Cheetah On The Wing 1

By Mitchell Krautant

THIS is the story of a genius member of the United States Marine Corps who was a Sniper, then went to Force Reconnaissance Company, then was an instructor at the Mountain Warfare Training Center. He was elite but got injured training. The story is about the really elite efforts he put into the job, fighting terrorists and doing admirable duties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mr.
• Release date: May 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952740022

Book preview

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1

An Awakening of Duty: Welcome to the Marines!

From the airport I was taken on abus from town which conveyed me to the downtown area of the Marine Corps barracks amid a small area of obstacles, designed bare buildings, headquarters buildings, and a training oasis upon which at each many Marines were moving. While we were on the bus, one of the drill instructors told us to keep it quiet and not to talk, holding captive the most talkative of the recruits in a hard-to-swallow silence Half an hour later, the bus pulled into the front yard of the training center, and aa drill instructor pulled us off of the bus and shuffled us in line on silver footsteps painted on the ground. We were told to turn in our clothes and strip down. After that, the group of us gathered from him clothes that were precise in their form, judgement and function, streamlined and camouflaged. With our new dress, it became apparent wh ere we were.

Next we had to all attend the clinic to find out how many of us had medical problems: serious diseases, minor ailments (colds and the like), injuries such as head trauma, etc.. They gave us shots on our arms, stomachs, and legs. While being treated, the instructors told us numerous things about avoiding illness, so none of us would fall sick while retired to the barracks.

Following our trip to the clinic, the drill instructors next took us to the library, where we sat upon seats surrounding a large desk. Here the drill instructors issued to us volumes concerning modern warfare. These taught us how they will hold to us the standards of the Marine Corps, and detailed how we healed, how we waged war, how we kept outdoors equipment in possession of ourselves, how we would move on an enemy, how to speak, how to take care of each other, and the role of the drill instructors. The books themselves were fantastically large, but we as a whole accepted it. Some of us, namely the ones who watched the news about our invasion to Iraq, thought the books carried all the knowledge that we needed to know to do an eminent job. Others took the volumes as simple introduction warfare for those who were just entering the system; knowing that we would need better volumes when we got promoted. That was the truth. We were a newbies that were learning and who needed learning equipment. The drill instructors knew how green we were.

With that, we were assembled to a barracks where the drill instructor began to talk to us about the rules. If we were around a person indicating they were in a medical emergency, we were to grab a facility member and immediately bring them to him, although this was a rare occurrence. . As for drills, we were taken outside and placed on yellow footprints side by side and told to count each other into drill format. Drill Format means the physical location of the bodies within the drill position and the location of their body parts as they conduct the drill. Marching means Drill. We were told that we would be doing drills constantly, which involved sophisticated movements with our weapons and the formations that it called for. We were to be driven through all it by drill instructors, and to that we were to take all sorts of commands from them.

They also took us to the large field outside for a week. In it were numerous courts where we would fight hand-to-hand in. The drill instructors put me with Larry, a somewhat skinny kid who had the bearing of a solitary soldier. As we started I noticed that he did not hit me hard, and so I opened up full force and attacked him with my forearms. I struck him repeatedly until he called the drill instructor to end the fight, but I didn't relent, keeping at him in full swing until the drill instructor told me to stop. I thought I would be rewarded for my killer instinct. I didn't.

Two others joined one of the arenas, and started fighting each other. Together they traversed the yard, one taking a blow then returning two in return. . We watched as they fought for fifteen long minutes, making each other bleed from the nose or blur each-other's vision, and after that the drill instructors faced us and grabbed another two for combat. We did it all morning.

We trained for tactics. Then I transitioned to a different field of training.

In California, I went to start the new training. I walked into the head shack where the chief was Malo Yardstaff. He took me into his office immediately.

What do you think your mission is, Krautant?

I haven't been briefed on it except by Captain Orson. He said that I was accepted to go to the sniper platoon here in 1/5. That is what my PT had been for. I am hoping they give me a book about the mission.

There is a manual for what you are to do. Check with Orson for one or get one from the library. This is a very challenging course. The first place he should send you is to the sniper school. Before that you should shoot. I think you will meet our requirements because you shot very well on the range. Keep your head up and use the knowledge you have gained in that course, Krautant. This is where the good things will happen to you, and you will be promoted!

