if they got compromised? What if... I took a deep breath. I heard SAWs open up in the distance followed by M16s. I hope those are ours. I stood, "Go! Go! Go!" I charged forward and we unmasked at the base of the hill. I looked up to see the EN in disarray. Our SBF was oriented down the long axis of their position on their right flank. They had no idea the real assault was coming from behind. We began our assaulting fires up the hill. Seeing the shock on their faces as they turned around to see two squads coming up their backside is something I will never forget. Some abandoned their holes to try to get in better position on us. They were quickly knocked down by AIs painting casualties. It was beautiful. A wonderful, chaotic symphony of violence. We charged through the position. Amid the smoke and shouts I looked around. My PS was already triaging the casualties and my squad leaders were organizing their people into their positions in the hasty 180. Perfection. As we were walking back to the ORP, everyone was high-fiving and retelling their own accounts of the attack. I was grinning from ear to ear. My Tac Observer debriefed the platoon and told us we did well. But it was not their opinion I was most interested in. I looked to my SPC who stood off to the side, again looking for any facial expression that would reveal what he thought of the attack. Nothing. Stoic as ever. The debrief ended and I walked over to him. "Sir." "B, have the platoon grab their packs and hit the main road back to the Company Assembly Area." "Aye, sir." I turn to the task. "B." I turn to him again. Still straight faced he said, "Good attack."

Mock MOS Selection 2 - Our company had shrunk from nearly 300 down to 240. Roughly 210 of which were ground contracts. However, our Infantry allocation jumped from 33, to 45 (15 per third). I found myself in the bottom of the top third. We again got in order of lineal standing and stood in line outside the conference room. Within the first 30-40 people, all the Infantry slots were gone. By the time it got to my turn, all the combat arms MOSs were taken. I looked to my 6th choice. "Good evening, Gentlemen. 2nd Lieutenant B, 0402." I stared straight ahead at the wall this time. Eyes on the boat, no emotion, no emotion. A moment passed. "Dismissed." I was disheartened. We were told that movement in lineal standing at that point was minimal. Don't game the game. All will be as it is meant to be. I continued to do my best and hoped and prayed.

MOUT - The end of the POI was nearing. FEX 3 and Convoy had passed with great tactical improvement from the platoon. We were told we were not getting MOSs until after MOUT. I volunteered to be a Machinegunner for the duration. As we were patrolling through UTC the first day, the thought of the impending MOS selection loomed over me. As we were walking down one of the streets and my arms began to fatigue from trying to strong arm the hefty 240, my SPC came up next to me. "Lt. B, how do you like handling the 240?" I straightened up a bit, "I love it, sir." He cooly nodded, "Good, because you'll have to teach your Motor T guys how to use it." And he just walked off. I'm certain the blood left my face. One of my buddy's in front of me quickly glanced back at me and said, "Don't listen to him, man. He's just trying to get a reaction." I decided then to treat that as the last time I would be doing grunt stuff and to just have fun with it. I was running around those buildings and up and down those stairs like the 240 was as light as an M4. I honestly had a blast.

MOS Selection - We cleaned and locked up our rifles and stood by in our rooms. Finally, we were told to land nav our way to a grid location. As a platoon, we managed to get to said location fairly easily. There we found our SPC, SPI, and the air contracts sipping on some beers. Our SPC said, "Okay, you have come to where your box is supposed to be, it's not here. What do you do?" "Search the surrounding area," we reply. "Good, now find your MOS, they're out there." We scattered immediately. Eventually we found a seabag at the bottom of the creek. One motivator just jumped straight in and snatched it up. We emptied it out only to find it full of beer. We began shotgunning them thinking somehow our MOS was at the bottom of the cans. Our SPC just laughed. He had us gather around and called us up in small groups. He gave us each a fresh beer with a poker chip on top. He instructed us to flip the poker chip all at once when told. My name was called along with three other guys. I braced myself. All will be as it is meant to be. "Flip the chip." I quickly flipped the chip in my hand. 0302. There it was. My future was in my hands. I finished my beer and stepped to the side. "B." My SPC yelled. "The easy part is over. Now comes the hard part."

