SEPTEMBER

RODMAN

I held onto the side of the bench with my right hand as I gripped my rifle with my left. The driver of our 998 (a covered pick-up truck humvee) was not focused on the comfort level of the ten MP’s he was transporting as he cranked the steering wheel to turn off of the main highway towards the Marines standing poised at the main gate of the Rodman Marine Installation. It had been raining all day, and I was worried less about the conditions than I was about the masking of movement that the rain caused when we would sit and wait. I was officially down in the mouth. The backs of my legs and all exposed areas of my skin were riddled swollen and itching from bug bites of some type. My face was caked with camo paint mixed with bug repellent, which was irritating the bites from the night before. The only thing I was looking forward to on this night was the sun coming up. Our platoon was just one week into a month-long commitment to guard the ammo supply bunkers at the Rodman Marine Installation.
The Rodman ASP (Ammo Supply Point) skirted along the main highway just west of the Bridge of Americas. The ASP was on a large area of thick jungle with a few miles of asphalt that winded like a maze around to various exposed areas within its multiple ten-foot high razor wire fences.
Within these exposed areas were large concrete bunkers, buried into the mucky hillsides along these small roads.
When we were briefed on our mission, we were told that the bunkers contained ammunition of all types for our US forces in country. This made them a nice target to Noriega’s PDF for multiple reasons. The ASP was in an unpopulated, yet central part of the country. It was ideal geography for a strategic jungle battle zone. It was thick and hilly with streams cutting through the woods to muffle movement and a ton of jungle wildlife to confuse, distract and deter any bunker protectors. It was a perfect place to stir up an international incident. The story passed around was, months earlier, before our arrival, Noriega’s PDF had regularly harassed areas on the opposite side of the freeway where the US forces’ stockpile of fuel was housed. That area was known as the “Tank Farm.” Insurgent activities in that sensitive area eventually led to a major firefight which resulted in one Marine dead, and 18 PDF killed (some of which were identified as Cuban soldiers). This was the same Marine reported killed by friendly fire while my buddies and I were in MP school. When we heard “the real deal” about the Tank Farm firefight, we all said the same thing, “Friendly fire my ass!”
Now, PDF insurgents were regularly probing the ASP, just a couple of miles from the Tank Farm. Now, the basic Marine response to an insurgent was to shoot it. Then shoot it again. Then have your fellow Marines continue to shoot it until it glows red with hot led. A respectable policy, but impossible to “untrain” to a Marine when trying to avoid all out war in a region where American forces, US government employees and family members intermingle with corrupted Panamanian forces on a daily basis.
In order to instill “fire discipline” within the fence-lines of the ASP, MP’s would be needed to guard the bunkers without engaging the enemy.

The 998 dimmed its headlights and slowed at the Marine’s gate shack then jerked forward when the Marine waved us through. Hughes’ rucksack slid off his lap and hit Private Puchalski in the side of the head. “Fucker,” Puchalski said heedlessly as he pushed the bag back towards Hughes. Hughes liked the ASP. He often brought extra gear to his guard post to remind him of the comforts of home. An extra poncho to line the jungle floor, a machete, a makeshift ghille suit for extra concealment, and survival knives you could only find in US Cavalry magazine were just a few of the goodies Jon always had on hand. The 998 continued to our Control Point with lights dimmed. The humidity and the smell of the deep jungle increased as we rolled up the small winding roads. Shuffling of field gear and rifles increased as heads rose. Our eyes opened wider, trying to adjust to the darker blackness.
An intersection of small roads where a small warehouse sat served as our Control Point of Operations. Our vehicle rolled up and cut its engine. We piled out. The dense air dulled our voices.
"E, you wanna dip?" Link said as he held his can towards my nose.
"No dude," I said. I tightened my rucksack to my back and shouldered my empty rifle. Ammo was only located at the security posts that we manned. 7 clips of 28 rounds for my M-16, 3 clips of five pistol rounds for my Vietnam era, Model 1911, Colt 45; One pair of night vision goggles, two white parachute flares and one red.
Jon's silhouette moved toward me as we all corralled ourselves under the single floodlight attached to the single open doorway of the long concrete warehouse.
"Who's got the assignments?" He asked.
I pointed to the doorway where a faceless lieutenant wearing pressed BDU's and a soft cap was exiting, holding a clipboard.
We all shuffled towards the man as our sergeant retrieved the clipboard and held it to his chest. "Fall in on me," he said.
We backed up and formed one row facing him as he read off the assignments,
"Nobody's on point one tonight! Puchalski, 2, Link, 3, Heinz, 4, Red, 5, Foster, 6, Spanky, 7, Spader, BUSH! 8!"
Spader always looked confused, "Bush? What's BUSH, Sergeant?!"
We all snickered.
"Bush!" The sergeant replied as he thumbed over his shoulder to a golf cart painted green and covered from top to bottom in camo netting, jungle branches, vines, and palm leaves. The only thing that made it recognizable as a golf cart were the little black wheels beneath the "bush."
Spader still looked confused.
The sergeant continued, "Moore, 9, Huey, 10..."
"Haayyell YES," Huey said.
The sergeant looked up from his clipboard, "You will not sleep, Private Hughes!"
Huey grinned with a wink as he scratched the flea bites on the back of his neck.