Camp Lejeune, NC

April 13th , 2018

1800R

Why the entirety of 1/8 was present, I didn't know. It was definitely weird, considering that battalion formations are usually a monthly affair, but I supposed that the battalion commander needed to address us for some reason. I stood alongside the men of Weapons Platoon, Charlie Company as the company commanders reported that all personnel were present and/or accounted for. After Weapons Company sounded off, we were told to stand at ease. The battalion commander—flanked by his executive officer, sergeant major, and staff—then began to speak into his microphone.

"Good evening, Marines."

"GOOD EVENING, SIR," we replied.

"I'll be as brief as I can so that you all can go and enjoy your forty-eight. There are a few battalion-level issues that have arisen: firstly, while you're on liberty, you have the right to drink and the right to drive... just not at the same time, as a few of your peers have. I am not pleased at all. And if you could utilize protection in the event that you decide to participate in intercourse, that would be great."

Oh boy, you've gotta be kiddin' me... this nonsense aside, why do officers have to use big ole words all the dern time?

"Like the commander said, this is gettin' fuckin' ridiculous!" the sergeant major scolded, sounding even more ticked off than the battalion commander. "Doggone it, you're Marines, not some dumbass teenagers! You need to uphold the dignity of yourselves, this battalion, and the Corps! It would behoove you to unfuck yourselves and act with some maturity!"

Hoo boy... glad I'm not the idiot that decided to drink and drive. Sarn't Major does not sound like the feller you wanna get angry.

"Side note: leadership, leave your men alone after hours. Don't fuckin' call 'em during their forty-eight—or hell, during any sort of off hours—unless it's a goddamn emergency. They earned their time off just like you. Sweet Jesus, let 'em recharge! Last thing we need are people goin' crazy 'cause their command is callin' 'em at weird-ass times. Crazy leads to reduced motivation, reduced motivation leads to reduced combat effectiveness, and reduced combat effectiveness leads to death! And sometimes, it goes straight from crazy to death! I do not need that happening to this battalion!" Sergeant Major added. "And reduce usage of your cell phones! That ain't a substitute for good planning and communication!"

That's... okay then, Sarn't Major. Good idea, though I'm curious how you came up with the other stuff.

"That's all for battalion issues," the commander said as a Humvee pulled up to our battalion area, with two Marines stepping out of the shotgun and rear seats. "Ah, he's here."

"ATTEN-SHUN!" Sergeant Major bellowed, prompting us to snap to attention as the unknown Marines walked up to the battalion commander, standing out among the men in cammies due to their green-and-khaki service uniforms. I could catch a silvery glint on one man's collar, though it was hard to tell what it was from a distance. However, given its relatively small size and the fact that the battalion commander—a lieutenant colonel—was standing ramrod at attention, the unknown Marine had to be a general officer of some sort. The commander rendered a crisp salute that the general officer returned, before taking the microphone and turning to face us.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he commanded. "I'm Brigadier General Turner. I was the CG (commanding general) of Task Force Southwest Rotation 1, whose mission was to train, advise, and assist the Afghan National Army 215th Corps and the 505th Zone National Police in Helmand Province, Afghanistan as part of NATO's Resolute Support mission."

At that name, my eyes widened as I stiffened up. That man was my commander while I was in Helmand Province! Granted, I didn't interact with him much, but I'd seen him a few times—it was hard not to, considering that TF Southwest was a 300-man element (ish). I wasn't aware of any other 1/8 Marines in that rotation, so there was a good chance he was here for me.

But why?! Is this about that firefight with the Taliban? I didn't do anythin' wrong... 'cept for gettin' in the fight when I was supposed to be advisin'. Am I bein' reprimanded in front of my whole battalion?!

"Lance Corporal Schacter, step forward," BGen Turner ordered. Swallowing my nerves, I maneuvered my way out of my platoon and marched forward until I was standing before the general officer. Standing at attention, I rendered a salute that he returned.

"Here, sir," the other Marine in a service uniform—Gunnery Sergeant Wilson, based on his name tag and rank insignia (probably a staff NCO that worked with BGen Turner)—said, handing my former commander a red folder from his binder while he took the microphone. He pulled out a page from the binder while my battalion commander and sergeant major also stepped forward, standing abreast of the brigadier general.

"For heroism in connection with military operations against a hostile force, Lance Corporal Schacter distinguished himself by heroic actions on the 5th of December, 2017, in Helmand Province, Afghanistan," GySgt Wilson began. "On this date, he was serving as a machine gunner of a combined, platoon-sized element, which included personnel of the Afghan National Army 215th Corps and other Marine advisers of Task Force Southwest Rotation 1. At approximately 2000 Zulu, while Lance Corporal Schacter was providing security for the TF Southwest element as advisers guided partner forces in securing an enemy compound, partner forces were ambushed by Taliban fighters."

Suddenly, I remembered the firefight in question—the one that never occurred, according to official information—the ANA soldiers had been jumped by Taliban while searching a compound. We (the American element) were with the ANA commander and a few others, with my gun team and a second one providing security. Expectedly, the ANA element collapsed almost immediately, with only a small minority putting up any actual resistance.

Yeah... most of the ANA is garbage.

"While the Marine officer-in-charge and noncommissioned officer-in-charge began calling in casualty evacuation and close air support, Lance Corporal Schacter immediately maneuvered his gun team to provide suppressive fire and cover the partner forces. When his gun team leader was struck by enemy fire, Lance Corporal Schacter immediately took command, having his ammunition bearer drag the injured gun team leader to the TF Southwest element corpsman while he continued to suppress enemy positions."

Due to the rules of engagement, we were not supposed to be directly combating the Taliban, but we still ended up getting into the fight—though I had a feeling we weren't going to be getting any Combat Action Ribbons anytime soon, given the message the brass were trying to send to the public.

"Lance Corporal Schacter then the rest of the TF Southwest element, directing its other gun team and designated marksmen to provide overwatch as he sprinted approximately one hundred yards with his M240 Bravo and nearly forty pounds of ammunition and miscellaneous equipment to reach the entrenched parter forces."

