R.KV.R.Y Quarterly Summer 2006 Non-Fiction
Shooting Azimuths by Tracy Crow
Shooting Azimuths by Tracy Crow
1. Geographic North
After chow, I climbed to the windy top of the metal bleachers with
the others from my platoon. We wiggled along the cold seats until
everyone was shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, allowing room
for the four platoons now marching from the chow hall with a
thumping boot cadence that made the metal beneath me hum. This
was April, 1985, in Quantico. The time of the night compass march.
The true test, some had said, of courage and leadership.
I was twenty-six, a Marine, a new officer, a wife, a mother, and one
of nine women squeezed in among the tall bodies of men who in
their bulky field jackets and cammies made staying warm that chilly
evening in northern Virginia nearly possible.
When all five platoons had scooted into tight sitting formations, our
lieutenant training officer hopped onto the bottom bleacher. “Look
up,” he said, pointing into the lilac phase of sunset. “You’ll notice
there’s no moon tonight, unlike last week’s practice session.” I was
envisioning the ancient mariners on a night such as this; salty sea
captains at the helms of long wooden boats, helplessly adrift on
swells during nights when the moon and the constellations were as
out of sight as land in the middle of the sea. What would they have
given for our compasses, our knowledge about navigation?
The lieutenant was saying that at nightfall we would travel about a
mile, one that is, if we stayed on course, two or more, if we got lost.
The goal, he added, was to navigate unfamiliar terrain to a row of
metal ammo boxes we would find spaced fifty feet apart. To pass,
we would have to land precisely at the correct ammo box for our
coordinates. He warned about the river, how it was overflowing
because of the beaver dams, and Don’t fall into a beaver dam! I
pinpointed the river on my map. Drew a black circle around the
exact crossing.
Lessons learned in training save lives during combat! Last to know,
first to go! Want to win a war? Tell it to the Marines…. A Marine
officer has to know how to read a map, how to plot coordinates for
artillery fire that won’t wipe out friendlies. A Marine officer has to
know how to lead Marines into and out of combat zones, because
as everyone knows, one wrong turn could get everyone killed.
Admittedly, our combat training in Quantico was during the middle
of a relatively quiet era in military history if you discounted the
invasion into Grenada, Cold War threats, a bombing raid on Tripoli,
and the peacekeeping mission in Beirut that had turned anything
but peaceful. The Soviets were the Evil Empire. War felt imminent,
and our fear of war, along with a healthy fear of failure, compelled
us to take seriously each training exercise, even if conditions at
Quantico were artificially manufactured.
In the practice for the night compass march a week earlier, and in
the same bleachers, each of us had drawn coordinates and then
shot azimuths, plotting them on our maps with protractors and
compasses–a task easier in the classroom on the evenness of
tabletop than on your lap, I can assure you–and then we were
marched under a full moon to a wooded area. The signal, a pistol
crack, had set us off on foot through a hundred yards of forest that
seemingly conspired against us by pulling a shade to the moonlight.
I tripped over roots, lost count of my steps, and had to backtrack. I
offered my hand in an outstretched sacrifice to the wicked vines and
low hanging limbs that otherwise slashed at my face and neck. I
feared for my eyes mostly, fighting the imaginary sharp sticks as
they darted toward me. And then there had been the crackle of
limbs and leaves, a holler from someone who tripped, a nervous
giggle, and the OORAH! from the first Marine who had made it
through to smooth asphalt. When I stumbled from the darkness to
an umbrella of light beneath a streetlamp, I found myself at the feet
of a smiling lance corporal who verified my success by writing on my
card a fat, black checkmark.
The lieutenant was now pacing the metal bleacher, waiting for the
lists of coordinates to make their way among two hundred and
thirty. When I had mine, I quickly plotted my coordinates, balancing
compass and pen and map and protractor on my lap. I should admit
to feeling overly confident. Not only had I passed the practice
march, but I had remained behind at Quantico the weekend before,
Easter weekend, with Himes, Johnson, and a handful of others for
additional training.
