Marcus Gill stood on a balcony at Bethesda Naval Hospital in January 2010, still wearing his hospital gown with a halo brace screwed into his skull. He had just woken up from a two-month coma to learn that his best friend was dead and that his neck was broken.
“I asked the doctor how am I alive,” Gill said. “He said medicine couldn't explain how I survived, but if I wanted to know, I should ask God.”
Gill would eventually earn a degree in theological leadership and dedicate his life to protecting others—especially children. A drastic change from a rough childhood in Long Beach, California, the deadliest fighting in Afghanistan, and years searching for purpose after nearly dying on the Marine Corps birthday.
From the Streets of LA to Marine Corps Infantry
Born in 1988 in Long Beach, Gill was a child during the LA riots and raised in a neighborhood where college wasn't on anyone's radar. His parents were divorced and never attended college. By 18, Gill felt his dad was ready to kick him out.
“You get older, people are going to college, figuring life out. I needed to get it together.” Gill said. “I attribute my time in the Marine Corps for saving me from that.”
A friend's father—a retired sergeant major—inspired him. Seeing the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor and Marine Corps memorabilia in the man's home gave Gill something to aspire to. After his friend left for boot camp a year ahead of him, Gill visited him at the School of Infantry.
“Seeing and speaking to Marines changed my perspective,” Gill said.
He enlisted in late 2005, shipped to Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego in July 2006, and became a machine gunner with 1st Battalion, 5th Marines—one of the most storied infantry units in Corps history.
Becoming One of the First Lab Handlers in Afghanistan
After a deployment aboard the USS Tarawa with the 11th Marine Expeditionary Unit—including humanitarian work in Bangladesh and transiting the Strait of Hormuz during heightened tensions with Iran—Gill returned to prepare for Afghanistan.
In late 2008, his platoon sergeant asked for volunteers to become dog handlers before the deployment.
“I thought he was joking, I laughed,” Gill said. “He said, ‘Good, you're going to Virginia.’”
Gill became one of 13 Marines in his unit selected to take Labrador retrievers into Afghanistan instead of the traditional German shepherds or Belgian Malinois.
“Hearts and minds was our undertone in Afghanistan” Gill said. “What better way than a dog that will lick you and wag its tail? You see people with different cultures and temperaments change when a dog walks into the room.”
The handlers trained five days a week in rural Virginia with their dogs. Gill was matched with Izzy, a two-year-old female yellow Labrador retriever.
“I loved it, it brought out a whole different character in me,” Gill said. “I could play and be goofy. It's just the nature of Labradors. It gave me something else to take care of. When we weren't on patrols in Afghanistan, it was a companion. She became part of the family.”
Operation Strike of the Sword
In mid-2009, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines deployed to Helmand Province, Afghanistan, as part of Operation Khanjar—"Strike of the Sword”—the largest helicopter assault since Vietnam. The battalion's mission was to secure the Nawa district and rebuild infrastructure that had been devastated by years of Taliban control.
Gill and the other Marines first arrived at Camp Leatherneck, then Forward Operating Base Dwyer, before pushing deeper into Taliban territory.
“We stopped and the gunny said, ‘We're here,’” Gill said. “We built FOB Geronimo—the tip of the spear.”
The mission was to reopen government centers, rebuild schools, restore markets, and give control back to the people. The battalion ultimately built 11 schools during the deployment. FOB Geronimo housed hundreds of Marines in a remote location where temperatures reached 120 to 130 degrees.
As a K9 handler, Gill's job was route clearance and entry control point security—searching vehicles and personnel entering coalition bases. He and Izzy worked daily patrols, securing supply routes and searching the endless stream of “jingle trucks” that brought in gravel and construction materials.
“The heat was brutal for the Labs,” Gill said.
During one patrol protecting CNN's Anderson Cooper, Gill and his fellow Marine Lance Cpl. Justin Swanson stood security on a corner in a village when a small child appeared, then disappeared. Suddenly, something came flying over a fence toward them.
“It was smoking, we didn't know what it was,” Gill said. “Izzy ran up to it thinking it was a chew toy. She sat it in a puddle and turned to look at me. It fizzled out—it was a homemade grenade.”
The Marines stormed the house but never found the child. The village elder looked at them and claimed they were “the ghosts” of the valley, left there from the Russian invasion.
Gill and another handler also made a critical discovery during this time—identifying that Taliban bomb-makers were using coffee grounds and tobacco leaves combined with ammonium nitrate as accelerants in improvised explosive devices. The information spread quickly among British and American dog handlers, helping them identify threats more effectively.
But the deployment took a darker turn as casualties mounted. Sgt. William Cahir was shot and killed while trying to help rebuild the area, leaving behind a wife and two daughters with another child on the way.
Lance Cpl. David Baker later died in an IED attack while on foot patrol. Then came Lance Cpl. Donald Hogan, who earned the Navy Cross posthumously after spotting a string attached to an IED—he warned his Marines, then positioned himself between them and the device, sacrificing himself to save their lives.
“You saw people fighting for their lives,” Gill said. “It was hard to stomach.”
Gill vividly remembers coming off post and assuming quick reaction force duties when they heard an explosion. Two Taliban fighters had blown themselves up trying to plant an IED near a bridge. After Afghan National Army troops engaged in a firefight with other insurgents at the scene, Gill's team went on patrol to investigate.
“I took a short halt, I remember looking down and saw bullet casings and blood,” Gill said. “That was the realest it got for me—standing where someone was likely shot and killed right before I got there. It scared me. I never thought about shutting down or running away, just keep going forward.”