It was probably the single hardest run of my life—keep in mind, I'm a big guy, and running has always been the most difficult part of PT. My lower back and neck were in a ridiculous amount of pain after the adrenaline subsided, with it being bad enough that the corpsman made me take a knee, drink water, and have some Motrin (as well as change my socks, but that's not important).

Side note: running technique is more important than I thought.

"Despite not being able to properly communicate with partner forces, Lance Corporal Schacter led an aggressive counterattack, combining rifle and machine gun fires and grenades to push enemy forces back and into the view of the TF Southwest element. Taking the initiative and calling up his element leadership, Lance Corporal Schacter helped to coordinate the rifle, marksman, machine gun, and recoilless rifle fires in further weakening and finally destroying the enemy force, thus securing the area. After this, Lance Corporal Schacter and a fireteam of Marine riflemen secured a landing zone for the CASEVAC helicopter, evacuating the wounded partner forces while the rest conducted sensitive site exploitation and subsequently returned to base."

The citation made it sound like we were attacked by superior numbers on that day and were completely overwhelmed. We actually weren't, as we outnumbered the Taliban force 2:1. But since the Marines were not directly taking part in the assault and most of the ANA element collapsed upon contact, the seven Afghans that put up a fight were in big trouble.

Moreover, due to the positioning of us and the Taliban, we had a hard time getting them in our gunsights. After joining the fighting Afghans, the eight of us were able to drop a few fighters and coax the rest into breaking contact and retreating to a new position. But in this new position, they were exposed to the Marine element, allowing us to pin them and take them down. There really wasn't much to it—just basic, yet aggressive, maneuvering. I would've forgotten the whole firefight, had it not been the highlight of the otherwise boring deployment or the fact that it was a firefight that wasn't supposed to happen (again, we were there to advise, not fight).

"Lance Corporal Schacter's outstanding display of aggressiveness, devotion to duty, and personal bravery is in keeping with the highest standards of military service and reflects great credit upon himself, his unit, 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, and the United States Marine Corps," GySgt Wilson said. "For these actions, the decision has been made to award Lance Corporal Schacter with the Bronze Star with Combat V for valor."

Much to my shock, BGen Turner pinned the Bronze Star to my left breast pocket, right below the tape labeling me a United States Marine, before handing me the red folder—which contained a certificate and the Bronze Star citation—shaking my hand, and whispering "well done, Lance Corporal." The battalion commander and sergeant major also shook my hand, uttering quiet words of congratulation.

Huh, I'm actually gettin' away with combatin' the enemy when we weren't supposed to... cool.

But my former and current commanders had not yet dismissed me. Behind them, GySgt Wilson had put away the Bronze Star citation and pulled out another piece of paper from his red binder.

Wait, what?

"The President of the United States of America, authorized by Act of Congress July 9th, 1918 (amended by an act of July 25th, 1963), takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star to Lance Corporal—then Private First Class—Christopher J. Schacter, United States Marine Corps, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action while serving as a machine gunner embedded within 1st Platoon, Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 4th Marine Regiment, which was attached to the artillery battery of Battalion Landing Team 1/4, 11th Marine Expeditionary Unit, during combat operations in support of Operation Inherent Resolve, on 4th May, 2017," GySgt Wilson began.

Wait, WHAT?

I couldn't believe they were actually going to talk about that incident. Officially, the 11th MEU sent its artillery battery to provide fire support to Syrian Democratic Forces and their Army advisers. However, what few knew was that there were infantrymen on the deck too—a small element that was charged with providing security to the arty battery, freeing up Army/SDF troops for other duties. We also had another mission: to provide a quick reaction force if needed... which is exactly what happened on that Star Wars Day in Syria...

The QRF (a platoon of Army Rangers) had left the firebase an hour ago in their Strykers to unpin a trapped combined element of SDF troopers and Army SOF—who we suspected to be Combat Applications Group operators—inside Raqqa. The other Ranger platoon and heavy weapons attachments left fifteen minutes afterwards for a different mission. Left behind were a few combat (service) support soldiers, some SDF troopers, a friendly terp, a random airman, and the Marine element. The artillerymen kept executing fire missions with their M777 155-mm howitzers while myself and the rest of the infantrymen—Bravo Company's 1st Platoon, with reinforcements from Weapons Platoon—waited.

The platoon commander—a mustang lieutenant—told us to be ready to move in the event that the Rangers needed us. My PFC self was confused by his orders (especially considering how capable I knew the Rangers to be), but obeyed, helping to ready the crew-served weapons on the RG-33 MRAPs (mine-resistant ambush protected) and M-ATVs (MRAP all terrain vehicle). There were enough RG-33s and M-ATVs for the reinforced rifle platoon to go out, but that would've left the firebase with relatively crappy Humvees—which did not please the remaining soldiers, leaving the platoon sergeant to haggle with the Army guys.

Suddenly, disaster struck as a message came in over the arty net: "Steel Rain, Steel Rain, this is Alpha 2, over!"

"Alpha 2, this is Steel Rain. Send traffic, over," the radioman replied from his station right next to the motor pool.

"We're under heavy fire and need immediate support, over!"

"Solid copy, Alpha 2. Steel Rain is ready for tasking."

"Negative, negative on the fire support! We need QRF, now! Where's Alpha 1?"

"Stand by, Alpha 2," the radioman said before looking at my platoon commander. "Sir, where are the other Rangers?"

"They went out on another op. Why, what's wrong?" he asked, sounding concerned.

"Shit! Alpha 2, be advised, Alpha 1 is unavailable. Bravo 1 is ready and standing by, over!" the radioman called.

"Send Bravo 1, now! We need shooters!" the Ranger replied, sounding desperate.

"BRAVO 1, LET'S GO!" my platoon sergeant bellowed, running for the vehicles as he threw his kit on. There were fifty of us in total, scrambling towards the MRAPs with enough weapons and ammunition to annihilate a city block. While the platoon commander and sergeant worked on establishing comms and the location of the trapped Army and SDF guys, the rest of us managed to load ourselves and all our gear into four RG-33s and two M-ATVs.

