ESSAY

When we received orders to go to the Gulf, we were in Scotland, preparing to deploy to Norway. We joked it was typical, letting the Commando take weeks to prepare for a winter deployment before dispatching us to what looked on the news like the hottest place on earth. Not that we were complaining -- no one else in the Corps was going, and Norway would be just as cold and wet next year. But we could have used more than three days to get back to Plymouth, hand back winter gear, draw desert gear, receive briefings on the Iraqi army, find the gasmask we hadn't used since training, get vaccines for everything from insect-borne infections to anthrax and plague. Oh, and write a will.

I can't remember exactly where on the list writing a will came. But it was a long way down, certainly way below the plague and anthrax jabs. I didn't write mine, and neither did any of my troop. We were young, strong and invincible, after all -- 42 Commando's finest. And once Saddam's Republican Guardsmen heard we were coming they'd drag themselves out of their dusty, dirty holes and scuttle back to Baghdad. Write a will? Why bother? We'd be home by Christmas.

We spent Christmas in the Gulf. A few weeks later, as the Scuds started to fly, I was given charge of a troop plus, about 50 men, and attached to the United States Marine Corps expeditionary force in the Northern Persian Gulf.

At about the time the sergeants and I were running out of ways to entertain the men with weapons drill and exercise as we waited for combat, I was ordered to see the captain. This caused a stir -- the ship's officers usually did everything in their power to avoid having contact with Marines -- so by the time I returned to the suffocating gloom of the vehicle deck, all the men were waiting in three unusually disciplined ranks to hear the news.

Someone at brigade headquarters had taken the time to write out an order reminding us to set our affairs in order and write our wills. The captain took this to mean we were headed into harm's way and he behaved with considerable gravitas while delivering the message to me. I attempted to do likewise, but if I expected a sober response from the Marines , I was disappointed. Far from behaving in a thoughtful, solemn fashion, they hooted, cheered, slapped each other on the back, threw their berets in the air, shouted insults at the distant, dusty enemy, and celebrated the fact that they were now, for real, going to war.

After the initial euphoria died down, the job of writing wills began. Some of the married men simply left everything to their wives. The majority, who had few possessions and fewer savings, divvied it all up amongst their family: Brother gets the car, Dad gets the stereo, Mum gets the bicycle, Sister gets the record collection.

A handful of the older Marines found themselves in a tougher position. These men had been in the Corps for years. Several were divorced. They had savings, investments, life insurance policies. Some had property. Some had children. And none of them had any way of taking stock of their financial situation, thousands of miles from home, with no access to a telephone to call a bank manager or a financial advisor.

So they came to what the chain of command said was the next best thing.

I had celebrated my 22nd birthday while in Dubai. I had completed officer training less than six months before. The class on troop husbandry and financial affairs was barely a wisp of a memory. So wispy, in fact, that I wasn't entirely certain there had been a class on troop husbandry and financial affairs. The only reason my own financial affairs were in order was because I had no money. Fortunately, I had no debt, either. I was lucky enough to have been such an appalling credit risk that the bank had refused my application for a credit card.

So, when the corporals and Marines began coming to me for advice, I felt even more at sea than I was already. I had no idea how to field questions about pensions, income streams from investments, or even who a next of kin was (estranged wife or brother?). So I did what every half decent officer or manager does, and improvised.

Actually, I walked into the wardroom and bought the purser a large Laphroaig Scotch. And then another. The purser is the ship's equivalent of a chief financial officer, or at least the head accountant. I'm ashamed to say I do not remember his name, but he sat me down, talked me through the basics, and gave me enough information to help the men who needed it. He told me that every man on his ship, in fact every man in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary, rewrote and signed his will every time they took a new position aboard a vessel. This effectively meant that even the youngest steward took stock of his financial situation every two years, at least.

I was amazed, and embarrassed. I knew from conversations back at Plymouth that even some company commanders didn't have a will, and they'd been in uniform for more than a decade. The Royal Marines did not devote much time or resources to helping their people manage personal finances.

That became clear, very quickly. Most of the Marines had racked up debt without a second thought. Those with cars and motorbikes and TV/VCRs were in deep, easy prey to credit card companies who back then were just getting started on introducing the British population to the dubious attractions of leverage. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how dangerous this could be. We received mail only rarely, so it was possible that a Marine could open his correspondence to find not only the inevitable Dear John, but several angry letters from bank managers, card companies, collection agencies. This was hardly a recipe for good morale.

I'd be lying if I said I spent the weeks running up to the assault on Kuwait teaching the troop how to balance their checkbooks. Once the wills were written, it was back to weapons training and Scud spotting. Fortunately Saddam's missiles never seemed to hit anything but open water, and his guardsmen did go back to Baghdad in the end, so none of those wills had to be read aloud when we got home.

I'm told that the British forces are getting better about helping servicemen and women with their personal financial matters, but that it's still something of an afterthought. The tendency is to not to probe into a person's affairs until it becomes a problem. And the order to write a will is still toward the bottom of the operational tasklist. I'm sure Marines still ignore or forget about it, just as I did. The truth is that when you're young and fit, and at the peak of your potential, dying is the most distant of possibilities. Writing a will is at best an absurdity; at worst an acknowledgement that the worst can happen.

Which is why a Marine's support staff is so important: spouses, who can encourage frank discussion and early decisions, and ensure that Marines deploy without having to worry about bank demands and utility bills; parents, who can draw on their own experiences and offer guidance; friends who can offer advice and long-range help; and, of course, officers, who can stay awake in those personal finance classes at the Academy.

Paddy Hirsch
Marketplace Senior Editor