[R-G] WAR: There are the always the Chickenhawks -- and the scared kids

[Hunter Gray]

"A lot of 'em are young and scared to be going over," says Rachael Mays of
the Sleeping Dragon tattoo parlor. "They come in for their meat tags. You
know, dog tags for the skin. Their name, rank, serial number, religion,
blood type and gas-mask size. They want 'em in case they're blown in half.
Then at least some part of them can come back to their folks."

"So next time you need reminding that it's people's boyfriends and soccer
coaches who will be bleeding, come listen as the tattooist sends her
meat-tagged Marines off with these words, always these words: "For God's
sake," she says, as she sees them to the door, "keep your head down."

Where Have All The Young Men Gone?
Time | February 17, 2003 | Rick Reilly


Why The Preparation For War On Iraq Really Hits Home In Jacksonville, N.C.

By Rick Reilly

  Next time you find yourself forgetting that it's real blood about to be
spilled from the real veins of really young Americans, come spend a day in
the flattop Marine town of Jacksonville, where even the tattooists' hearts
are aching.

  "A lot of 'em are young and scared to be going over," says Rachael Mays of
the Sleeping Dragon tattoo parlor. "They come in for their meat tags. You
know, dog tags for the skin. Their name, rank, serial number, religion,
blood type and gas-mask size. They want 'em in case they're blown in half.
Then at least some part of them can come back to their folks."


  So far, 13,000 of the 43,000 Marines and sailors at nearby Camp Lejeune
have left, with 3,000 more scheduled for deployment. War may be not much
more than a bar argument where you live, but here it's a bucket of ice water
in the face. At the base theater, 600 Marines pack the joint but not because
Catch Me If You Can is playing. They're working on their wills Moonie-style
under the direction of a base attorney. One wants Over the Rainbow played at
his funeral. Another wills all 50 guys in his company $ 10 each. His savings
just barely cover it.


  "They pretend not to be scared, but they are," says Gia, 31, a local
prostitute. "I give them more time than I should, just 'cause they want to
talk." Though they can't say they're deploying the next morning, she can
tell. "Usually one of my articles of clothing will turn up missing. I'll
come back for it, and they're like, 'Teddy? There's no teddy around here.'"
She lets it go. Hey, it's for the war effort, right?


  At the Catholic church, the priests haven't seen Saturday confession lines
like these in years. "I think the war is unjust," says Father Thomas Davis,
who has worn out both ears listening to Marines. "But these young men have
no choice. I try to send them off with some peace."


  Not that wartime here is without joy. At least the local violin player is
feasting. Maura Kropke plays at weddings, and Marines have been making her
cell phone dance. "Put it this way: I'm doing a whole lot of Tuesday-morning
and Wednesday-afternoon weddings lately," she says. "They plan a wedding in
three days, and they pull it off, no matter what, even in downpours. I've
seen brides coming down the aisle with umbrellas held over them."


  Marine brides find themselves alone soon enough. Take Sally Brown, 22.
She's a legal receptionist whose husband of two years shipped out last week
to man his gunnery position on top of an amphibious Amtrak vehicle. Now her
stomach is a pretzel. He couldn't even tell her where he was going. "I have
no idea when I'm going to hear from him again," she says. Like a lot of
other military wives, she goes from petrified to patriotic to pissed. "Bush
is doing this because of his father," she charges. "That's the only reason.
Would Bush be doing this if he were sending his daughters?"


  Nobody in this military town talks about post-Iraq rebuilding plans. No
one skims over the fighting and dying and winning of a war as if they were
instructions on a waffle iron. It's real here, even for experts in faking
it, like exotic dancer Charlotte Johnson. Marines keep handing her their dog
tags before they go. "I think they want someone waiting for them," she says.
"I always tell them, 'I'll give them back to you when you get home.' But I
know not all of them will."


  There's a slow leak in Jacksonville, and soon it could be as it was during
Desert Storm in 1991: a ghost town. Already a flower shop has closed, a car
shop has gone under, and a big grocery chain has decided not to build. But
for the locals, it feels a little different this time around. A couple of
cupfuls short of patriotism. And urgency. And sense. "There's something
unpredictable about this war," says Beeda Ruth Wensil, who runs Saigon
Sam's, a huge military-surplus store. "The boys don't know where they're
gonna go or what they're gonna do. Iraq or North Korea? They don't even know
what to pack."


  So next time you need reminding that it's people's boyfriends and soccer
coaches who will be bleeding, come listen as the tattooist sends her
meat-tagged Marines off with these words, always these words: "For God's
sake," she says, as she sees them to the door, "keep your head down."






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