The End - It was a Friday evening in late November. We were weeks away from graduating TBS. The nine 0301s in my platoon (or 0300.5s as my SPC called us) decided we were gonna run through the O Course a couple times and finish up with an E Course...with weight. I was running through and felt great. We finished up and felt motivated enough to do a few more rope climbs in front of Mitchell Hall. As I got up the rope the first time, I noticed my left foot was hurting. I brushed it off and went up the rope a couple more times. As we ran back to the barracks, it really began to hurt. I just went to bed and thought nothing of it. Come next morning, I couldn't even walk. Sunday was no better. Monday we had our final PFT. My roommate suggested I go to medical but I stubbornly refused. I maxed pull ups, then sit ups. I did my best to hide the very apparent limp as I walked to the start line of the 3 mile. They had all the 0302 and 0203 selectees run together. We took off. I gritted my teeth and ran as fast as I could through the pain. Still, it was not satisfactory, at least in my book. I finished the 3 miles toward the back of the pack. As I finished I saw my SPC eyeing me. Play it cool. I made a quick transition to the shower and promptly went to ATR. The athletic trainer examining me was concerned and ordered an XRay. It was inconclusive whether or not I had a stress fracture. In the least, she said I had seriously sprained a ligament. I finally reported the injury to my SPC. He was upset to say the least. He told me I had to go to ATR every morning for the next two weeks for physical therapy and at the end of those two weeks he would determine whether or not I was going to start IOC on time. I had to sit out the War. That was the hardest part I think. Sitting out the last field exercise of TBS while my peers and friends went through it. The two weeks ended. I left ATR that morning and immediately went to my SPCs office. I walked in and he sat me down. He looked at his computer screen, likely at an email from ATR concerning my progress, then turned to me. "So, how's your foot?" How's my foot? In truth, the pain had lessened, but I had not truly tested it either. In my physical therapy I could tell it was fragile and any physical strain would result in similar effects I experienced during the PFT. So what did I do? I lied. Four and a half years of being ingrained with the idea that lying was a mortal sin in the profession of arms and I stared directly into my SPCs eyes and lied. "It's fine, sir." Despite the confidence in my words, he could see the falsity in my eyes. I sighed and looked down at my foot. "Sir, I just want to go with the guys. They need me, and I need them. We're gonna get through IOC together. Please don't make me start with another class. I'll be ready by the time we pick up. I promise." He nodded. "B, you know what the right action is. You know what you should do." And to be honest, he was right. I knew deep down, with the condition of my foot, that the right thing was to start with a later class and allow my foot to properly heal. At the same time, I felt that the bond I had created with the other guys going was strong enough that I could push through anything, no matter what physical pain I might have. "Sir, I would like to start on time." "We'll see." Fast forward to Mess Night. I was seated to the right of my SPC for the event. The Mess Night went as Mess Nights do at TBS. After the evening's shenanigans I again asked my SPC if I was going to IOC on time. "B, I told you. You know what the right thing to do is...that being said, I know what you're feeling and I know what you're thinking. However, it is still my job to make sure you become an Infantry Officer, and I will make that decision based on how to best ensure that happens."

IOC
6 January 2020. What have I gotten myself into? I sat in my room trying to study the capabilities and limitations of different weapon systems, the principles of machinegun employment, the tactical tenets, and various other subjects. Truthfully, I sat and wondered what the next day held for me. As a promise to myself and my SPC, I spent my two weeks between graduation of TBS and reporting for IOC 2-20 only lightly exercising and massaging my foot and restricting my workouts to mostly upper body and core. I got up from my desk to walk around the barracks and shoot it with the guys. I stepped out in the hallway to see others have the same idea. All of us visibly carried the burden of uncertainty with us. We tried to joke lightly, but the thoughts of the next day weighed heavy on our minds and shortened our usual laughter to just slight grins. I went to bed early knowing this might be the last opportunity I have for good rest in the next several months. I sent up a desperate prayer asking for strength and endurance, for the body of course, but mostly for my mind. I can do this....*sigh*...can I, though? I thought about my family and friends back home. I thought about my West Point roommate, our new IOC Class Commandant. I thought about the other guys from TBS I came here with, who would be suffering with me the next day, and however many days after that. I thought of my roommates from the Academy, still in TBS, who envied where I was and desired it for their futures. I thought of my SPC and the promise I made him that I would pass and become an Infantry Officer. I can do this.

7 January 2020. We entered Mitchell Hall in the dark, early morning hours. We sat and silently stared at the walls in Classroom 5, littered with the plaques of classes past. Each plaque annotating the names of every graduate. Some I recognized, but all jumped out at us. The names seemed like ghosts, their presence omnipotent looking back at us. "Are you worthy?" they seemed to ask. The classroom doors opened. The silence was broken. The CET began. We started with 89...

...nearly 3 painful, cold, wet months later...

26 March 2020. We graduated and ended with 68.

28 March 2020. As I shook our Class Adviser's hand and began to exit Mitchell Hall for the last time out the front doors, I glanced at 2-20's plaque and my name on it. I did it.


Some lessons learned that may not be explicit from the above:
1. Humble yourself before the task at hand, but be confident in your ability to execute it.
2. Life will knock you down, especially when you least expect it, get back up, wipe off the blood, and hit back.
3. It matters not the sharpness of the blade, if the swordsman cannot wield it. (Conditioning of the body matters little if you do not condition the mind and the soul.)
4. Set conditions and then f**king close.
5. No one cares. (No one cares if you're suffering or in pain. No one cares if you're cold/hot/tired/thirsty/hungry/scared.)
6. Every day is a selection, and every task is a test.

"The soldier who has died due to the failure of his officer is a crime before God. So study hard young lieutenant. Prepare yourself well. Burn the midnight oil so that in your old age you will not look down at your hands to find his blood red upon them." - Gen. George S. Patton
 
@MiddyB - thank you for taking the time to write this. My DS will be starting TBS at some point this year (no date yet) so it's very interesting for me to read a little bit about what he will be facing.
 
As I’m preparing to head to Plebe Summer in June, this was a great read. During these times of uncertainty with the virus, I’ve been questioning a lot about my own future. This is exactly what I needed to reassure of my choice to attend the Academy. I wish you the best of luck with the Marines
 
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