44                                    U.S. MARINES IN THE PERSIAN GULF, I99O~1991

    "Merry Christmas," the stranger said.   "Merry Christmas," Shalno said.
Then he curled up on his own cot, no poncho liner, didn't even get into his
sleeping bag, and fell instantly asleep.
    In the morning, the flares had turned to black smoke over the horizon and
it was Christmas Day.
    The Marines had a Christmas tree made out of netting, toilet paper, plastic
plates, a cardboard star and some tinsel streamers that had come in all the
Christmas mail, tons of it, the whole country sending presents to these guys.
    A truck-full of carolers labored through the sand from company to company,
and Marines sang along with them in a tight, quiet way.
    "Anybody tells you morale is high, they're a damn liar," said Pfc. Joseph
Queen, who grew up in Northwest Washington. Then he went back to insulting
a fellow radio man, Lance Cpl.     Erik Holt, a Nez Perce Indian who was
disputing Queen's taste in athletic teams.
    "Celtics," said Queen.    "Chief, you must be drinking that Indian water
again."
    Back home in Washington, Queen would have been helping his grandmother
put toys together, he said.  "I'm one of her elves."
    Back in Idaho, Holt said, "we'd go to the sweathouse in the morning, pray
to the Great Spirit, tell Indian stories about old times."
    Wishing each other quiet Merry Christmases, Marines ambled toward the
drop points for morning chow, cereal and milk.  Four months of living in soft
sand has given them a slow tread that makes them look tired and preoccupied.
    "Reindeer!" somebody said.     Eight Marines had lined up in front of a
personnel carrier, and they pretended to pull it with a rope while guys on top
in Santa hats tossed candy and presents.
    "Actually, today is pretty motivating," said Staff Sgt. Brendon Van Beuge.
"You get the whole day off."
    A Marine standing behind him said, "The whole day."
    It wasn't sarcasm, it was the way Marines have of taking irony just far
enough that it becomes sincerity, and then taking that so far that it's irony again.
    Over at Dragons platoon--Dragons are antitank missiles carried by two-man
teams--Sgt. James Grassmick said, "Christmas," and lifted a slow thumb of
approval.
    In the back of their hooch, Gunnery Sgt. Darrell Norford heated coffee on
a little gasoline stove.
    "I've been married for seven years; I've been gone at Christmas for five of
them," he said. "Before we came out here, we'd only been back from training
in Panama for 24 hours. I patted my kids on the head, saw my wife ... and then
we headed for the desert."
    He had an old sergeant's way of watching you listen to him. "This thing
isn't for democracy or Kuwait or Texaco, it's for 50 percent of the world's oil
reserves, and that's what America runs on."
    A lot of Marines in this battalion said something like this, part realism, part
cynicism, part professionalism, part Casca and part because they've been alone