Memoirs of an Outlaw: Life in the Sandbox

Chapter 34: Complacency

I was never sure what affected me more: the sight of seeing good friends killed or dealing with the aftermath, of not having those familiar, friendly faces around to talk to and goof around with. What I didn’t know up until that day was that Gunny Rossignol dealt with this every time an Outlaw passed away.

From our perspective as the boots on the ground, we saw the aftermath of the incident, our fallen brothers killed in action. When we got back to base, we each dealt with the loss in our own separate way. For those who were close to the dead, the losses were tough to deal with. However, due to the situation we were in, none of us had much time to mourn; we had a mission, and we couldn’t let the situation overcome us. The time to mourn for our brothers would come when we got back to the States.

What I found out the day after White 4 was hit was that Gunny Rossignol had to continue to relive the loss of one of his sons for a few more hours. Every time an Outlaw was killed, Gunny was there to ensure the body was transported back to Camp Fallujah safely. He would then have the fallen Marine's belongings boxed up. Once the items were boxed up, he would personally escort them over to the supply center on Camp Fallujah to be inventoried and sent back home.

The day after White 4 was hit and a lot of good friends were taken from us, Gunny came to me and asked if I would help him inventory the belongings of those who were killed. He informed me that he didn’t want to ask any of the Marines from White Platoon because it may have been too hard to deal with. After he asked the question, I knew how difficult a task it would be to take on the challenge. It was not as if it were hard, laborious work. Instead, it was emotionally exhausting. Looking into Gunny’s eyes, I could see how hard this was for him and how much he needed some help with it, if nothing more than to have company. So I agreed.

I grabbed my flak, helmet, and rifle and met up with Gunny in the Humvee. In minutes, we departed the gates of Baharia and made our way over to Camp Fallujah with all the boxes of personal items in tow. Camp Fallujah was only a quick five-minute drive from Baharia, but this drive seemed to take an eternity. Aside from some small banter, we stayed silent the whole way over.

When we arrived at the supply center on Camp Fallujah, we quickly dismounted our Humvee and began to make our way over to the building where we would unload the boxes. A lance corporal from the supply unit was sitting outside the building on top of an MRE box with no blouse on. Gunny and I walked up to him, and Gunny asked a few questions in regard to who the point of contact was and what we needed to do to get started. The lance corporal gave some half-assed answers and barely gave Gunny the proper respect he deserved, hardly coming to his feet when Gunny approached him.

Just as we were about to go back to the Humvee to start unloading, I looked to the side and saw a flak jacket on a cross in front of a makeshift supply area. Written on to the cross was a common message that was repeated over and over again to all of us: Complacency Kills. We heard this so often because our superiors didn’t want us to become complacent and get killed on patrols because we weren’t being vigilant. So initially, the message barely even registered in my mind. It wasn’t until I took a second glance at the flak jacket and noticed the name tag sewn into the flak: Engel. My jaw dropped to the floor. Here was a guy who gave it his all day in and day out, and this son of a bitch had the audacity to hang a flak jacket of a Marine, not to mention one of my Outlaw brothers and good friend, on a cross and say his death was due to complacency.

I was infuriated. I called over to Gunny to take a look at it, and his face went red.  Gunny marched his way over to the lance corporal and began to tear in to him.  Gunny made him come to attention, and as he continued to tear into him, calling him every name under the sun, you could see the Marine realize he had messed with the wrong guy.

The lance corporal, when he was given permission to speak, explained that he hadn't realized the significance of the vest nor realized how it had come into his possession. Gunny tore into him some more, saying that no Marine deserved the disrespect that was shown, let alone a fellow Outlaw. After a few more minutes of ass-chewing, Gunny had the Marine take down the flak jacket and bring it inside.

Still seeing red, we made our way back to the Humvee and began to unload the boxes into a storage area. Once we had all the boxes accounted for, we began to open up each one so we could inventory them. As I opened each box, a sea of memories washed over me. Most of the items were articles of personal clothing that we had to account for. The most difficult part was accounting for the pictures of the fallen Marines or photos of loved ones that they kept to remind them of home while deployed. Letters from wives or family members were also hard to look at. As we inventoried each item, Gunny or I would call over to each other to recall a memory of the fallen. It really hurt to think that these items were the last bits of our brothers that we would come in contact with. And it hurt even more to think that these boxes would be shipped back to the family members, and it would be all they had left of their sons, brothers, or fathers.

That was when I realized that Gunny had to do this each and every time an Outlaw was killed. I then understood why this was probably the hardest thing Gunny had to do during our deployment. He saw and treated each of us like his son. He became emotionally attached to each one of us and knew a lot about us without us ever knowing. I could tell him something about myself, and then several months later, he would recall it. It was that kindness and that care that allowed all of us to grow close to Gunny as well as him grow close to us. So when one of our guys was wounded or killed, it really took an emotional toll on Gunny. Sitting there, packing boxes and watching Gunny, I could tell he was on the verge of tears.

When we inventoried and packed the last of the boxes, Gunny had to sign some papers that would be sent home with the boxes. Gunny would later tell me that the hardest thing for him to do was to sign those papers because the fallen's loved ones would see his name included with the boxes that were sent to them. Maybe that’s why it hurt so badly.

For me, packing those boxes was like finally admitting that my friends had passed. It had a sense of finality, as if I were saying good-bye to them. If it weren’t for Gunny holding it together, I might have broken down in tears. Instead I gathered up my belongings, and Gunny and I made our way back to the Humvee. We passed by the cross on our way back, but this time around, there was no flak jacket on the cross. Later that day, Sergeant Flaherty and his crew would come back to the building and see it again. However, this time around would take it by force, bringing back Engel’s flak jacket as if they were bringing their brother back to his final resting ground.

Those boxes continued to bother me far into the future. It hurt knowing that it was the last time I would see my friends. It bothered me even more knowing that the box was the last thing family members would receive of their loved one. Now I knew the pain that Gunny felt every day. Now I knew why our deployment had aged him beyond his years.