Despite the MRAPs being Army toys, they still weren't completely modernized, requiring machine gunners to step up and put in the grunt work. I jumped in one of the RG-33s, manning the mounted M2 .50-cal while the other machine gunners manned two MK19s, two M240s, and an additional M2 on the other five MRAPs. Minutes later, the rescue column of six vehicles moved out, with my RG-33 taking the lead. At that moment, I was more concerned about rollovers than being shot at.

Because... stuff happens.

A painfully long drive took us deeper into the ISIS-held Raqqa, whose buildings unnerved me—too many places where a sniper, machine gunner, or RPG team could hide. For all we knew, we could end up in a Black Hawk Down-esque hellhole, trapped within an entire city trying to kill us.

And then, there he was: an overly enthusiastic ISIS fighter bearing an AK, standing on a roof to the top left as he began to shoot at us. I maneuvered Ma Deuce and blew him apart with a ten-round burst. Then there was a sandbagged machine gun position on a roof to my top right, its PK singing as it slung lead at me. Ironically, the machine gunner was more accurate than the rifleman, but he was still an easier target. I didn't manage to completely silence him with my M2, but based on the "thunks" and explosions as the convoy drove past, one of our MK19s sent the jihadist to his afterlife... hopefully hell.

"Schacter, we're goin' in!" one of the Marines in the MRAP shouted, tapping my leg. "Watch for friendlies!"

"Ya don't say!" I sarcastically replied as we turned the corner, arriving at the source of the chaotic sounds. We almost ran into a flaming Stryker had it not been for the driver's quick reflexes. From my elevated position, I could see another flaming Stryker, with two intact ones trapped in between. The ISIS fighters were smart, disabling the first and last vehicles of the convoy.

Wait... don't this mean that I'm gonna be targeted too? ... uh oh.

"Contact front!" someone inside the MRAP shouted, prompting me to get on my .50 and lay down some suppressive fires, aiming at sandbagged MG positions and shooters in and near the street. The MK19 in the RG-33 behind me targeted ISIS marksmen on the roofs. As I blew apart another enemy combatant, I could make out infantrymen maneuvering up the street in my peripheral vision, moving to reinforce the trapped Rangers, SDF troopers, and D-Boys.

It was loud, chaotic, and violent... but I was laughing with delight as I hammered the enemy positions. Sure, I didn't necessarily want to kill people, but I had no issue with doing so when required, and it was required at that moment. And besides, they're ISIS, so...

"Winchester! Winchester!" I called when bullets ceased to fly out of Ma Deuce. One Marine that was still in the vehicle outstretched his arm to my feet, ammo can in hand. I reached down to grab it, but was suddenly yanked downwards by another Marine. Before I could even react, my turret and gun exploded above me. An RPG, most likely, fired in the brief moment I bent over to reload.

"Damn! You good?" my savior asked as my ears rang—our ear pro was ever so slightly crappy due to the Corps' budget—his voice barely audible. Somehow, there wasn't any shrapnel in the back of my neck.

"I'm good! Thanks, brother!" I shouted back as I stumbled out of the RG-33, banging my head against the doorframe. With urging from my fellow Marines, I was able to get off the street into one of our fighting positions: a Swiss cheese-looking building that was occupied by Marines defending some wounded Rangers. But while I was alive, I now had no weapon apart from my M9 pistol—which wasn't much good in this situation—so I had to get one quickly.

"Hey!" I shouted over the din, tapping the shoulder of a wounded Ranger that looked like he'd been thrown into a meat grinder. "Can I take your SAW (squad automatic weapon)?"

"All yours!" he groaned, sounding in pain as he shoved his M249 at me. Nodding in thanks, I slung it over my shoulders and took the nutsacks (soft ammo pouches) off his plate carrier and assault pack. But before I could turn away, he grabbed my wrist. "Waste those motherfuckers, Teufel Hunden!!"

With a thumbs-up, I left the Ranger and moved towards one of the many peepholes in the wall, searching for targets. Before long, I'd joined my brothers-in-arms in targeting the ISIS fighters on the roof with bursts of 5.56. It reminded me of ducks in a shooting gallery at the fair: they popped up and down, and you had to act quick and nail them, except they were also trying to nail you.

Wait, or is it whack-a-mole that I'm thinkin' of... just that the moles got hammers too?

I couldn't believe myself. Here I was in Syria, in a firefight that I technically shouldn't have been a part of, thinking about games as I smoked ISIS fighters. What a life.

Over the next few minutes, the gunfire in the immediate vicinity became increasingly sporadic, finally stopping after I put a burst into an AK-wielding fighter. Looking around me, I could see Marines holding security with the Rangers working on getting the wounded up and using this moment of silence to get the wounded into the vehicles. However, as I looked at the MultiCam-clad men, I noticed that something was off: this was barely half of an Army platoon... so where was the other half?

"Schacter! Schacter!" my platoon commander said loudly to get past the ringing in my ears. "What the hell are you doing off your .50-cal?"

"Blown up, sir!" I shouted, with the mustang LT turning around and peeping through a hole in the wall to see my MRAP—mostly intact, save for a now-destroyed turret and machine gun.

"Well, shit... that's the fog of war for you. You good to go?"

"Yessir!"

"Good. Sarn't Carter!"

"Sir?" the sergeant in question replied, turning to face the mustang LT.

"Your boys alright?"

"Everyone's itchin' to fight, sir!"

"Take 1st Squad, Schacter, and the assaultmen and patrol further down the street to get the Rangers, D-Boys, and SDF troopers. They reported that they were about two klicks forward. We can't take the MRAPs through, so we're gonna have to find a better route. You've got the best chance of reachin' our guys and reinforcing them. Any questions?"

"Straight down the road two klicks? You sure, sir?"

"Yeah, give me your map," the mustang LT said, prompting the sergeant to unfold his map of the area and figure out the relevant locations. While the platoon commander and squad leader finalized the logistics of the rescue, I checked my ammo: a fresh 200-round belt in the SAW, two 200-round nutsacks in pouches on my body armor, and a third 200-round nutsack in my pack—800 rounds of 5.56 in all. For my M9, I had two spare 15-round magazines, amounting to 45 rounds of 9-mm. Taking a sip of water from my hydration pack, I realized just how thirsty I was. This was a daytime mission, after all.

