STORY BEHIND THE PLAQUE
Service Reflections of CPL Dan Olson, U.S. Marine Corps (2009-2013)

As a child, I always wanted to be a Marine and spent many hours watching movies and playing “war” with friends in the backyard wearing surplus WWII, Korea, and Vietnam apparel and gear given to me by my “uncle” Jr. The late 90s, while I was in high school, was a relative time of peace, and the few people I did see joining the military were doing it for college money, which, while making sense to me, also kind of soured the idea for me. In my senior year in 2000, the Army National Guard ran a recruiting event in the quad area at lunch, and a friend and I added our names to a list to get more information; my mother always told me that the military would brainwash me and that I was flat-footed and wouldn’t be accepted anyway (I’m not flat-footed) and when that Army Sgt called the house I heard my mother quickly give him a piece of her mind and then abruptly hang up on him, and that was the end of that, I wasn’t fully committed to the idea myself and had apprehensions and concerns about whether I’d be up to military life and honestly was unsure that I even had what it takes to make it through boot camp. After high school, I worked for my family, got engaged, and took out a loan for my first home. Then September 11th happened. I was angry, and silly as it may sound, I was filled with guilt as I saw on the news the brave men and women my age who answered the call to service both before and during this unprecedented time in our country. Still, I had obligations here at home and continued on my current course at the time. Years passed, and I grew older and feared that my youth would quickly pass me by. Then, the economic recession of 2008 hit.

I had worked for almost a decade as an underdog, clawing to reach management positions in the company, and had just landed an excellent leadership role in the office running the show. We were not hit immediately by this downturn, but when it caught up, it hit hard, and I lost my job and could no longer afford my home or anything else for that matter; it was a dark time as I saw my neighbors lose their homes one by one, I would lose my own later on. I used to watch the now-discontinued Military Channel around this time, and they would run short promo commercials where military members would explain their stories and motivations for joining. One of them was an older gentleman who joined the Army and prospered while even becoming a Ranger, I believe, and it made me wonder if I still had it in me to follow my childhood dream and possibly become a Marine. I called the local Marine Corps recruiting station and talked to a Sgt Walker and let him know I was cautiously interested in joining; he was cold and frank with me and told me that at 27 years old, I was useless to the Corps and that he wasn’t interested in even meeting up with me. This was crushing and sad, and I considered dropping this silly idea very seriously. But for whatever reason, I walked into the station anyway and talked to Sgt Costa, who was very interested in speaking to me, and the process was starting. I would later move to Prescott, AZ, and deal with another recruiter, a Purple Heart combat veteran of Falluja, Sgt Magallanes, where I would swear into our armed forces on September 11th, 2009 (8 years after the attack). Although my delayed entry experience would be long and full of unforeseen roadblocks, I would eventually report to Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego, California, on December 7th, 2009.

During my recruitment experience, I believed that I was joining the infantry. I was never lied to during this time and would later realize I was fully informed and ignorant. My recruiter allowed me to believe that I was joining as a grunt. In truth, I signed an un-designated contract and joined with no specific job at all.

My original platoon at MCRD was Hotel Co 2162. I was so afraid that I wouldn’t be able to cut it and would fail miserably, but to my surprise, boot camp was relatively doable and, as it would seem, much easier than many in my platoon. I was never in front of a crowd. Still, I was never near the end, either. I understood that the mind games that were played were usually a method of time management by the DIs, as I could see them checking the schedules that were written inside their “Smokey Bear” covers before the commencement of our torture. I rode well under the radar and stayed out of trouble.

Disaster would finally catch up with me during field week at Camp Pendleton, where a regrettable event would cause me a boxer fracture in my right hand. I had no idea what I was expecting would happen, but I would go three days with this severe injury without reporting it. It was only finally discovered during rifle drill when, while marching with my rifle at my right shoulder arms, my drill instructor hit my affected hand while shouting, “90-degree angle!” My cursing in pain and the highly swollen hand would reveal all. I was immediately dropped from my company and sent to medical for a cast and a lengthy recovery in the medical rehabilitation platoon.