The Marine Corps Birthday That Changed Everything
On November 10, 2009—the Marine Corps' 234th birthday—Gill's unit investigated an intersection where several IED attacks had occurred. They were mounted on Humvees, gathering information, looking for any suspicious activity—Izzy was left on base in her kennel.
As they collapsed their security perimeter to return to base, their Humvee hit an IED.
“I was ejected from my machine gun turret when the Humvee flipped,” Gill said. Lance Cpl. Justin Swanson, Gill's driver and close friend, was killed immediately. Gunnery Sgt. Michael Rivera—a Marine who had searched through rubble at Ground Zero after 9/11—suffered severe leg injuries. Another Marine, Jason Sinks, was also wounded.
A corpsman initially thought Gill was dead; he wasn't breathing and had no pulse.
“Everyone thought I was dead,” Gill said. “They found out later my neck was broken in half.”
Gill has no memory of being transported from FOB Geronimo to Camp Bastion, then to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, then finally to Bethesda. He woke up just after New Year's Day 2010—two months after the blast.
The Commandant of the Marine Corps and the Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps were in his hospital room. His mother told him there had been an accident, that Justin was killed, and that he was hurt. They had just presented him with the Purple Heart.
“I got up. They took things out of my arm. I got up and angrily went down the hallway,” Gill said.
He was wearing a halo brace—a device screwed into his skull to immobilize his neck.
“I remembered these old Steven Seagal movies where he breaks the bad guys' necks and they die,” Gill said. “I asked the doctor how am I alive.”
The doctor simply responded that medicine couldn't explain his survival, and he should instead ask God.
The Long Road Home
Gill spent months recovering, first at Bethesda, then on convalescent leave at home, lying on a couch in the halo brace on pain medication. He wore the brace for four to five months.
“It was tough,” Gill said. “I couldn't drive. Couldn't really go to my appointments on my own.”
After the brace came off, Gill received orders to the Wounded Warrior Battalion, where he participated in equestrian therapy and other rehabilitation programs for nearly a year. His medical review board eventually cleared him for full duty, and he returned to 1st Battalion, 5th Marines as they prepared to deploy to Sangin Valley in early 2011.
But Gill wasn't the same Marine who had deployed to Nawa.
“I started experiencing panic attacks,” Gill said. “It was hard to breathe. I just lost my friend. I couldn't get a handle on things.”
The battalion took him off the deployment roster. While 1/5 fought through one of the bloodiest deployments of the war in Sangin, Gill remained stateside, struggling with the invisible wounds of war. The Marine Corps didn't have a strong understanding of PTSD at the time, and Gill found himself in trouble, receiving non-judicial punishment for incidents related to his struggles adapting to life after combat.
Gill left the Marine Corps in July 2012 after six years and two weeks of active duty.
“I felt like my unit forgot about me,” Gill said.
Izzy, his Labrador, had been sent back to Virginia after the deployment. Gill was unable to find her after an extensive search.
Finding Purpose After the Marine Corps
The transition to civilian life was difficult. Gill moved back into the same Long Beach apartment where his father had lived when he left for the Marine Corps.
“I wanted to be something different and get more out of life,” Gill said.
He enrolled at a community college, earned his associate degree, and then transferred to the University of Southern California. He earned his bachelor's degree at USC while starting a nonprofit to help children, bringing elements of Wounded Warrior Battalion programs to the civilian world.
When COVID-19 shut down California, Gill began working at a homeless veteran shelter. He eventually worked in executive protection for several celebrities. He later became a security supervisor at Boeing's Seal Beach facility before transitioning to school security work.
Then the VA called and offered him a chance to pursue a graduate degree.
“I immediately enrolled,” Gill said.
He earned his Master of Arts in Theological Leadership from Vanguard University in Orange County, graduating with a 4.0 GPA while serving as president of the veterans club.
“I wasn't religious before the military,” Gill said. “My first dog tags said no preference. The ones I carried in Afghanistan, and today, say Christian.”
Now 36 and married with two daughters ages 6 and 3, Gill works as one of 56 bodyguards for the Roman Catholic Bishop of Orange County. His primary assignment is providing armed security at a K-8 Catholic school in North Orange County.
“Like my gunny said, ‘Make yourself as useful as possible,’” Gill said.
He's now preparing to pursue a Ph.D. in Education to continue his mission to help others—especially children.
Carrying the Weight of Loss
The burden Gill carries is heavy. According to Gill, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines suffered 61 total losses—31 from suicide, more than died in combat. Gill knew almost every single one.
“I exercise. I write a lot,” Gill said. “I found that writing has been a great outlet for me. Having a relationship with God really helped. I realized that this world is so much greater than anything that you can hold in the palm of your hand, so what you can achieve is greater.”
The most recent loss came in August. “I think maybe I'm the lucky one,” Gill said. “I don't remember anything. They remember everything. I got a Purple Heart and almost died, but I'm still alive.”
Gill also recently lost his sister.
The losses have taught him to prioritize what matters, to focus on his family, his faith, and his mission to help others. He owns a home, has a promising career, and has built a family—quite a journey from his childhood in Long Beach.
“The Marine Corps gave me the ability to imagine and have the capacity to be greater than myself,” Gill said. “I will always love it. It's the only family I ever had, with the exception of my wife and daughters today.”
When asked what he wants current and future Marines to know, Gill replied: “I love my Marines,” he said. “Pay attention to your history. It is rich with lessons, morals, and stories of heroics. Pay attention. It will continue for another 250 years.”
