emc
March 24, 2003, 09:36 PM
WSJournal - March 3, 2003
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Superstitions Abound at Camp
As Soldiers Await War in Iraq
By MICHAEL M. PHILLIPS
Staff Reporter of THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
LIVING SUPPORT AREA 7, Kuwait -- Don't eat Charms hard candies. Don't look through a sniper's scope. And whatever you do, don't mention apricots near a tank.
Wartime brings out the superstitious side of the troops, whose very survival is often at the whim of forces well beyond their control. And as they wait in the desert for G-Day -- ground-attack day -- the Marines of the 3rd Battalion, 7th Regiment, have a lot of time to ponder the uncertainties ahead. "Everybody's got their superstitions," says First Sgt. Vic Martin, 40 years old, from Hemet, Calif. "The more dangerous the job, the more superstitious."
In a Marine camp where every job carries risks, few face more danger than the scout snipers, who have elaborate superstitions to protect them. Snipers sneak behind enemy lines camouflaged in ghillie suits, handcrafted from individual strands of burlap and foliage picked up as they collect intelligence and stalk enemy commanders. It is a very personal way to kill, and so snipers consider the suits, weapons and even bullets to be almost sacred.
Snipers won't let anyone wear their ghillie suits or look through the scopes of their 7.62 mm rifles. Each sniper wears a special amulet on a cord around his neck: a smooth 7.62 mm slug. "This is the bullet that's going to take you out," says Sgt. Zach Hansen, a 21-year-old sniper from Salt Lake City. "As long as it's around your neck, you'll be kept safe." In fact, any sniper caught without his bullet has to do 25 pushups, the last five while chanting, "Scout sniper."
Several tents down the row, Navy Lt. Darren Stennett, the battalion chaplain, isn't surprised to see Marines looking beyond the physical world for comfort, although he'd prefer to see their spirituality directed to more traditional religious outlets. "For the first time in their lives," he says, "these young men are getting in touch with their mortality."
LSA-7 is the U.S. military base closest to the Iraqi border, and the war feels imminent here. The Marines last week packed everything but their combat gear in their olive-drab sea bags, sending their personal belongings to be stored in the rear.
A few things they will hang onto, however. Lance Cpl. Peter Milinkovic, 19, of Belvedere, Ill., carries the rabies and ID tags worn by his childhood pet, Bear the Rottweiler, who died the day he started boot camp. Lance Cpl. Anthony Gonzalez, 22, a mortar man from San Jacinto, Calif., tucks in his flak vest the Bronze Star his uncle won for bravery in Vietnam. "You need all the protection you can get once you get out here," he says.
Others are more interested in avoiding bad luck. It is widely known here that eating Charms candies is just asking for a rainstorm, even in the desert. Some Marines are rumored to bury the candies when they get them in their military Meals Ready-to-Eat. Lance Cpl. Justin Whaley, 21, of Lebanon, Mo., throws his away, and he is equally dubious about the MRE's green candy-coated gum, rumored to contain a laxative. Meanwhile, Sgt. Tony Palzkill, 27, of Belmont, Wis., has heard that if you get green gum it means your wife is having an affair in your absence. That belief, though, doesn't seem very widespread, which is just as well as there are only two colors of MRE gum -- green and white.
Marine Sgt. Thomas Cox, a scout sniper, models his ghillie suit in Kuwait. Superstitious snipers won't let anyone else wear their suits.
But no food is less welcome here than the apricot. When Second Lt. David Fleming, 28, of Lansdowne, Pa., goes into battle, he will be riding a tracked amphibious-assault vehicle driven by Delta Co. Staff Sgt. Nick Mendoza, 27, from Plano, Texas. "Can I eat apricots on your track, staff sergeant?" Lt. Fleming asks impishly.
"It depends on how much you value your life, sir," Staff Sgt. Mendoza answers.
Rumors abound as to why the apricot is so hated among those who wage war in heavily armored fighting machines. One theory holds that during World War II, a flotilla of landing craft carrying apricots for the troops sank off the coast of France, with all hands lost. True or not, apricots still get blamed for many things that go wrong.
Cpl. Larry Weis, of the Third Amphibious Assault Battalion, drank a small carton of fruit punch upon arrival in Kuwait in late January, failing to notice that its ingredients included apricots. The next day, Cpl. Weis, 22, of Albany, Ore., arrived at LSA-7 and met the armored vehicle he would be commanding, complete with oil leaks, exhaust leaks and a turbocharger so defective that it overheated and burned the flak jacket of a Marine unlucky enough to lean against it. Coincidence? Maybe. But Cpl. Weis isn't taking any more chances with apricots. "Never again," he says.
And the amphibious-assault crews are apricot heretics compared with the Abrams tankers. They refer to the apricot as the A-word or the Forbidden Fruit, and they grow ornery if someone utters the name aloud. They are also superstitious about their clothes: During gunnery practice -- sometimes lasting a week -- they don't change their socks, T-shirts or anything else.
First Lt. Matt Ufford, a 24-year-old tank platoon commander from O'Fallon, Ill., did change his once, during gunnery week at Twentynine Palms, Calif., several months ago. "I was just getting tired of how disgusting I smelled," he recalls. Big mistake. The next day his tank's gunnery scores dropped precipitously. Afterward he confessed his error to his crew. "They were incredulous," he says. So he pulled his clothes out of the laundry and put them back on. His tank's score rebounded the next day.
