Back in 1982, when I was young, full of energy, and convinced I knew everything (because I had just made E-4 Corporal), I was stationed at El Toro, California. Now, if you never had the pleasure of being there in the early ’80s just imagine paradise with a PX. Beaches an hour away, mountains two hours in the other direction, and sunshine for days. It was a great duty station—so naturally, the Corps decided to shake things up.
I got TAD orders. For the civilians reading this, that stands for Temporary Additional Duty. But among Marines, it’s affectionately known as Traveling Around Drunk. I was sent to 29 Palms for a three-week deployment, which is basically like getting upgraded from a beachfront suite to a cardboard box in a blast furnace.
Sgt. Jackson, a good friend and fellow glutton for punishment, also got tapped. So, like good Marines, we made our way over to LTA Tustin to hitch a ride to the lovely oasis known as 29 Palms. If you don’t know where that is picture the middle of nowhere, turn left, go another 50 miles, and boom you’re there. Widely celebrated as the worst duty station in the entire Marine Corps. And it was July. Or as we called it, “Satan’s favorite month.”
Now, the thing about deserts is, while they’ll try to cremate you during the day, they turn into refrigerators at night. That’s foreshadowing, by the way.
On our second day, Sgt. Jackson and I were tasked with escorting a convoy of JP-5 (jet fuel, for the uninitiated) to a flight line somewhere deep within the base. We were to depart at 1800 (that’s 6 PM for anyone who’s still trying to convert military time). The trip was supposed to take six or seven hours. You know just a quiet night escorting thousands of gallons of flammable liquid through a barren wasteland. What could possibly go wrong?
We had a full team: the lead Jeep had a 2nd Lieutenant and his radio guy, followed by five Deuce-and-a-Halfs loaded with 55-gallon drums of JP-5. Each truck had a driver and a “guard” (because obviously, the desert jackrabbits were notorious fuel thieves). Sgt. Jackson was in the second Jeep with a young PFC whose name has long since evaporated from memory. I was in the last Jeep with my driver, LCpl David Johnson. I do remember his name—you’ll see why.
Everyone was issued an MRE. Now, these weren’t your fancy vacuum-sealed, microwave-in-the-bag gourmet MREs. These were the old-school, soul-crushing, canned-ration MREs. The kind that required a John Wayne can opener and a strong will to live.
We took off right on time. About three hours in, one of the Deuce-and-a-Halfs decides it’s had enough and breaks down. This truck was probably older than all four of us left behind combined—and I’m pretty sure its last oil change was during the Nixon administration. After a couple hours of banging, swearing, and mechanical voodoo, the LT decides that I, Sgt. Jackson, my driver LCpl Johnson, and the Deuce driver would stay behind to babysit the truck and the jet fuel. You know, just in case a herd of thirsty kangaroo rats tried to siphon off 110 octane.
So there we are, in the middle of the largest Marine base in the U.S., parked on the side of a dirt road with a broken-down truck, 275 gallons of highly combustible liquid, a Jeep, and four Marines who had definitely seen better evenings. We solved all the world’s problems in those hours—how to fix leadership, improve MREs, and maybe invent central air for Jeeps. We even managed to eat our rations without breaking any teeth, which was a miracle.
Then something happened. The desert quieted down. The sky lit up with more stars than I thought even existed. It was peaceful in a strange, humbling way. We all just sat there staring up, quietly soaking it in. Of course, at the time, I had no idea I’d be looking at those same stars a year later in Beirut under very different circumstances.
Eventually, just as the sun started to rise (and we started to resemble beef jerky), the tow truck rolled in. We got the Deuce hooked up, rolled out, and made it back without losing a single barrel of fuel—or a single Marine.
Sgt. Jackson and I would go on to spend many more days (and nights) together in uniform, in many different places around the world. But I’ll always remember that night in the desert: four Marines, one broken truck, a pile of canned meat, and a billion stars.
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