"Okay, we'll meet you there. 1st Squad, assaultmen, and Schacter, let's roll!" Sgt Carter ordered, prompting us to leave our building—as well as the other one from across the street—and get moving. We split into two groups to have maximum coverage and overlapping sectors of fire: on the left side of the street was Sgt Carter, a five-man fireteam, and myself; on the right were the other five-man fireteam and four assaultmen.

Now, a squad doctrinally consists of three four-man fireteams led by a sergeant, but due to manpower shortages, 1st Squad had one four-man fireteam and two three-man fireteams. As a result, they were consolidated into two five-man fireteams. And the assault squad, which doctrinally had two two-man teams commanded by a squad leader, was short a man, resulting in the squad leader being in one of the assault teams himself.

Good night... now I sound like Hank, gettin' into the frickin' details of everything.

Anyways, we patrolled up the street slowly and methodically—we were still walking as quickly as we could, but not so fast as to compromise our security... we couldn't save the SDF and Army boys if we were dead. The fireteam's SAW gunner was at the back to provide rear security while I kept my SAW facing upwards watching for enemy foot-mobiles on roofs. I was third in the stack, right behind the point-man and fireteam leader, but in front of the squad leader and rest of the left group. The right group followed a similar formation, minus the squad leader as they kept the assault squad in the middle.

We encountered no resistance or improvised explosive devices as we slowly patrolled through the hostile city. We encountered streets that we had to bound across—the SAW gunners kept their muzzles pointed down the street while the rest dashed across for cover one at a time. The fireteam SAW gunner ended up providing security so that I could dash across to the next bit of cover and keep a SAW facing forward. Once every man was across, we kept patrolling. We did this two more times, still encountering no resistance, but the sounds of sporadic gunfire were getting louder.

"Alright, hold here," Sgt Carter said, having our formation halt as he radioed the platoon HQ. "Bravo 1-6, this is Bravo 1, over... we're 100 yards southeast of the friendlies. Need you to tell 'em not to shoot us, over... roger, standing by, out."

The gunfire, despite being louder than ever, was still relatively sporadic. However, our guys must've been in a bad spot if a combination of SDF troopers, CAG operators, and half a Ranger platoon were desperately calling for a QRF. Maybe the enemy was too close for them to call in arty or CAS, so they needed men instead.

"Solid copy, 1-6. 1-1 out," Sgt Carter replied before grasping my shoulder and squeezing. I did the same for the fireteam leader, who did the same for the point-man, and we moved forward, ensuring to space ourselves out more. A glance across the street revealed that the rest of our little rescue force had done the same.

We reached the end of the street into a relatively large open square, with gunfire coming from buildings and roofs. With everyone taking cover—along with the fact that SDF seemed to mostly use AKs and other weapons often used by ISIS—I had difficulty who was who. But that all changed when one soldier in a building fifty yards front and to the left stood and launched a grenade at an opposing machine gun position. Not only did he use an M320, but he had large American flag patches on his plate carrier.

"Friendlies left side, left side!" my point man called. "Gray building!"

"Okay, we gotta start bounding in!" Sgt Carter said. "1-6, this is 1-1! Tell our guys that we're bounding into the gray building in the square, and to wave when they're ready to cover us, over... roger that, out. Boys, hold your fire 'til we get there. We don't know what we're shooting at!"

"Okay!" the rest of the Marines shouted. And as if on cue, another American soldier waved at us from the building: the signal to get in there.

"Bounding!" the point-man called as he made a dash for the friendly fighting position, the rest of us holding security. Once he made it and got to cover, he waved for the next man.

"Bounding!" the fireteam leader called as he made the run, prompting me to step forward and get a better angle on the square. I could see lots of sources of fire, but still didn't know who was who. Worse, our comms were ever so slightly garbage, hence why our squad leader had to rely on our platoon radioman to tell the Army boys not to kill us.

"Boundin'!" I called as I saw the signal, moving as quickly as possible to the side entrance of the gray building while friendlies inside laid down fire. Before long, I'd gotten through the doorway and damn near hit the deck, but managed to take a knee instead. Looking up, I was greeted by the same bearded grenadier from earlier. Now that I had a closer look, I realized that he was wearing digital cammies—either MARPAT or the Navy's knockoff—but since there weren't any SEALs in the area of operations and I knew I wasn't looking at a fellow Marine (or corpsman), there was only one other option. "How's it goin', Delta Boy?"

"Damn, I didn't know you Marines had brains!" the CAG operator joked with a big grin. "I'm Richards. We got guys in two other positions: SDF plus Ranger 240s in the northeast corner far away and some Unit dudes with SDF in that building at nine o'clock."

"Which one?" I asked, peeping through a hole in the wall.

"My bad, ten o'clock. Red building has the Kurds and Rangers."

"What about the northeast corner?"

"Not in our line of sight but they're okay at the moment. But these sons of bitches aren't letting us move, and we've got a shitload of casualties and are nearly out of ammo. Our snipers nailed their RPG carriers, but they've set up MG nests with sandbags. And the rest of 'em just keep popping up, shooting, and getting back down before we have a chance to get shots off."

"Okay, that's good," Sgt Carter suddenly said behind me—he bounded in while I was checking in with the CAG operator. "I'm Carter. Where do you need us, Richards?"

"Like I said: our boys are in the red building at ten o'clock and the far northeast corner. Everything else is clear to shoot. Also, we need more ammo."

"I can help with that. Schacter, cover the rest of the squad. We'll distribute ammo."

"Check!" I acknowledged, leaving the two to continue coordinating things while I set up my SAW and watched the rooftops for ISIS fighters. The point-man, who stood near the doorway off to my right, kept signaling for the rest of the squad to bound in. Not too long after I set up shop, an enemy sniper around seventy-five yards away and twenty feet up popped his head up, but he was down before I could line up a shot. He did it once more, this time managing to take a shot at a Ranger in my building, just barely missing.

But the third time, he'd barely elevated his head when I fired a burst from my SAW. It's likely most of them missed, but enough hit their mark and killed the bad guy. He was dead before falling off that roof and hitting the deck.

