![]() "We could never keep track of him,” says a Marine named Reineinger, who served as Tetrick's platoon sergeant on maneuvers in the Mediterranean a few years later. They made a somewhat strange pair: Tetrick was gregarious and glib, in his mid-20’s and already a little bit slick. They were acquaintances, in Saudi Arabia they became friends and that's where Crawford stole the Humvee.Īlmost from the get-go Crawford had employed Tetrick as a kind of unofficial scrounge, begging and borrowing supplies for the unit. Sergeant Doug Tetrick was there as well he and Crawford had met a few months earlier, back at Camp LeJeune on the North Carolina Coast. Captain Tom Crawford was there, working as an officer in Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the Marine Corps' own bomb squad. If the crimes can properly be said to have their origins anywhere, they can be traced back to 1991, with the Marine Corps’ presence in Desert Storm. Marine corps, dc.- 7 public affairs office: (703) 614 1492 public affairs officer lejeune (910) 451 5655 or 5782 ask for media officer. Naval Criminal Investigative Services: (910) 451 8255 They all started around Branch Davidians. “The first case of this magnitude that I’ve ever seen. REDACTED: Witham - convicted of conspiracy to commit larceny of mil property and explosives. Strong possibility I can talk to his client. Gerich got a special court martial, minor involvement. “When you’re looking at triple digits years, you’ll hand over your mother.” Charges disposing property, stealing property. steve earle on the rental car tape player.Ĭrawford trial begins June 8th at Camp LeJeune. pawn shops, loan offices, tattoo parlors. fast food, titty bars, 2ndhand military surplus. [Jacksonville a shithole, even other Marines descr. Substack has a space limit, so I’m posting it in two parts. It refers to things that happen in the story, but also to the story itself. While going over it again I decided that my notes were an interesting supplement to the story: they appear in between sections, in italics, with a few names and phone numbers redacted. Nothing here has been changed: all the names, dates, and facts are real. It happens: you move on.īut now, more than 20 years later, I have a way to publish it on my own. I suppose every writer and artist has a story like this: a project that was both perfect and cursed. Along the way, it was fact-checked two more times. Three editors at three other magazines were interested: two couldn’t convince their bosses, and one proved to be so obnoxious that I couldn’t work with him. After months of broken promises, I unilaterally pulled it, and tried to sell it elsewhere. We put it through an exigent bout of fact-checking (I had thousand of pages of documents, and maybe 15 hours of interviews), and then I waited. For reasons both complicated and banal, the editor who commissioned it, and whose magazine paid for it all, couldn’t bring himself to read it. The best piece of journalism I ever wrote, by far, was never published.
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