In December we met up with a 25-year-old guy in Orlando who was other-than-honorably discharged from the Marines back in 2005. He spent a little under a year in Iraq, starting right after the initial invasion. We asked him to give us the rundown of his whirlwind tour of duty over some drinks and he described for us what sounded like a starker, more despairing desert-oriented M*A*S*H (the movie, not the 11-year TV schmaltzathon). Here is his odyssey…The Discovery Channel had a good documentary on about becoming a Marine a few months before the invasion of Iraq. It looked like something I could do. I was in Orlando for culinary school, kind of fucking around—getting involved with drugs and partying way too much. Joining the military looked like some sort of direction, and the Marines seemed like the baddest-assed branch of them all.
I was sent to Parris Island for basic training and ended up stationed in San Diego. We were there for about three weeks before they said, "Pack up your shit. You're goin' over there." It was off to Kuwait for a month, preparing to cross the border. We were going to Fallujah right around the time when the heavy-duty battling was going on. My job was supposed to be running supply lines to grunt units and loading convoys as a heavy equipment operator. I didn't do this until my ninth month because they didn't have enough soldiers to man the convoys in the first place.
While crossing the border from Kuwait we were told not to stop for anything unless everyone came to a stop. Little kids would run out in the middle of the convoy because they could see our MREs strapped to the top of our vehicles. They would wave money in the air and thought that we would stop for them. It's the driver's job to just keep going. Some got rolled over. At the time I didn't really think about it because I was in a war-set mind. But I'd still look in the rear view mirror and say, "What the fuck? We're supposed to be helping these people."Base camp was pretty nuts once we got inside Fallujah. We had mortar attacks every day—a constant bombardment. Eventually it just became an annoyance. There was so much tension—fights would break out all the time, even though we were supposed to be brothers or whatever. Juts over stuff like someone wouldn't get mail then another soldier would talk shit about his family and they would both end with black eyes.
In the military you work hard and you party hard, that's for sure. There was tons of booze all over the place, people would smuggle drugs in, and some would huff duster until they drooled and pissed all over themselves.
We thought we would be there for about six months total. That time passed, and we still weren't being sent home. They would tell us three more months, then three more after that. They just didn't have anyone to replace us. Considering how strict and uptight they are with soldiers, you'd think of all organizations the military should have had their shit together. If you tell us six months, let us come home in six months—at least for a fucking break.
Anyway, I knew that I needed to get out of there when one of my good buddies committed suicide. He shot himself with an M-16. We were all wondering why—it turned out that his mom had terminal cancer and was on her way out. His sister had cancer too, the same kind. All he asked was to go home to see his family before his mom died and his command told him no. All I could think was that they didn't care about us—they didn't give a fuck so why should I?
I wanted to go back home. I'd done my part. When I decided to get out I tried to get out the right way. I went to the chaplain, begged him, pleaded with him, and finally told him I was crazy. He didn't believe me.
I heard that if you smoke pot and pop on a piss test, they'll kick you out. You do a little bit of time in the brig and then you're done. So, that's what I chose to do—there was no way I was going back. We came back to Camp Pendleton in California after 11 months in the shit. They told us not to get too comfortable because we were being deploying again in three months. A buddy of mine lived close by. He got me high and that was the end of it.
I got into a fistfight with my sergeant when he found out I tested positive. He called me a "fuckin' shit-bag Marine." I was like, "No I'm not. I've got a Meritorious Mass. I just don't want to be a part of your shit anymore. I don't want any more of this bullshit. Fuck you, guy!" He took off his little fuckin' sergeant ranks and we just went at each other. It was broken up pretty quickly. He told me that I was a disgrace, and I said, "Whatever, I'm going home. Have fun in Iraq, dude!"
They called a court-marshal. An officer asked me why I didn't try to talk to a chaplain. I told them I tried the chaplain—I didn't want to be there anymore and there was no other way out. "Well, you signed up for it," they said. It got me an "other than honorable" discharge. They make it out like it's some hardcore punishment but it was cake. They had me shoveling mud in the beginning and I started bitchin' about my back, so they let me pull light duty for two weeks. It was like sleep, eat, watch television—I kept it on MTV most of the time.
There are some things that I miss. Stuff like the camaraderie of the Marines and the sunsets in Iraq. It was a good life experience. I'm more appreciative of things over here, even though they aren't the greatest. I've seen how bad it can get. Have you seen this shit, "My Super Sweet 16"? I just want to smack the shit out of these people.
SHANE STINNETT AS TOLD TO VICE STAFF