It was the Friday before Labor Day weekend in 2005, and swarms of people filled Raleigh-Durham International Airport, all anxious to visit their friends and family for the holiday. I too was fighting the crowds because I had been granted a well-deserved three-day leave to attend a friend’s wedding in Colorado.
For the past three months, my unit—1st Battalion, 8th Marines (1/8, pronounced “One Eight”)—had been stagnant because we assumed the duties as Alert Contingency Marine (ACM) Air Ground Task Force, the continental version of the forward-deployed Marine Expeditionary Units. While serving as the ACM battalion, all of our equipment (personal gear included) remained at the battalion headquarters, serialized and packed out, ready for any emergency in the Western Hemisphere. We maintained a constant state of readiness, deployable in six hours. It was only because of my commanding officer’s compassion that I was untethered for this personal event.
From the terminal window, I watched my bag ascend the conveyor belt into the plane’s belly. My row was called for boarding, so I joined the queue, boarding pass in hand. All the while, the televisions in the terminal blared with a constant stream of news about a deadly hurricane in New Orleans. Hurricane Katrina had flattened cities and townships all along the Gulf Coast; the levees on Lake Pontchartrain were breached, releasing floodwaters to cover New Orleans; families from Alabama to Louisiana waited and hoped for emergency crews to rescue their loved ones and restore essential services. Just as I approached the steward taking boarding passes, my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Sir, it’s Corporal Glover. We’ve been recalled. You have to come back. We’re deploying to Louisiana.”
A year prior, the battalion had returned from a seven-month deployment in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. The Marines of 1/8 had fought with the 1st Marine Division, primarily in the contested areas of Fallujah. These Marines were among the most combat-tested on the East Coast. In October 2005, the battalion was supposed to begin training for missions with the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit. But what now?
We were on a new type of mission. As I sat listening to the drone of the engines in the darkness of the C-130 inbound for Louisiana, I looked around at the men of the battalion dressed in body armor, combat loaded, and sitting silently. I contemplated the gravity and scope of the mission we were about to conduct. Our task was unknown, intangible, and unfamiliar. Who was the enemy? Was there an enemy? We were in “condition one”—magazine inserted, round chambered, and weapon safe. We had heard reports of looting and murders. Could these stories be true? Was it up to us to enforce martial law in a U.S. city? In Iraq, the mission had been clear: Destroy the enemy to save the city. Normal rules of engagement (ROE) could not be applied in the French Quarter.
The New Orleans mission was planned in the same methodical manner that Marines use when going into battle. Even the medical officer took it extremely seriously: “Each Marine will receive a hepatitis shot prior to entry and following egress from the city of New Orleans,” he said. “We will establish a medical and decontamination facility at the entry control point.” This military control was to take place on the same streets where tipsy sorority girls used to flash enthusiastic Mardi Gras party-goers for prized beads.
We landed in Slidell, Louisiana, on an airstrip lit with chem lights because the nearby power plant was flooded. We immediately started to unpack the gear and stage equipment for convoys into New Orleans. As the sun began to rise over Slidell, the tremendous devastation came into full view. Anything not bolted to the ground had been tossed by the heavy winds. Boats and refrigerators hung like Christmas ornaments in the trees lining the streets and filled the backyards of the neighborhoods. Cars were not parked on curbs or driveways; they were in yards, behind houses, or “parked” halfway in living rooms. Fallen trees had ripped homes in two. Plate glass windows were destroyed. Oil, water, and a menagerie of chemicals had been mixed into soups that filled the gutters and walkways and were waist-deep in the streets. The heaviest hit area, the township of Irish Bayou, on the northeast coast of Lake Pontchartrain, had been gutted and laid flat. Nothing but the skeletons of the homes remained.
It quickly became clear that our mission was not what we had originally thought. Louisiana didn’t need martial law; it needed divine intervention. We put down our weapons, picked up shovels, and began looking for anyone who needed assistance. We dug up rubble to release people in duress and helped others get their cars out of ditches so they could try to move on to help others.
The work in and around New Orleans involved a variety of efforts. Almost everything was being coordinated by local police, mayors, and civic leaders. Areas not flooded by water were flooded with Marines wielding sanitation and medical supplies and chainsaws. Local leaders led us to areas where trees and debris had to be cleared to provide residents access to their homes. Marines cut trees free from roofs, cleared roads, and helped distinguish trash from treasure for those unwilling to leave the hazardous zone.
The first few nights, we slept on the tile floor of a semi-flooded warehouse now emptied of any merchandise worth salvaging. Later we moved to the grassy expanse of the NASA assembly facility in Michoud, Louisiana. We would spend two to three days in one area and then move to a different area to assess damage, establish communications, and provide initial relief until local authorities could set up support services.
The flooding in New Orleans was subsiding slower than expected, but we were making progress. Then, as if conditions weren’t bad enough, the water became a stagnant soup-like mixture of oil, mud, tree branches, and debris broken free from and within homes. The damage to structures and civilians was monumental. Houses and other buildings in the city were flooded to the rooftops, and people were trapped for days. People’s possessions floated down roads, which now acted as canals. The putrid, fetid water grew worse each day, sickening hundreds of people. Our priorities shifted from disaster cleanup to rescue 9-1-1. Our commanding officer ordered the Marines to load up amphibious assault vehicles to rescue trapped citizens and to survey homes and facilities. We had to gear up to push through harsh terrain to save lives.
As the rescue effort progressed, another important mission was on the minds of many Marines. Nine months prior to Katrina, a member of 1/8 had lost his life on the streets of Fallujah while defending the city. LCpl. Bradley J. Faircloth was revered as a strong, courageous, and fun-loving Marine. The morning that we arrived in Louisiana, we learned that Faircloth’s mother, Kathleen, in Mobile, Alabama, had suffered significant damage to her home as Katrina swept the Gulf Coast. We couldn’t divert resources to our fallen brother’s family in the first seventy-two hours, but when there was sufficient stability, we sent a team to find the Faircloth family and provide special support. The members of Bradley’s platoon, using a private plane out of Slidell donated for the task, flew more than 115 miles to Mobile for a thirty-six-hour mission to clean up and fix Kathleen Faircloth’s home. It was an unconventional mission, but one that upheld the Marine Corps’ sense of brotherhood. We look out for our own—especially those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.
During the thirty-six hours, the Marines had the opportunity to share with Kathleen their memories of Bradley and stories from the battle of Fallujah. Though it is painful to hear the facts of combat, most widowed mothers want to know some of the details. They want to know how their sons died. These stories often sustain families. They are honored to know that their sons died bravely.
The battalion’s mission in New Orleans started with a declaration of martial law and ended with Marines extending hands of service to the neediest citizens. Nearly every aspect of the mission was challenging in new and unexpected ways. The Marines of 1/8 take pride in answering the call to serve, wherever, whenever.