I would suffer as well from MRSA in both legs and would require crutches to go along with my broken hand in a cast. I never lost the drive to get through and become a Marine, though, and I would later Join Lima Co platoon 3250. I fit right in and back to riding under the radar for a while before being made a squad leader, where I was frequently sent to the quarterdeck to pay for the sins and failures of those in my squad.

From there, it was SOI at Camp Pendleton, where I spent the whole time as squad leader. SOI seemed relatively short, and I don’t remember much about it, but I would find that I still was without an MOS towards the end of this.

They asked me to give three jobs I would like to have in the Corps and that I’d probably get one of them. I chose infantry, military police, or light armored reconnaissance. I was told I would be light armored reconnaissance, but when the time came to go to a specific area to be briefed on our new careers, I was told to report to an area that would be shipped to Pensacola, Florida. There, I was informed that my new job was going to Aviation Ordnance. Embarrassingly, I did not know that the Marine Corps had an air wing or had at least never really thought about it. I had never heard of Aviation Ordnance, so I had to Google it. I saw the Navy’s description of it and was initially devastated. At least then, I was excited to find out that I was going to what I assumed was an amazing summertime wonderland in Florida. I would later find out that, for my part, Pensacola was a hellish unlivable shithole that I, to this day, I refuse ever to revisit. The humidity and heat were extreme, and the physical training here, maybe because of this, was brutal and seemed much worse than boot camp and SOI combined. And the stringent field day criteria and crappy deserter/AWOL roommate situation assured that my liberty pass was almost always revoked. I don’t have many happy memories from this place.

We were disliked by the Navy and Air Force students here probably because of us being Marines and running circles around their formations and motivated Marine Corps pushups in front of the barracks at midnight; this eventually resulted in the Marines being evicted from that particular building the day after finally setting up a common area for us all to watch DVDs and congregate. I was happy to leave this place.

My next school would be in New Bern, North Carolina, at MCAS Cherry Point. This place was forested and beautiful, and although our barracks were reportedly near condemned, I liked it better here. Our physical training In Pensacola was so extreme that no matter what they tried to do here, it felt easy in comparison. Our class was older and more mature than most, and our instructors initially loved us. I would end up with the second highest grade here and be told that I was getting promoted meritoriously to LCpl upon leaving here, but a ridiculous and foolish event involving one imbecile having alcohol in a room we were hanging out in along with a lack of integrity by some involved would lead to almost the entire class getting NJP’d and subsequently placed on restriction for our remaining time in North Carolina. I would then have to report to my new command at Camp Pendleton, a shit-bag private instead of a meritoriously promoted LCpl.

Despite this crushing defeat, I hit the ground running and gained notoriety for my hard work, respectful attitude, and initiative. Many outside work centers sent emails to my leadership praising these qualities, and although meritorious promotions would be often discussed, I would never receive one. I volunteered for every school and detachment offered. I received a Certificate Of Commendation for my time in Afghanistan for OEF 12.2 and 13.1, where I was stationed at Bastion/Camp Leatherneck and COP Shukvani. I fully intended to stay in the Marine Corps and started the process of reenlisting as an EOD tech, but I had made the classic Marine mistake of getting married. My family invited me back to AZ to continue my previous job, and I left the Corps as a Cpl. I, of course, miss it every day and wonder, “What if.”

I participated in OEF 12.2-13.1. While stationed at Camp Leatherneck, we were attacked on September 14th, 2012, just after 10 pm. This attack resulted in the death of 2 Marines and the loss and damage of many aircraft, including 6 Harrier jets. Another Marine and I would later spend the majority of my deployment at COP Shukvani, which was a small FARP and an infantry outpost for the Georgian Army. There was a small US Army medical tent here, and we would sometimes help unload casualties from medical helicopters. The casualties were mainly ANA and ANP and local women and children. It’s unfortunate to see what the Taliban would do to their people.

Before we were attacked at Camp Bastion, we were told that this place was impenetrable. Prince Harry was stationed here at that time as well as an Apache pilot, which made me believe even more that we would have the appropriate amount of security.