*********************************
Superstitions Abound at Camp
As Soldiers Await War in Iraq
By MICHAEL M. PHILLIPS
Staff Reporter of THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
LIVING SUPPORT AREA 7, Kuwait -- Don't eat Charms hard candies. Don't look through a sniper's scope. And whatever you do, don't mention apricots near a tank.
Wartime brings out the superstitious side of the troops, whose very survival is often at the whim of forces well beyond their control. And as they wait in the desert for G-Day -- ground-attack day -- the Marines of the 3rd Battalion, 7th Regiment, have a lot of time to ponder the uncertainties ahead. "Everybody's got their superstitions," says First Sgt. Vic Martin, 40 years old, from Hemet, Calif. "The more dangerous the job, the more superstitious."
In a Marine camp where every job carries risks, few face more danger than the scout snipers, who have elaborate superstitions to protect them. Snipers sneak behind enemy lines camouflaged in ghillie suits, handcrafted from individual strands of burlap and foliage picked up as they collect intelligence and stalk enemy commanders. It is a very personal way to kill, and so snipers consider the suits, weapons and even bullets to be almost sacred.
Snipers won't let anyone wear their ghillie suits or look through the scopes of their 7.62 mm rifles. Each sniper wears a special amulet on a cord around his neck: a smooth 7.62 mm slug. "This is the bullet that's going to take you out," says Sgt. Zach Hansen, a 21-year-old sniper from Salt Lake City. "As long as it's around your neck, you'll be kept safe." In fact, any sniper caught without his bullet has to do 25 pushups, the last five while chanting, "Scout sniper."
Several tents down the row, Navy Lt. Darren Stennett, the battalion chaplain, isn't surprised to see Marines looking beyond the physical world for comfort, although he'd prefer to see their spirituality directed to more traditional religious outlets. "For the first time in their lives," he says, "these young men are getting in touch with their mortality."
LSA-7 is the U.S. military base closest to the Iraqi border, and the war feels imminent here. The Marines last week packed everything but their combat gear in their olive-drab sea bags, sending their personal belongings to be stored in the rear.
A few things they will hang onto, however. Lance Cpl. Peter Milinkovic, 19, of Belvedere, Ill., carries the rabies and ID tags worn by his childhood pet, Bear the Rottweiler, who died the day he started boot camp. Lance Cpl. Anthony Gonzalez, 22, a mortar man from San Jacinto, Calif., tucks in his flak vest the Bronze Star his uncle won for bravery in Vietnam. "You need all the protection you can get once you get out here," he says.
Others are more interested in avoiding bad luck. It is widely known here that eating Charms candies is just asking for a rainstorm, even in the desert. Some Marines are rumored to bury the candies when they get them in their military Meals Ready-to-Eat. Lance Cpl. Justin Whaley, 21, of Lebanon, Mo., throws his away, and he is equally dubious about the MRE's green candy-coated gum, rumored to contain a laxative. Meanwhile, Sgt. Tony Palzkill, 27, of Belmont, Wis., has heard that if you get green gum it means your wife is having an affair in your absence. That belief, though, doesn't seem very widespread, which is just as well as there are only two colors of MRE gum -- green and white.
Marine Sgt. Thomas Cox, a scout sniper, models his ghillie suit in Kuwait. Superstitious snipers won't let anyone else wear their suits.
But no food is less welcome here than the apricot. When Second Lt. David Fleming, 28, of Lansdowne, Pa., goes into battle, he will be riding a tracked amphibious-assault vehicle driven by Delta Co. Staff Sgt. Nick Mendoza, 27, from Plano, Texas. "Can I eat apricots on your track, staff sergeant?" Lt. Fleming asks impishly.
"It depends on how much you value your life, sir," Staff Sgt. Mendoza answers.
Rumors abound as to why the apricot is so hated among those who wage war in heavily armored fighting machines. One theory holds that during World War II, a flotilla of landing craft carrying apricots for the troops sank off the coast of France, with all hands lost. True or not, apricots still get blamed for many things that go wrong.
Cpl. Larry Weis, of the Third Amphibious Assault Battalion, drank a small carton of fruit punch upon arrival in Kuwait in late January, failing to notice that its ingredients included apricots. The next day, Cpl. Weis, 22, of Albany, Ore., arrived at LSA-7 and met the armored vehicle he would be commanding, complete with oil leaks, exhaust leaks and a turbocharger so defective that it overheated and burned the flak jacket of a Marine unlucky enough to lean against it. Coincidence? Maybe. But Cpl. Weis isn't taking any more chances with apricots. "Never again," he says.
And the amphibious-assault crews are apricot heretics compared with the Abrams tankers. They refer to the apricot as the A-word or the Forbidden Fruit, and they grow ornery if someone utters the name aloud. They are also superstitious about their clothes: During gunnery practice -- sometimes lasting a week -- they don't change their socks, T-shirts or anything else.
First Lt. Matt Ufford, a 24-year-old tank platoon commander from O'Fallon, Ill., did change his once, during gunnery week at Twentynine Palms, Calif., several months ago. "I was just getting tired of how disgusting I smelled," he recalls. Big mistake. The next day his tank's gunnery scores dropped precipitously. Afterward he confessed his error to his crew. "They were incredulous," he says. So he pulled his clothes out of the laundry and put them back on. His tank's score rebounded the next day.