"Gotcha," I said with a grin as he went down. With that little exchange over, I realized that the rest of the squad had made it into the building, and were distributing ammo to the entrenched soldiers and exchanging fire with ISIS fighters. As I got back to scanning the rooftops, I could just make out the assaultmen planning to use their Shoulder-Launched Multipurpose Assault Weapon (SMAW—yes, "assault weapon" is the actual term... this is the only proper application of it) to bring down the building across the square filled with ISIS riflemen and machine gunners.

"Yo, Schacter!" one assaultman shouted as I took cover to reload my SAW.

"Huh?!"

"We're gonna use the SMAW, but we gotta step outside!"

"Where ya goin'?!"

"Out the side entrance and forward maybe ten yards!"

"There's no cover!"

"You're the cover!"

"Okay, roger that!" I acknowledged before turning to shout at the rest of the group inside. "HEY! Y'all need to provide suppressive fire on any n' all tangos y'all see! Assaultmen are gonna start firin' rockets!"

"Roger that!" shouted my fellow Marines, along with the Rangers and CAG operators that were still standing.

"Call the play, Schacter!" Sgt Carter said, with Richards giving me a thumbs-up.

"Fellers, you good? Alrighty... three, two, one, GO!"

Like a unit that trained together for years, we fought as one, putting suppressive fire on every single enemy position that we could see. In my peripheral vision, I could see Richards talking to a man I could only assume was a Kurdish terp and radioman, coordinating the SDF troopers to assist us with suppressing the enemy positions. Meanwhile, one of the assault teams ran outside with their SMAW, loading the tube with a high-explosive, dual purpose rocket.

"Rocket loaded!" the loader shouted over the din.

"Ready to fire!" the gunner replied.

"Backblast clear!"

"Firing!"

With a squeeze of the trigger, the assaultman sent the rocket flying at the enemy building, punching a hole in it and filling it with smoke, shrapnel, and a bit of fire. Quick as a flash, the assaultmen loaded a second rocket and sent it with enough precision to put the rocket through the hole and explode on the inside. And luckily enough, the explosion was big enough and in just the right place that its inside began to crumble into a pile of smoke and debris, boosting our spirits.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Richards shouted in jubilation. "You goddamn beautiful Devil Dogs, you!"

"'MERICA, MOTHAFUCKAS!" one of the SAW gunners cheered as the building continued to crash down on itself. But there was no time to be complacent, so we quickly redirected our fires towards the rest of the ISIS fighters while the assault team returned to cover, eventually silencing their fires after a few minutes of gunfighting.

"Yo, I think we're good!" one of the Rangers shouted. "Guys in the red building got nothin' else!"

"Hang on, what's the status of that convoy?" Richards while I took cover to reload—I was on my last 200-round belt.

"Hang on, hang on... 1-6, this is 1-1. Send ETA, over!" Sgt Carter called. "Confirm: ten mikes? ... roger that, 1-6 out."

"Ten mikes? Okay, we can make that work."

"Richards, the northeast corner's under fire from an ISIS tank!" one of the Rangers suddenly said after appearing to get off his radio.

"I beg your fucking pardon?"

"Fuckers got a T-62 with foot-mobiles escorting! Our guys can't even scratch it, and it's well inside danger close, so no Steel Rain!"

"What about CAS?"

"Still tryna get it in!"

"Richards!" I interrupted. "I think our assaultmen can breach that tank!"

"We can!" the assault squad leader confirmed. "We got four HEAA (high-explosive anti-armor) rockets and two HEDP rockets left. If we can get above or behind it, we can waste it!"

"Also, smoke grenades, forty mike-mike, that shit would be helpful too," another assaultman added. "Don't need to penetrate it, just give it something to worry about!"

"Okay! Baker, take your team, Schacter, Ramsey, and Martinez and go to the northwest corner! Down the street, third right, then first right to face the northeast corner! Hit that tank's back!" Sgt Carter ordered. "Other fireteam, Sanchez, and Owens, you n' me are gonna get on a roof and hit that SOB on the head!"

"I think we can help you get up top! Rangers, consolidate the casualties," Richards said before getting on his radio. "Echo Team, on me. We gotta get the Marines topside. Foxtrot, reinforce the northeast corner with every man you can!"

"Alpha 2-4, hold what you've got," one Ranger called, informing the Rangers in the northeast corner before talking to the rest of his squad. "2-3, we're gonna secure the casualties."

"We got your back, Marines. Let's get to work."

"My guys, Ramsey, Martinez, Schacter, let's go!" Cpl Baker—the fireteam leader I was maneuvering with—ordered. The point-man took the lead, with Baker, myself, the assaultmen, a rifleman, and the team's SAW gunner falling in behind him. Slowly but surely, we maneuvered out of the building and went left, hugging the walls and spacing out for maximum security. I kept my eyes and SAW on the rooftops, but no snipers shot at us. Across the square, I could see the other fireteam—Sgt Carter, assaultmen, and D-Boys in tow—maneuvering towards one of the taller buildings for a better vantage point. To our left, a collection of D-Boys and SDF troopers moved to reinforce the northeast corner on the deck, bearing rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, and ammo cans.

It was definitely enough to stop the enemy foot-mobiles... but without CAS or arty on station, that tank was going to be a problem.

Right when we were fifty yards from the northeast corner, there was a loud "BOOM!" A slight whistling later, the wall twenty yards in front of us exploded into a cloud of smoke, dust, debris, and shrapnel, making the point-man fall while the rest of us stumbled. Oh, and now my ears were ringing like they'd been right next to clanging cymbals for hours.

Oh, crud. Do I have tinnitus now?

"Fuck! I'm hit!" the point-man screamed, unable to move apart from some mild thrashing of the limbs. Baker then shouted to one of the guys behind me, before telling me something that I couldn't hear over the ringing.

"What?!" I yelled back.

"COVER!" he shouted louder, prompting me to push forward and provide security while he and the rifleman moved in, lifting the point-man by his shoulders and dragging him back to safety.

"C'mon, we gotta keep movin'!" I shouted, remembering that we had to stop that tank.

"Baker, we're movin!" the team SAW gunner shouted behind me.

"We're right behind you!" Cpl Baker shouted, though his words were harder to make out.