Yes, sir! I said, and went to the barracks. Before I went to my room, I heard chief Yardstaff get into conversation with Oyers. They were talking about me and what I should do. Oyers was a Staff sergeant in charge of Chief Yardstaff, who was the platoon corpsman. Oyers wanted me in a pool doing physical drills. Accordingly, I was immediately told by Yardstaff to drop off my gear and go to the pool. He was going to introduce me to the other Marines getting ready to go to swim school. I went to the pool, which was half a mile away, and met 3 people who were to attend school with me: Broughmbower, Clait, and Gnosher. I was to be a hand-in of sergeant Trebulant, a man who would be giving all sorts of praise… or punishment… depending on how we did.

In between our 2-hour workouts in the pool, done twice per day, the other snipers would take us out and PT us to death. We started with a 5 mile run immediately after swim practice, then would we'd go back to the barracks where the commander would take us outside so we could be taken to new levels of physical fitness by doing a magnificent array of exercises. As a whole we suffered, but each of us got better.

Over the next 2 days each of us went to the medical clinic and were found to be in quality shape and ready for the medical staff to test us. Yardstaff made sure he was there when they did it, for the purpose of telling them to diagnose us as ill. We weren't. Even the scanty meals that the cooks brought to us were quality and good. At that, the teachers fought harder to break us. Then, after learning that sniper school began in a week, the head—Oyers and the Staff sergeant—brought us one by one into their office, and there we each had an opportunity to either quit the job ourselves and go to a line company, or to turn in one of our brethren who needed to be kicked out for their inability to do the job. I told them that Masterson or Perenoble were the ones who should go elsewhere. The reason was simple—they both had quit when we were under water. When the rest of us fought the man taking us down, those two tried to swim away—and failed.

Norton and I went to swimmers school, which was held at the Marine base by the sea in southern California. When there Norton had me put on my fins for water exercises of a knot that would allow me to tie them up and wear them around my ankles. The reason, he said, was because one of the tests the instructors did was to come in the water behind us and take away our flippers. Not wanting that, I tied the flippers onto my feet using a brass line knot, which Norton said was a good attempt of the type of knot it was, even if it was my first time.

Swim school was an interesting time. Every day we would go out to the boats—the Zodiac boats—and equip them with the necessities as we saw them after receiving instruction For the most part, we needed a compass, carabiners for those aboard to snap into the harness on the side rungs of the boat, locked in suave-line, which is a line flowing from the engine to the front, and a weapon for each of us. We distributed the weight so that each boat would have its own riflemen, a machine-gunner, and by the book examples of pistols on our belts. Then the instructors would have us take out the boats with us all on it, and when it got to the outside of the bay, the instructor would make us get off of it and into the water. That was how we swam ashore. Other times they would have us simply go to shore from the beach and fin our way out to a safety buoy, and back. Altogether, the class was remarkable, but in another way it was much too easy. We members of a Surveillance and Target Acquisition (STA) Platoon—me and Norton—had a clear ability to us to do what was necessary there.

Then the last day came and the instructors told us to get in the pool. On their count, we were told to swim a maximum distance in the pool of three thousand meters. That was what we did, taking in long breaths, trying to keep our equipment secured on our bodies, and paddling at a good pace determined by fins and arms. I found that I was falling behind the main qualifiers. What else could I do? I pressed harder and sought to put down the stream the hardest production of my fins. Norton, having finished already, came over to my row and said you are falling behind, Krautant. Do not worry about your fins...probe the water! Hurry up! And at that, hurry was what I did.

I finished just shy of the bell being called, my arms raised in the air in achievement. I had made it. That's a damn good job, Krautant! said Norton. Then he asked: do you think you have enough to make it through sniper school?

I didn't know, so I remarked, Certainly, if you send me.

And with that we cleaned ourselves off, got on the bus to Camp Pendleton, and went home to the barracks.

Two weeks later I was sent to sniper school at Camp Margarita down the hill from where we lived. I got into the course early and told the instructors that I had run quite a distance preparing for the course. At that the instructor I talked to—sergeant Evidion—said in no small terms that my teaching had been needed , but that it would not measure up to what they were prepared to do at sniper school. At that I thought to ask why, but he already was prepared for that. He told me about the class.