I was working 12-hour night shifts at this time, and we were bored as usual and doing inventory in the magazine area. I was a 7-ton driver and was supposed to deliver a load of flares to the Osprey squadron around 10 pm that night. Still, for whatever reason, the forklift refused to start, and I could not unload what was currently on my truck, so instead, I helped with inventory. We were singing a random rap song when we heard the first explosion. It was strange to listen to an explosion this late at night, but we thought maybe it was EOD. Shortly after that, we heard gunshots and then saw a massive explosion, which I believe now was the fuel farm being RPG’d. At this time, our radio went off, and we were told to muster at the main building. There was a base PA system that also at this time made an announcement but the sound hit each speaker at a different time which meant that you could only understand maybe the first three words before the sound became a jumble of bullshit.

We quickly mounted M240 machine guns to the turrets of our 7-ton and made talk of heading straight towards the airfield, where we knew the crew on the field wore only coveralls and carried maybe 20 rounds if they even carried their rifles at all. We were quickly told that we would be staying in the ordnance area to protect the the ordnance from attack I was positioned facing highway one where we were given hundreds of 5.56 rounds as well as 7.62 for the 240 and an AT4 rocket launcher.

We were given inaccurate reports of an attack force coming our way all night. We stayed on high alert all night in the pitch black in the turret with only a flip-down FLIR camera in the cab of the 7ton. I and many others believed that many of our friends were likely killed sleeping in their beds during this attack, and I waited with bated breath for them to come our way. For hours, no helicopters made it off the ground, and we received no real word on what was happening outside our facility. I remember thinking about how our military at the safest base could become so grounded and disoriented and why we were not receiving any information. A Cobra helicopter and Huey finally got off the ground and laid waste to the attackers.

To my understanding, only one insurgent survived and was taken captive. At some point the next day, we drove down to the airfield to the site of multiple dead insurgents littering the ground along with burning husks of Harrier Jets, chunks of bullet-riddled concrete, and the burning remnants of the fuel farm. We were only at this time made aware that all but two of our Marines had survived. A Marine Sgt was killed, as well as the Commanding Officer of the Harrier squadron, a LtCol. RIP.

I love Southern California, and to this day, I still see Camp Pendleton as home, and to this day I visit it often. For reasons I don’t understand, I also miss Afghanistan; I loved it there and don’t know why. Summers were brutal and 120+ degrees during the day, but unlike AZ, where I’m from, it was cooler at night, and I don’t believe I’ll ever see the stars at night with the same awe-inspiring clarity that I was privileged to observe while in the country. The winter was extremely cold, which was also very different from AZ. My least favorite will forever be NAS Pensacola. That place was hell on earth as far as I’m concerned, and I don’t plan ever to return.

I think about my time in the Corps every day. I wish I had stayed in, although I’ve enjoyed much success and opportunity outside of it.

I’m proud that I made NCO despite my early setbacks and my MOS, locking out promotions for months at a time. I’m proud that I maintained excellent pros/cons, high rifle scores, and high first-class PFTs and CFTs during my time in service.

My Certificate of Commendation from Afghanistan.

Sgt Magallanes, my recruiter

MGySgt Scott

Capt Najmulski

All great role models

Darren Bali – boot camp and school house

Justin Tisdale – school house and Camp Pendleton

Kofi Dodi – Afghanistan

I’d love to know what my friend Eagland is up to. We went to Pensacola at the same time.

Tisdale walked from the barracks to formation in his Chucks, wearing slippers while holding his corframs so he did not scuff them on the way. Or the time he tried to check in to a new command in his service alfas with the wrong rank and attempted to sew the correct one on himself at the airport an hour before check-in.

I work for my family’s company as a commercial construction estimator doing CAD takeoffs all day behind a desk.

The VFW has been beneficial to me post-active duty, and I truly appreciate them. I also do virtual events with Team RWB from time to time and definitely recommend them as well.

I learned that I have more in me even after I feel all has been spent. The Marines showed me that I can prosper beyond the limits I’ve placed on myself.

Volunteer for all detachments and attend any and all schools that are offered. Becoming more valuable was both a blessing and a curse, but most of my fondest memories come from these detachments and schools.

This is a great site, and I appreciate its existence.