"On me!" I said, hustling to the cover of the northeast corner. Speed was key, so I ran as fast as I could while keeping my SAW pointed forward. One quasi-sprint later brought us to the northeast corner, out of the tank's line of sight and facing the road leading away from the square.

"Schacter! We gotta move five intersections down!" Ramsey—the assault squad leader—shouted behind me.

"Say again!" I replied, requiring confirmation.

"Five. Intersections. Down!"

"Five intersections?"

"Yes!"

"Okay! Ready?"

"Yup. Bounding!"

And so began another bounding, with me holding security while the rest of the element sprinting across the street and to the nearest cover. After the rifleman and Cpl Baker—who'd returned after dropping the wounded point-man off to friendlies—crossed, the latter having slapped my shoulder to let me know he was the last man, I made my own crossing, the team SAW gunner covering me.

We remained tense and alert, but received no fires as our six-man element continued to maneuver up the street, apparently parallel to the ISIS advance on the northeast corner. But while I heard the tank fire its main gun and saw its consequences, I'd yet to see the tank itself.

Finally, we'd reached the fifth intersection, where we had to turn right and move down a two hundred yards before turning right yet again to face the enemy. The rifleman took point, with the team leader, SAW gunner, assault team, and myself right behind. I kept turning around and watching our six, ensuring no tangos tried sneaking up behind us. I glanced at my watch for some reason, realizing that it had been over two hours since we left the firebase to rescue the Rangers... and I was running low on water.

Shoot, I'm thirsty.

No sooner did I think that, we'd finally reached our intersection of interest. To our right some three hundred yards down the street was the tank, slowly rolling away and towards the city square while escorted by ISIS fighters on the deck and rooftops. The one manning a DShK atop the turret hadn't noticed us, nor did any of his escorts.

But the trio in the technical to our left apparently had, with the gunner opening up with the DShK mounted in the truck bed. My teammates cursed and warned for each other to move back and take cover. Seeing an open door twenty yards away, I shouted for everyone to follow me to cover. I could hear the SAW gunner laying down lead while I sprinted over and charged into the building, clearing the room as quickly as possible.

"Coming in!" Martinez warned as he and Ramsey—the two assaultmen—joined me in clearing the adjacent room (which, mercifully, was the only other room in the one-story building) with their M16A4s, finding no traps, tangos, or civilians. Returning to the first room, we found Cpl Baker... but where were the SAW gunner and rifleman?

"Gordon's hit!" Cpl Baker shouted as he barely avoided ricocheting rounds. "Booker's with him, but they can't move!"

"We gotta take out that technical! You got a frag?" I asked.

"Already used 'em earlier!"

"Booker's got his 203!"

"He's outta forty mike-mike!"

"Okay... I see a bit o' cover across the street! I'll run n' draw their fire! SMAW'll blow those scumbags to hell!"

"I'll cover you! Ready?"

"Yeah!"

"Three, two, one, GO!"

He immediately began laying down rounds with his M16, with Martinez and Ramsey breaking open windows to join him, as I dashed across the street. AK-toting gunmen had joined the DShKs, with some turning their weapons towards me. Luckily, I made it across and took cover behind a portion of wall before pieing the corner and laying down suppressive fire with my SAW.

The plan seemed to be working a little too well, as a majority of the shooters and the DShK were focusing on me, blowing pieces off the wall I was hiding behind and spraying me with shrapnel and debris—I was very thankful for my sunglasses. But it had opened up a window for Baker to run out and help Booker in dragging Gordon to safety. Laying prone, I continued to lay down lead in an attempt to buy them more time.

But my time, as it seemed, was running out, as my SAW stopped shooting—I was completely out of ammo. Rolling away from my now-useless weapon, I got further behind my cover and drew my pistol, which wasn't much good in this situation. But most of the ISIS element that remained were still focused on me, giving the assaultmen just enough time to step out and point their SMAW at the technical. They sent the rocket and silenced the DShK with a bang, while Booker and Baker finished off the remaining foot-mobiles.

"Schacter, you good?!" Baker shouted across the street.

"SAW's empty!" I shouted back.

"Get over here! I got a nutsack for you!"

"Roger, comin' to you!" With that, I picked up my SAW, steeled myself, and sprinted back across the street to the building we were occupying. Inside, I found Gordon the SAW gunner performing self aid. He looked as though he could walk out on his own power, but he certainly couldn't reliably carry the SAW, so Booker had picked it up. Noticing me, he handed me a nutsack—but this one was smaller, looking half the size of a normal one.

"Sorry, bro. This is all we got left."

"We'll have to make do," Baker said firmly. "Everyone loaded up and ready to move?"

"Hang on, hang on," Gordon groaned as he finished patching up his open wound on his right arm—his body armor seemed to catch the rest of the bullets and/or shrapnel. "Okay, I'm good. A hand?"

"Here," I said, grasping his hand and hauling him to his feet.

"Think your candy ass can carry Booker's M16?" Baker joked as he handed Gordon the M16 and a few mags that he shoved into his pouches.

"I'll manage. What's the plan?"

"Push up and hit that tank. Topside and ground teams are taking a beating, and they haven't been able to get a shot off at that tank. Let's get to work. On me!"

With Booker on rear security and Baker on point, we filed out of the building, ready to stop that tank. We reached the end by the blown-up technical and dead ISIS fighters, peering around the corner to see the tank still advancing down the wide street with its escorts.

"Okay," Baker said, taking a knee as the low man while I stood above him as the high man. Booker kept watching our six while Gordon elevated his M16 to watch the rooftops. "Martinez, Ramsey, waste that motherfucker. On you."

"Roger that," Ramsey said, taking a deep breath. "Just hold fire unless they turn around. Three, two, one, go!"

The assault team dashed out and set up, with Martinez kneeling with the tube while Ramsey loaded an HEAA rocket. After a few hand signals between the two men—during which the ISIS element still hadn't noticed us behind them—they sent it. The rocket flew straight and true, impacting the backside of the tank and resulting in an explosion... but while the tank had stopped moving, it still wasn't completely disabled. And the assault team had gone into the street to get a good shot at the T-62, leaving them completely exposed to the ISIS fighters that had now definitely noticed them.

