The Old Blog in the Desert

As a Corpsman, I was used to being out front. That’s not where Corpsmen are supposed to be, mind you, we’re supposed to hang back a bit, stay out of the line of fire, and be ready to patch up the guys who charge ahead.

But when you train with Marines, things have a way of getting mixed up. You start running with them, sweating with them, cursing with them, and before you know it, you’re one of them.

It was one of those training operations that never seems to end, a seventy-two-hour “tactical evolution,” as the brass called it. That’s fancy talk for “you’ll get three days of sleep deprivation, cold food, and blisters in new and exciting places.”

We were out in the scrublands north and east of 29 Stumps, where the ground looks like it hasn’t seen rain since Moses was a boy. There was so much dust everywhere that even the lizards wore goggles.

I’d gotten assigned to one of the teams, Blue Team, I think. After the first twenty-four hours, everything becomes a blur of sweat, grime, and bad coffee, so it could’ve been the Pink-Purple Polka Dot Team for all I knew.

My job was to keep the boys alive, hydrated, and mostly unbroken.

Now, for those who don’t know, the Marine Corps Tactical Instrumentation System—or MCTIS—was supposed to make training more “realistic.” It’s sensors, lasers, and little boxes that beep and flash every time someone “gets shot.” The result, in practice, sounds like a pinball machine having a nervous breakdown.

So there we were, somewhere around hour fifty of our seventy-two-hour test of endurance, when the “firefight” broke out. Lights flashing, alarms beeping, grown men pretending to die dramatically in the dirt.

The MCTIS soundtrack screamed through the canyon like an angry microwave oven. “Blue Team’s hit!” someone yelled.

I came trotting over, bag in hand, playing my part. Usually, I would attend to the “wounded,” but today, I found myself acting more as a referee than a medic.

Five Marines had gone down. I told them to stay put and wait for the exercise controller’s signal.

When the “cease fire” came, I told them to get up so we could reset for the next round. Four of them stood up, dusted themselves off, and started cracking jokes about who had the worst “death scene.”

But one didn’t move. Private Martinez, a kid so new he probably still had the price tag on his dog tags, just lay there flat on his back, arms out, perfectly still.

“Martinez!” I barked. “Game’s over! You can get up now!”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“Alright,” I said, walking over. “You win. Best death scene of the day. Now up you go.”

Still nothing.

Now, I wasn’t entirely sure if he was ignoring me or if he’d actually passed out. It had been a brutal few days, and we’d all seen guys push themselves past the edge, but I was close enough to notice the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ah. Playing possum.

I stood there for a second, hands on my hips, thinking. If there’s one thing Marines can’t resist, it’s peer pressure or embarrassment. So I decided to make it, shall we say, stimulating.

I turned to the other guys and said loud enough for the whole team to hear, “Fine. If he wants to stay dead, start unzipping his pants. We’ll check for circulation.”

You have never seen a “dead” man come back to life faster in your life. Martinez sprang up like he’d got hit with a defibrillator, arms flailing, face red as a tomato.

“I’m good! I’m good, Doc! I’m alive!” he shouted.

The rest of the team howled, and not even I could keep a straight face.

“Good to hear, Private,” I said, trying to sound official. “Next time, save us the drama.”

He grinned sheepishly, brushing the dust off his uniform. “Yes, Doc.”

The story followed him for the rest of his enlistment. Anytime Martinez tried to play tough, someone would holler, “Careful, Martinez, Doc’s got your zipper!”

Yeah, sometimes the joke turns sour. But the best part came a few weeks later, when we were back on base.

We were sitting in the chow hall—me, Martinez, and a few of the guys—reminiscing over bad coffee and worse eggs.

“Doc,” Martinez said suddenly, “you embarrassed the hell out of me that day.”

I shrugged. “That’s my job. Keeps you humble.”

“Yeah, well…” He paused, smirking. “I told my mom about it. She says ‘You sound like the kind of guy who makes sure Marines come home in one piece.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. You don’t expect to get blindsided by sincerity over powdered eggs, but there it was.

“Tell your mom I said thanks,” I managed.

He grinned. “Oh, I did, and she said, ‘You tell that Corpsman he can unzip my pants anytime.’”

The entire table erupted in laughter. Coffee sprayed and trays rattled.

I just put my head in my hands and muttered, “I’m going to need more Motrin.”

That’s the thing about life with the Marines—you’re never far from chaos or comedy. One minute you’re knee-deep in mud and misery, the next you’re laughing so hard your sides ache.

Somewhere in that balance of exhaustion, absurdity, and camaraderie, you find what makes the job worth doing. It ain’t the medals, the salutes, or the perfectly pressed uniforms, but the moments like that, the laughter in the field, the shared misery, the way a dumb joke can pull a guy back from the edge.

Years later, I ran into Martinez at a reunion. He was older, a little grayer, but still had that same crooked grin.

“You still carrying that trauma kit, Doc?” he asked.

“Always,” I said. “Never know when I’ll have to bring another Marine back from the dead.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, Doc. You cured me of that once.”

And as we stood there, surrounded by the men we’d sweated and bled and laughed with, I realized that healing doesn’t come from bandages or IVs. Sometimes it comes from laughter, from brotherhood, from a well-timed joke in the middle of the chaos.

Even if it involves threatening to unzip someone’s pants.