Read One Million Steps: A Marine Platoon at War for Free Online

their civilian counterparts were softer than they, but mostsaid that made no difference. Sixty-five percent “believe in God, his rules and heaven,” while only a few believed God was a myth. Eight out of ten were more caring or appreciative of life due to combat, while only one in ten thought combat had made him harder.
    Overall, 3rd Platoon was made up of well-adjusted, self-confident, middle-class young men who liked each other and had confidence in their leader, Big Country.
    Day 3. 18,000 Steps
    On the morning of October 15, 3rd Platoon resumed scouting for safe paths by the trial-and-error tactic. They walked along, and if no one was blown up, that trail was safe, at least until dark. The Marines had night-vision devices, but they couldn’t shoot someone for being out at night. The sun was scorching, and many farmers tended their corn and poppy after dark—or dug in IEDs.
    Second Squad was at point, led by Sgt. Alex Deykeroff, twenty-three, who had two previous combat tours in Iraq. He had joined 3/5 to experience the fight in Afghanistan. Sergeant Dy read a book a week and was a walking encyclopedia of Marine history. He had enjoyed the battalion’s six-month work-up. The command didn’t have screamers at the top and he had free rein to shape the dozen Marines in 2d Squad.
    The instructors back in California had trained the battalion based on lessons from Iraq, where patrols used vehicles and IEDs were buried in trash piles next to hard-paved roads. But no one in 3rd Platoon ever patrolled in a vehicle. Marines walked off to the sides of dirt paths, encased among thousands of corn stalks. Herds of sheep and cows, tended by barefoot boys with long sticks, grazed in the few open fields. Thick undergrowth and rows of tall trees lined the irrigation ditches and canals.
    The day before, Sergeant Dy had heard the firing when Abbate was engaged near Fires. Dy had climbed onto a roof and watched groups of what he assumed were unarmed farmers scurrying around. Later, he watched the helicopters roar by with dead Marines on board. There were no garbage pits out in the fields. Where were the IEDs hidden?
    Slowly, slowly, 2d Squad moved in single file, only a few hundred meters off Route 611. They were walking on an embankment next to a waist-deep canal when LCpl. Tim Wagner, nineteen, saw the edge of a board sticking out of the dirt. Wagner, from Nebraska farm country, needed no prompting. He raised a clenched fist and froze. A few feet away, another Marine stopped, took a careful look around, and pointed at a mound of freshly turned earth. They both backed away.
    Sergeant Dy called back to Big Country, about sixty yards behind them.
    “We got IEDs up here.”
    Lieutenant West was already on super-alert. A farmer had just signaled from his field, shaking his head in a warning not to go farther.
    “Don’t advance,” West said.
    Big Country then did what he was expected to do, and why the loss rate among Marine second lieutenants is so staggering: he walked up to the front. Platoon sergeants often complain about their young officers being headstrong, but no sergeant wants a leader who holds back. Big Country walked the few meters toward Dy, staying in a swept lane marked by squirts of shaving cream.
    He moved carefully around LCpl. Aaron Lantznester, twenty-one, from Ohio. Lantz had bright blue eyes that looked so innocent that the squad called him Bambi. He had found boot camp to be too easy, but later, in infantry training, had paid close attention during the Combat Life Savers course, learning how to treat sucking chestwounds and massive hemorrhages. The instructors shouted at the recruits when they were least expecting it—during a ten-mile march, or in a classroom, or in the squad bay.
    “Jones, lie down! You’ve lost your leg! The rest of you—save him!”
    Lantz was carrying eight tourniquets.
    As West walked by, he gave Lantz a friendly tap on the helmet.
    “Get an engineer up here,” West said.
    LCpl. James