You are going to walk by yourself in your ghillie suit in the heat with only a liter of water to drink. You are going to be out in the field for about 6 hours dragging yourself along the ground in a dead-stilt body position to get close to the target. Then you are going to find a tree to hide behind, concealing your face, and that is what you will shoot from. We are going to have an officer walking near you, and if he stands on you, you will be done. Shot in the face, Marine! How do you think you will feel getting shot in the face? Then we are going for a run through the woods. One of the instructors has mines to install on the bushes. How are you gonna keep up running through the mines, soldier? Think about it...how are you going to act?

With that I felt like the entire instructor cadre was against my success. I was wrong, because they went to great lengths to prepare us for the ordeal. I found that with a few missions I went on the instructors would gather us together and debrief us after we got dragged through the dirt.

With that, I began to perform.

The stalk I was on was serious.

The rider’s view of the dash site was just outside of the of the instructor truck, near which we were going to have to stalk. The truck was out of site from a straight facing distance, but it was visible to the sides of the tree we were partway behind. The instructors had parked the truck bringing us out right next to a tree, so that they would be in plain view of the Stalker-catchers. Some of us jumped off the truck, while others of us idled down. Subsequently, we each heard the instructors yelling on the radio to the instructors on the field, trying their best to get a bead on each and every one of us from the get-go. At that, those who were out of the truck began to move at pace away from it through the bushes, while those on the truck stayed there with their backs against the wall, while watchers came into the mix and told the front car that they were getting close. The back of the truck was a bad place to be because the finding area was short, and for the instructors to move the finder around a known depth was an easy way for them to get inside of the student's area. Soon after that one, then another, then another was labeled and hit by the man walking the truck—they had been seen through the vines of the tree above them. Those of us who were off took that to heed, and quickly crawled our way behind the bushes near there, out of sight. The insertion lasted all of 15 minutes, and in that time 3 of our men had been killed. Shot in the head, yous! Three soldiers shot in the head! Who's next? the instructors said. With that, we all moved.

Now the way through a stalk is completely dependent on what type of terrain one has to travel through. The people in the Humvee would take it upon themselves to watch every hint of tremors that they could find: the top of a ghillie suit moving over flat ground was apparent to the; so was getting behind bushes and plants that had a view through them, and so did moving steadily through the grass. Choosing none of those options, I gave up my place, and moved behind what appeared to be thick bushes. That got me to within 500 yards of the Humvee I was looking for. At that spot, I leaned over and looked around at the other students. I could not see many, but overall it seemed that most did not trust my location through the plants. Then all of a sudden I laughed:: those fools had taken a long look from the truck and saw a huge heap of plants moving towards the Humvee. It turned out to be a solid ground climbing upwards, with the area behind each plant in full view of those who watched. And watch they did: moving my head sideways slowly I could see the observers looking through binoculars at that precise location. I quietly laughed and noticed that on my side was no more vegetation Eager now, I made my way to one of the plants ahead and watching, got up on my knees. They could not see me. At that I attracted a walker, and he got behind my location, telling them to search to the people on board the Humvee, to no effect. I was invisible.

Now, most people who go for a stalk do their best to stay out of sight of the instructors who got their place inside of the back of the Humvee to watch them. Whoever is able to move full scale across the ground finds themselves frequently near the truck and ready to take-aim. So, to get a shot, I rose to my knees below a bush and, with time on my side, removed the center slowly. That gave me a sight light of the truck, and the instructors on it. I set my rifle up on a branch and took careful aim. Then I fired my blank at them. Shot! I said aloud, and the man walking in my path came up to my right. Hide yourself Marine! Are you hidden?

I'm hidden. They can't see anything there, I said.

Resource 1 this is viewfinder for, what is your name, Marine?

Krautant. It's Krautant.

This is viewfinder for Krautant. What is his location, over?

I heard the man start walking into the bush ahead of him. Once he was there, the Instructors wanted to position him near the middle, and once he reached it told him that he was within 5 percent. They were wrong.

Resource 1, you are ill-described. Please try again.

At that Resource 1 told him to go farther back. Now he was stationed along the plant he took to get there, which was only my plant a while ago.