"Fire, fire, fire!" Baker ordered, with the two of us laying down suppressive fire to give the assault team a chance to make a break for it. Ramsey managed to make it to cover on the far side of the street, but Martinez was hit just fifteen yards short of him, apparently in the leg. The assault squad leader tried to get to his downed teammate, but his position was immediately peppered with rounds from a PK, immobilizing him. "Fuck! Martinez is down!"

This went on for another minute—we kept putting suppressive fire on the enemy while Ramsey tried to retrieve Martinez in vain, even taking a round to the arm himself. But now the DShK gunner had swiveled around and joined the firefight to the tank's rear, while the main gun itself had started shooting at nearby buildings—they were trying to get the rooftop teams. And after laying down a lot of lead, my SAW was finally out of ammo... the barrel was red-hot and warped too.

"Doggone it!" I growled as I unslung the now-useless SAW and steeled myself, for I had a stupid idea. "Booker, get up here an' cover me!"

"What are you doing?"

"Just cover me! I'm gonna get Martinez!"

"... okay, you crazy bastard! Just don't fuckin' die!"

"Three, two, one, GO!" I yelled as I sprinted with everything I had towards the wounded Marine. I couldn't hear too many snaps in the air while charging towards Martinez, leading me to believe that they didn't actually expect anyone to come out running, thus their focus on the men hiding behind cover. But every little bit helped, allowing me to yank Martinez by his body armor and hurriedly drag him to cover beside a relieved-looking Ramsey.

"Holy shit!" the assault squad leader shouted. "Schacter, you fucking lunatic!"

"Ah, bitch! Thanks, man!" Martinez screamed, pained.

"What about that tank?!" I shouted back, the ringing in my ears intensifying again.

"We got both our HEDPs, but those ain't designed for a tank!"

"We gotta make it work! Where do I shoot it?!"

"Hit the back, hit the back!"

Ramsey then proceeded to help me load the rocket and shout a few other instructions at me—I wasn't qualified on the SMAW, but with both men injured, I had to operate it. Deciding not to risk a clear shot—this was HEDP, not HEAA, after all—I basically pied the corner... with a freaking rocket launcher.

"Good?!" I shouted.

"Backblast clear!" Martinez confirmed to my left.

"Rocket out!" The rocket whizzed towards the rear of the tank, successfully blowing it up. The tank wasn't vaporized or anything, to be clear, but that brief flash of fire and all-consuming cloud of smoke and shrapnel certainly seemed to do a number on it... and its DShK wasn't shooting anymore.

And as if to add insult to injury, the turret suddenly exploded when a rocket hit it from above—the rooftop team was finally able to get a shot off. All that was left were the escorts that remained, who tried to hide among the wreckage and buildings.

"Yo, convoy's here!" Ramsey shouted, pointing in the other direction. Spearheaded by an RG-33 bearing a MK19, the original six MRAPs—along with what looked like additional MRAPs, up-armored Humvees, and Strykers (probably the other Rangers)—rolled in from around the corner, with the gunner opening and filling the general area with enough forty mike-mike to reduce a house to ashes. Combined with the fires of the roof and ground teams, the threat was quickly finished off.

Once all went quiet, we went about loading everyone up, ensuring to maintain security. I could hear the platoon commander requesting CASEVAC birds while the platoon corpsman helped treat the most seriously wounded. Fires were also called in from Steel Rain, so as to level ISIS's fighting positions and tank with 155-mm rounds. Hey, we had to be sure that the threats were destroyed.

Once everything was said and done, I got into one of the MRAPs and we drove off. I checked my watch once more, noting that it'd been nearly three hours since we first left the firebase... and despite all the craziness that had occurred, I was still standing.

Guess the Force really was with me...

"The numerous displays of gallantry by Lance Corporal Schacter in the face of incredible danger to his own life is in keeping with the highest standards of valor. Through his distinctive accomplishments, Lance Corporal Schacter reflected credit upon himself, the United States Marine Corps, and the Department of Defense," GySgt Wilson said, finishing the citation and snapping me back to reality. At the end of it, BGen Turner pinned the Silver Star right next to my Bronze Star and shook my hand.

"Your platoon, company, and battalion commanders spoke to me personally, along with the Ranger and CAG element commanders," he whispered as he handed me the red folder for the Silver Star. "Outstanding work, Lance Corporal."

"Much obliged, sir," I replied, still surprised at the Silver Star—which came atop the Bronze Star, at that! I then shook hands with my battalion commander and sergeant major before finally being dismissed.

... just kidding. I wasn't actually dismissed.

"You should say a few words," the battalion commander said, getting the mic from GySgt Wilson.

"... sir?"

"Go ahead, son. You're a credit to this battalion. Give 'em a good speech."

But... why? I ain't an officer or senior non-com! Why do I gotta talk?!

But orders were orders, so I took the mic and made a smart about-face, facing the entire battalion. Gulping down my nerves, I tried to think like an officer or senior non-com—which shouldn't have been hard, since that's what my mother and father were—but I was still just a lance corporal!

"Er... howdy," I began as I looked across the hundreds of men staring back at me intently. I knew they were desperate to leave—it was a Friday, after all—and I did too... but I had to do something! "It's... there's nothin' much to it... just rememberin' trainin', stayin' mission ready, an' trustin' the men next to ya, I guess... y'know, I ain't really no hero. It was the fellers who trusted me n' had my back over in Syria and Afghanistan... takes more guts to trust a random E-3 engagin' in audacious maneuvers than it is to be that E-3 engagin' in audacious maneuvers... shoot, those fellers in 1/4, TF Southwest, Rangers, Delta, even them ANA n' SDF boys... they did their job well. I'm just glad to be here n' alive. So... tha-that's about it, I reckon. Er... God bless y'all. Have a good 'un."

Lord, please take me now...

"Very nice," the battalion commander said with a smile as I relinquished the microphone. "Dismissed, Lance Corporal."

Snapping to once again, I made a left-face and began marching back to my battalion as quickly as possible, trying to take a route that would put me in the back of the platoon and out of sight. But as I nearly stumbled in shock on the way there at a certain sight: three Marines off to the side, watching this go down. Two were in cammies while the third—a woman at least a foot shorter than both—wore a flight suit.