After chow, I climbed to the windy top of the metal bleachers with
the others from my platoon. We wiggled along the cold seats until
everyone was shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, allowing room
for the four platoons now marching from the chow hall with a
thumping boot cadence that made the metal beneath me hum. This
was April, 1985, in Quantico. The time of the night compass march.
The true test, some had said, of courage and leadership.
I was twenty-six, a Marine, a new officer, a wife, a mother, and one
of nine women squeezed in among the tall bodies of men who in
their bulky field jackets and cammies made staying warm that chilly
evening in northern Virginia nearly possible.
When all five platoons had scooted into tight sitting formations, our
lieutenant training officer hopped onto the bottom bleacher. “Look
up,” he said, pointing into the lilac phase of sunset. “You’ll notice
there’s no moon tonight, unlike last week’s practice session.” I was
envisioning the ancient mariners on a night such as this; salty sea
captains at the helms of long wooden boats, helplessly adrift on
swells during nights when the moon and the constellations were as
out of sight as land in the middle of the sea. What would they have
given for our compasses, our knowledge about navigation?
The lieutenant was saying that at nightfall we would travel about a
mile, one that is, if we stayed on course, two or more, if we got lost.
The goal, he added, was to navigate unfamiliar terrain to a row of
metal ammo boxes we would find spaced fifty feet apart. To pass,
we would have to land precisely at the correct ammo box for our
coordinates. He warned about the river, how it was overflowing
because of the beaver dams, and Don’t fall into a beaver dam! I
pinpointed the river on my map. Drew a black circle around the
exact crossing.
Lessons learned in training save lives during combat! Last to know,
first to go! Want to win a war? Tell it to the Marines…. A Marine
officer has to know how to read a map, how to plot coordinates for
artillery fire that won’t wipe out friendlies. A Marine officer has to
know how to lead Marines into and out of combat zones, because
as everyone knows, one wrong turn could get everyone killed.
Admittedly, our combat training in Quantico was during the middle
of a relatively quiet era in military history if you discounted the
invasion into Grenada, Cold War threats, a bombing raid on Tripoli,
and the peacekeeping mission in Beirut that had turned anything
but peaceful. The Soviets were the Evil Empire. War felt imminent,
and our fear of war, along with a healthy fear of failure, compelled
us to take seriously each training exercise, even if conditions at
Quantico were artificially manufactured.
In the practice for the night compass march a week earlier, and in
the same bleachers, each of us had drawn coordinates and then
shot azimuths, plotting them on our maps with protractors and
compasses–a task easier in the classroom on the evenness of
tabletop than on your lap, I can assure you–and then we were
marched under a full moon to a wooded area. The signal, a pistol
crack, had set us off on foot through a hundred yards of forest that
seemingly conspired against us by pulling a shade to the moonlight.
I tripped over roots, lost count of my steps, and had to backtrack. I
offered my hand in an outstretched sacrifice to the wicked vines and
low hanging limbs that otherwise slashed at my face and neck. I
feared for my eyes mostly, fighting the imaginary sharp sticks as
they darted toward me. And then there had been the crackle of
limbs and leaves, a holler from someone who tripped, a nervous
giggle, and the OORAH! from the first Marine who had made it
through to smooth asphalt. When I stumbled from the darkness to
an umbrella of light beneath a streetlamp, I found myself at the feet
of a smiling lance corporal who verified my success by writing on my
card a fat, black checkmark.
The lieutenant was now pacing the metal bleacher, waiting for the
lists of coordinates to make their way among two hundred and
thirty. When I had mine, I quickly plotted my coordinates, balancing
compass and pen and map and protractor on my lap. I should admit
to feeling overly confident. Not only had I passed the practice
march, but I had remained behind at Quantico the weekend before,
Easter weekend, with Himes, Johnson, and a handful of others for
additional training.