Free Generation Kill by Evan Wright

touch with the men he leads. "The problem is, higher-ups like Ferrando aren't warriors, they're Marine Corps politicians," a Marine in Second Platoon gripes. "They're terrified some general's going to walk over here and see someone running around with his shirt untucked."
    Prior to commanding First Recon, Ferrando was the parade commander at the Marine Corps' headquarters in Washington, D.C., a position he himself admits is "the most ceremonial billet in the Corps." He has never been deployed in combat before, and while his job turns on his ability to inspire and lead several hundred young men, he admits, "My temper and personality are not suited for today's youth."
    Away from his men, Ferrando displays a dry humor. When I ask him about his cancer—if he ever smoked, chewed tobacco or had other bad habits—he tells me he was a runner and a fitness nut, then adds, smiling, "I guess I'm just lucky." At Camp Mathilda, Ferrando spent much of his time agonizing over the ROE, perfecting ways to strike a balance between protecting his Marines and not harming civilians. He also sincerely believes the Grooming Standard will give his men better odds of surviving in combat. "Discipline in all its forms enhances the survivability of troops," he tells me.
    Despite his virtues, he has a tough time getting these across to his Marines. Fick says, "I respect Lieutenant Colonel Ferrando, but for some reason he's been unable to inspire trust in the men."
    Following his prewar invasion briefing this afternoon, Colbert expresses disappointment in his commander. Walking back from the briefing, even Colbert, who seldom complains, says, "Why would he bring up mustaches tonight of all nights?" He shakes his head, laughing. The order for Marines to shave their mustaches at the Euphrates originated with Mattis, not Ferrando. But what bugs Colbert is Ferrando's timing. "We're getting ready to invade a country, and this is what our commander talks to us about? Mustaches?"
    Just before the sun drops, Colbert and his team pull down the cam-mie nets from their vehicle and prepare to move out. The wind has died down, and it looks like it's going to be a clear night for the invasion. Nearby, the battalion chaplain, Navy Lieutenant Commander Christopher Bodley, walks among the platoons, offering final prayers. Bodley is a tall, dark-skinned. African American with a gentle manner and a high, melodious voice. Though several Marines in Colbert's Second Platoon profess religious beliefs, they treat the chaplain with the polite disinterest you'd show a door-to-door vacuum-cleaner salesman.
    "Uh, oh. Here he comes," Colbert says, glimpsing the chaplain traipsing across the sand with a smile, a Bible and a Marine bodyguard toting an assault rifle. "Another nuisance to waste my time."
    Manimal walks over, shooting the chaplain suspicious glances. "Back at Mathilda I went to a service to get communion, but the priest gave a fucking moto speech on why we are fighting this war. It was fucking bullshit."
    Fifty meters from Colbert's vehicle, the chaplain gathers a small crowd of faithful in the sand. A huge, lumbering, bald Marine gunnery sergeant removes his helmet, kneels and reads Psalm 91. Then the chaplain delivers a sermon. Marines call themselves "Devil Dogs"—according to lore, German soldiers in World War I nicknamed them this, "Teufel Hunden," in grudging praise of their tenacity—and the chaplain incorporates this into his sermons. "They nickname you Devil Dogs," he tells his flock. "But Jesus was the original Devil Dog. He faced evil, and he beat it. Jesus is the Devil Dog you will want on your side going into battle."
    By Colbert's Humvee, a twenty-year-old redheaded corporal jumps up as more helicopters fly north. "Get some!" he screams. Then he adds, "They kill hundreds of people, those pilots. I would have loved to have flown the plane that dropped the bomb on Japan. A couple dudes killed hundreds of thousands. That fucking rules! Yeah!"

FIVE
    At seven