It was none other than my father from 2nd Marine Raider Battalion, my mother from Marine Attack Squadron 223, and my brother from 2nd Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company... and Hank was holding up his cell phone, recording me with a massive smile on his face. He'd seen literally everything, including that embarrassing speech... and recorded it.

"At ease, Marines," BGen Turner said after I'd made it back to my company, letting the men release their position of attention. "Thank you all for your time. I'll leave you to your leadership. They're all yours, Colonel."

"Thank you, sir. You have a good evening," the battalion commander replied as the brigadier general and his accompanying gunnery sergeant returned to their Humvee and drove off, before turning to address us again. "Alrighty then. If anyone needs to speak to me privately, my open door policy is in effect, and I will be in my office until 1900. And that's all. Thank you for another great week, Marines, it's an honor to be your battalion commander, I hope you enjoy your forty-eight. Sergeant Major, sound liberty call!" the lieutenant colonel ordered.

"BATTAAAAAA-LION! ATTEEEEEEN-TION!" the sergeant major bellowed—no mic necessary—with us snapping to. " ... DISMISSED!"

And mercifully, it was all over. I got a great number of high-fives, fist-bumps, and slaps on the back from the rest of my platoon—and a few others—while a majority of the Marines were all but running for their cars. Any chances I had of getting out of dodge were gone, with the chances becoming negative as my family approached me.

"Er... good evenin', ma'am, sir, Mass Sarn't," I greeted my family (with the salute being directed towards my mother and brother), unsure of how to actually greet them—we were still in uniform on base, after all—hence the default response.

"Chip, what were you thinkin'?" Ma exclaimed, almost looking hysterical. "You coulda been killed! Do you know how worried I've been, hearin' you go off to Syria n' redeployin' to Afghanistan faster than a hot knife goin' through butter?"

You see, Ma worries about me like mothers do—I'm "the baby," after all—but she was chronically concerned. Hell, she worried about me plenty back when I did all the dumb stuff that little country boys do (which was a real hoot, but I won't deny that I got hurt a lot). When I joined the Corps, it only became worse, especially considering that I was an infantryman. I'd always tell her not to worry about me—that since the Army had taken over Afghanistan and Iraq, there probably wouldn't be too much danger in my deployments (remember: I'm hoping to do work with the Raiders).

And the ironic part? Assuming she stays in for another two years, she'll have completed thirty years of service, having started out a Harrier maintainer and currently flying the same airframe.

"Ma, I'm fine, alright?" I groaned. "There were good men to my left and right, and I'm A-okay!"

Keep in mind, a majority of my company was still in earshot, with a decent bit of the battalion within line-of-sight. Pa and Hank, meanwhile, stood behind Ma trying to stifle their laughter as she continued to fuss over me and lecture me for a minute straight for "recklessly endangerin' myself."

"Ma, it's not like CAS was really available... arty wasn't an option neither—"

"That's no excuse for you to not practice safety, Christopher Jerry Schacter," she admonished, making Hank clap his hand over his mouth to hold in his laughs. I could just make out my platoon mates—among others—audibly giggling at the maternal freakout.

"Ma'am—er, hun—listen, Chip was just doin' his job," Pa soothed, laying his hands on her shoulders. "Like he said: he had good men to his left n' right, and he's just fine. I mean, he prob'ly took a knee, drank plenty o' water, had Motrin, n' changed his socks, so he took good care o' hisself. 'Specially when you consider the fact that no Americans were killed durin' those TICs (troops in contact), I reckon he's just fine."

"That's about right," I confirmed. "All those things did happen. But Ma, I promise you: no more Bronze Stars, Silver Stars, any sorta combat awards. I won't be a hero no more or get any o' those again. I swear."

"Good, 'cause you suck at the speeches that come after," Hank interrupted with a toothy smile. "Seriously, please don't quit that day job you got there. But on the bright side, Ma n' Pa can be at ease knowin' that yain't goin' into politics anytime soon."

"... thank you for that advice, sir," I growled, using the honorific (is that what it's called?) with as much aggression and contempt as I could. "Wherever would I, a lowly lance corporal, be without you?"

"Hush now, boys," Pa interrupted. "Not while we're on base. Ya wanna settle it back home, ya can. Now c'mon! I got some fresh venison from a recent hunt, an' yer mama's makin' one helluva pot roast tonight."

With Ma now hopefully less freaked out about my actions in Syria and Afghanistan, I said my goodbyes to any members of my platoon still hanging around, while my brother kept quietly ribbing me all the way to the parking lot.

Haven't been in this battalion for more than a few months... doggone it, what a way to kick things off.

Fun fact: I broke reality by accident. How? Based on the info I found only after finishing this chapter, none of TF Southwest Rotation 1's Marines earned a Combat Action Ribbon during their time in Helmand Province—hence the added words on the brass not giving anyone CARs to ensure the mission statement was upheld—and I just gave him a Bronze Star with Combat V.

Whoops.

Also, I have no idea whether the Marines actually ended up in firefights on the 2017 Syria deployment. Battalion Landing Team 1/4 of the 11th Marine Expeditionary Unit (or at least its artillery battery) was on the deck to provide fire support for Syrian Democratic Forces, but I can't confirm the presence of infantrymen. This is especially more complicated when you consider two things: first, only a limited number of US troops were allowed in Syria; second, SDF seemed to be principally supported by Army units (CAG, Rangers, and probably SF with miscellaneous conventional forces thrown in somewhere).

But at the end of the day, none of that matters. Because no matter how badass I may make Chip—even to a reality-defying level—he's still going to have his mama fussing over him while his brother and dad are stifling their laughter. Oh, and remember: this is happening while a decent bit of his battalion is still in earshot.

"Lance Corporal Mama's Boy! Get your 240-totin' ass over here!" - his platoon sergeant later, probably.

Happy belated Mother's Day!

Oh, and here are some memes to further offset the doom and gloom in this story. Tell me what you think of these:

And, as a bonus:

[Obviously, this one's stretching the truth, but it seemed to be the case quite a bit of the time.]

Thank you so much for reading! Make sure to comment your thoughts and I'll see you in the next one.

Until next time,

- ADF-2