Knife-Fighting Distance

First Lieutenant Jonathan Gonzalez leaned back against a palm tree and inhaled for five seconds, held it for five, then slowly exhaled. He did this repeatedly, trying to push down the rising panic in his chest. He’d been doing this a lot lately. As he finally started to feel a sense of calm, he looked up through the canopy of trees above him at the sliver of sunlight shining onto his face. Staring until his eyes hurt, he felt the uneasiness come back and started the breathing exercise again. Unexpectedly, he was jolted back to the present by one of his Marines slipping through the bush and shaking his shoulder.

“Sir! Carpe and Wagner are back,” he stage whispered.

Gonzalez stood and walked over to the hasty terrain model. He sat down and straightened his back, getting a grip on his composure. Two Marines came through the bushes, panting as they sat across from him. They looked like hell. Skinny, dirty, and out of breath, their uniforms a patchwork of issued items and things they had requisitioned from the abandoned houses on the island. 

“Sir, it’s just what we thought,” the one on the left said. “They’re breaking the line of sight on the horizon with their landing craft and then turning around, but they’re getting closer each time. They’re coming for us.”

Gonzalez sighed. “Yeah, we knew as much. Once they figure out there’s nothing over here that can halt them, they’re going to push.”

Staff Sergeant Owens spoke up to Gonzalez’s left. “Signal’s been up for two days, sir. Nothing from the fleet. We can try to get a message out, then hunker down.” 

Owens was referring to the trees they had cut down on the western beach in a pattern, hoping the fleet would look in their direction and recognize it as a distress signal.

“It might be worth the risk,” Gonzalez said. “But if they hear us send out any encrypted comms, they’ll glass this whole island. How many boom boxes we got left? Let’s see if they’re listening.”

“Couple, sir.”

“Okay, throw one.”

About 20 minutes later, Owens and Gonzalez were on a hilltop at the edge of the bush, wrapped in netting as they watched a Marine sprint away from a hut in a village and dive into the tree line. He had fired up a battery powered radio and left it in the building. 

“There it is, sir,” said Owens, pointing upward. They had become exceptionally good at spotting drones. It streaked over the tops of the trees, stopping to hover over the village, before diving sharply into the door of the hut and exploding, leveling the building.

Gonzalez rolled over onto his back and exhaled. “Well, that’s out. They probably suspect it’s military over here, but don’t want to chance the fleet noticing a bombardment. The plan is to land, wipe us out, and gain a foothold a little closer.”

“What do you think, sir?” asked Owens. “A company, at least?” 

“Yeah, with some stuff we can’t fight for good measure. Our traps will fix them at the landing site for at least a little bit, but they’ll get engineers on it in the second or third wave. We’re just a bloody platoon, man. We’ll get wiped eventually. If we can get the fleet to pound that beach and soften them up, we might stand a chance of holding out until reinforcements arrive.”

“I think it’s time to send him, sir.”

“I know, I’m just scared he won’t make it,” replied Gonzales, closing his eyes.

“Me too, sir.”

“Okay . . . it’s time. Let’s go,” he replied, standing up.

Ten minutes later, they walked back into the Patrol Base. 

“Bring up Pappy,” ordered Gonzalez. 

A Marine jumped up and ran into the bushes, coming back with a gray homing pigeon cradled softly against his chest. The bird had been with the platoon for several months and had become a pet and a mascot. He was also their last homing pigeon. The other 19 had been sent, some making it to their destination, some not. Pappy had proven himself on other islands, but those messages had just been for supplies. This one was for a fire mission and the reinforcements that would conceivably save their lives.

“Say goodbye, fellas,” said Owens, as he began writing a message on a small piece of paper. 

The bird remained calm as the Marines began passing him around. Some cradled him and spoke softly to him, some kissed him gently on the back of the head, and some held him to their forehead and prayed for him in their respective faiths. Eventually, the bird made its way to Owens, who rolled up a small message and tucked it into a tiny pouch affixed to the bird’s back.
He said a quick prayer, then handed the bird to First Lieutenant Gonzalez.

Gonzalez held up the bird and looked into its eyes. It cooed softly and looked back, almost as if it understood the gravity of this flight. Maybe Gonzalez was just projecting his own desperate optimism onto the situation, but it made him feel better. Pappy would have to dodge drones, predators, weather patterns, and even simply getting lost to deliver his vital message. 

“Fair winds,” whispered Gonzalez to the bird, before raising his hands and letting the pigeon fly off across the blue ocean to the west.

“ . . . and following seas,” said Owens.

Knife-Fighting Distance

The next fight will not be won by the smartest bombs and the most cutting-edge technology. While vital to success, dependence on those elements alone is dangerous. Victory will be a knife-fight—a face-to-face brawl with Marines on the ground, and the side that will win is the side that knows how to adapt to the environment. 

Consider the presence of armor on the battlefield. A hundred years ago, tanks were developed to push through entrenched enemy lines of tens of thousands of soldiers and turn the tide of a battle. A hundred years later, one man hiding behind a bush can get a catastrophic kill on a tank or light armored vehicle (LAV) with a guided missile carried on his back. That is not even taking into consideration the immense threat of drones. The true vulnerability of armor is starting to become more apparent—it is a big target. A battalion commander would be foolish to send a light armored reconnaissance company into a battlespace contested by antiarmor missiles.