Resource 1, you are incorrect. Taking the second shot now. He put the radio down and talked to me. Now take a final shot through your viewfinder. It must be an accurate shot. I will be checking. Try now.

I looked at my viewfinder without moving the stump of the rifle, and in it I saw a man using a sheet to hide his head. Next to him was a man with a binocular. I took aim at him and pulled the trigger.

Good hit, Marine. Now give me your equipment so I can assess you.

I gave him my rifle. He took it and laying down in my position, looked at the Humvee took a shot, and told me that I had done a fantastic job.

You are an ace, Marine. Now go ahead and take your rifle with you to the truck that brought you. Get ready to shoot when we get back.

And at that, I felt proud of what had happened. Stalking seemed to be a code of behavior that we were learning about. Little did I know that it would get harder. That was something the range taught me up-scale.

Once in class, the instructor there, Mr. Kneeley, Staff sergeant, had us learn about measuring the flight of an aircraft, going into how such a thing could be sensed. He passed out a card with a photograph of an aircraft moving on a 60-decree line away from the friendly terrain to one held by shooters and rockets that were supported by a trivial force. We were told that the much of contemporary combat came from places like that—places where the enemy brought in anti-air and anti-ship labors and ordered them to attack what they saw in the air and on the ground. As an example, they used an event that happened in World War 2. There, we had advanced for the multi-day attack against the Germans, and they had brought full-scale troops and anti-ship artillery to the beach of France. We launched tons of men against them, and they retaliated by shooting our airplanes, shooting down many as the ships waged combat against the mass of cannons. We secured the beach head and tricked Hitler, but a few days later the Germans sent a 300-man force against a thinly desperate crew on the beach. We won, but it was slightly related to our presence on the beach, and the amazing way we handled the Germans. (This story doesn't seem to have a point. Why do you include it? And how exactly did the American forces win?)

After that class, we were taken to the range to shoot

The range was a large outcropping of grass that was neatly manicured. The targets were on a mechanism that held them in place until the time came to change the target locations, at which point they sank into the ground and popped up in their new position. The targets were placed at ranges of 200, 300, 400, 500, and 1000 meters from the place we shot. The instructors had decided early who it was that we were supposed to shoot with, so the range would be taken by 2 people, one spotter and one shooter. My partner was Guesson, a man who had been through, and failed, the course before him. I talked to him about it and after he failed, he went to a range near his home and there learned how to shoot accurately. I figured that we would do as well as he had been trained, because he would use his gestures to call me out for different gusts of the wind.

Guesson did not like the way I shot when there was wind, but I could tell what his measurements were through the scope and took into account that the weather by the target would be not seen and would affect the location of the shot. He did not like my predictions, though they were accurate, and I scored very high on what we had shot by the end of the day. Then it would be my turn as spotter, and I would tell him what the shot should be made the wind conditions at the target. I expanded the view in the device I used for spotting, and it showed how the wind could affect the trajectory of the bullet towards the target. In short, it helped me help him aim, and , even though he was getting on target for the most part, he would complain. I couldn't stand the guy.

Worse than that, Guesson was a man who thought he knew how to take a shot from the field, but there he continuously found himself being taken as a non-shooter when the instructors could tell where he was shooting from. They could tell he was hitting the white ring around the edge of the target… that was out of the range of the kill zone. He also would complain about the other people on the truck, saying that they were not comprehending the concept, so that the instructors had the gist of finding and that they would tell the instructors what the other play-finders were doing. He had in his own mind some way to describe each of us as a bad player. He even did so in our team portrait—a photograph of us in camouflage and zip-suits and camouflage taken by the lead instructor of the quiz. When we got pictures, he pointed at me in his picture and said: Look at that idiot! He looks like an ape in a ghillie suit! And he can’t even shoot! Lies!

The rest of us didn't think much of Guesson's anger. He would talk trash and made us all his enemies, but we still looked for something to admire about him. We recognized that Guesson had a strong drive to succeed after his earlier failure of the course, and in his own mind made sense for him to name those who would fail given his experience. Still, it was a trial to sympathize as we all had what was needed to succeed in sniper school. Sniper school. We were of a similar nature, we found, in that we each thought that the bad things that happened to any of us was