Where countermeasures are continuously developed to overcome the advantage heavy armor presents on the battlefield, so, too, will counter-countermeasures be developed for today’s emerging technologies. This will likely lead to a stalemate—one that might look a great deal like the one in the opening vignette.

Does this mean that Marines should start training with carrier pigeons? Maybe.¹ Anything is possible in war. When imagining how to pass messages in a complete communications blackout, something like a pigeon is a viable solution. The fleet Navy and Marine Corps must train to thrive in these uncertain environments and know how to adapt to any situation. As this seeming inevitable conflict gets closer, there must be a shift in focus from technology that will almost certainly become superfluous when the real fighting starts. 

For every large amount spent on the acquisition of tablets so Marines can take a test online instead of using paper and a pencil, several battalions could be sent to a new base somewhere in the lower 48 states for a couple of weeks to train in a completely foreign environment. Every check written to fix the simulated marksmanship trainer could be redirected to the real weapons they simulate. Days of training learning to work the kinks out of a GPS system could be used in the mastery of a map and compass. The list goes on and on.

Imagine an infantry battalion that spent the workup training for weeks in Arkansas, Wisconsin, Idaho, and Oregon. Imagine the survival and combat capabilities of a group of Marines that were forced to overcome new climates, new terrain, and new problems every time they went to the field. Imagine the proficiency of units that frequently conducted training and live-fire on new ranges that they have never seen before, led by officers that were forced to actually do leaders reconnaissance because they had never seen the range before. Imagine the land navigation skills of a Marine that was forced to do map work and navigate his or her new environment instead of dead-reckoning to a point he or she has been to ten times previously. 

There are over 300 functioning military bases in operation in the United States alone. There is no need to imagine anything.

But what of tenacity, and hardness? At Marine Combat Training Battalion in the School of Infantry–West, a drastic transition was made in the program of instruction, in which students were required to drop their gear and fight each other at the end of hikes and training exercises.² The results were spectacular. The students raved about it in the end of the course critiques. For the first time in many of these men and women’s lives, they were forced to engage in combat and overcome their fears. For the cost of some protective pads to prevent concussions, the course drastically increased the fighting readiness of thousands of Marines over a short 21 days. 

Marines want this. They want to be challenged, to be put in harsh environments and forced to survive. The truth is, the Marines, sailors, and soldiers and Airmen are owed this. Leaders have a duty to prepare the fighting force as completely as possible for this future. That includes taking every opportunity to challenge them wholly and show them what they are capable of. The uncomfortable truth is, they may very likely be the person holding the screwdriver.

When the initial dust settles on the future conflict and all the lauded emerging technology finally sputters and dies, the United States will be left with nothing but Marines and sailors who will be forced to fall back on their capabilities as fighters and survivalists. Preparation time for combat is now, and it must be spent honing these skills.

A fancy knife is not going win this fight. An American who has been in 100 other knife fights will.

A Good Bird

Machine gun fire streaked across the island, arcing beautifully into the beaten zone where the enemy landing party was currently pinned down. Enemy drones zipped overhead, looking for its source. Each time a long burst ripped out of the tree line, the team picked up and moved to a new position and another machine gun picked up the fire. The teams leapfrogged each other quickly, constantly moving to ensure that the drones didn’t zero in on their position. Each new position had been vetted, and the gun data was already dialed in so that there was no lull in the fire. They had established these positions all over the island. Mortar teams were employing the same tactics, ensuring a constant barrage on the beach.

“It’s got them fixed for now, sir!” screamed Owens. “But once they get that armor on the beach we’re cooked.”

Gonzalez looked up from a paper map. “Have first squad punch them from the east. Thirty seconds, nothing more. I want them to think they’re still pinched. Guns and mortars cut, then pick back up. We need to confuse them.”

“Done, sir,” said Owens, running to the edge of his hit. He took a small dollar store laser pointer and flashed a series of Morse Code to 1st Squad, who was waiting a kilometer away. A single red flash in response. Five minutes later, supporting fires cut while 1st Squad engaged from the east. The direction of fire from the beach changed to the east, then cut completely in the confusion. They had been doing this for about four hours now, hoping for a miracle.

A Marine ran to their position from the tree line behind them. “Sir, another landing party. They’re unloading APCs, 30s on top.”

Gonzalez cursed, then righted himself. He needed more time, but all he could do at this point was hope and pray. As if God responded, another Marine ran to his position. 

“Sir, two flares in succession from over the horizon to the west, then one more.”

Gonzalez cursed again, much louder this time. “Get everybody back, now!” he screamed. 

Without pause, Owens fired a red flare straight into the sky. First Squad came sprinting from the east like bats out of hell, not caring about concealing anymore. About 30 seconds later, four cruise missiles hit the beach in quick succession, followed quickly by gun barrages from jets overhead. In the distance Gonzalez could hear rotors cutting the air, heading in their direction. Gonzalez dropped down onto his knees, defeated by the relief he felt.

“Good bird, sir,” said Owens.