Your Daddy was mad as hell
He was mad at me and you
As he tied that chain to the front of my car and pulled me out of that ditch that we slid into
Don't know what his problem is
Why he keeps sendin' me away
Don't know why I put up with this shit
When you don't put out and Zip City's so far away
Your Daddy's a deacon down at the Salem Church of Christ
And he makes good money as long as Reynolds Wrap keeps everything wrapped up tight
Your Mama's as good a wife and Mama as she can be
And your sister's puttin' that sweet stuff on everybody in town but me
Your brother was the first-born, got ten fingers and ten toes
And it's a damn good thing cause he needs all twenty to keep the closet door closed
Maybe it's the twenty-six mile drive from Zip City to Colbert Heights
Keeps my mind clean
Keeps me from having to deal with my seventeen-year-old mind all alone
Keep your drawers on, girl, it ain't worth the fight
By the time you drop 'em I'll be gone
And you'll be right where they fall the rest of your life
You say you're tired of me taking you for granted
Waitin' up till the last minute to call you up and see what you want to do
But you're only fifteen, girl, you ain't got no secretary
And "for granted" is a mighty big word for a country girl like you
You know it's just your Daddy talkin'
'Cause He knows that blood red carpet at the Salem Church of Christ
Ain't gonna ever see no wedding between me and you
Zip City it's a good thing that they built a wall around you
Zip up to Tennessee then zip right down to Alabama
I got 350 heads on a 305 engine
I get ten miles to the gallon
I ain't got no good intentions
2008-08-30
2008-08-26
Day of Days
Tuesday was pretty eventful for me. Nothing like a Band of Brothers episode, but I was on the move constantly and making things happen. I think what made it stand out in my eyes is the fact that it's a good example of what's becoming a "typical" workday for me.
Mornings are usually a madhouse from about 0700 until sometime around 1030 or so. Basic Platoon Sergeant business: checking accountability on your guys, ensuring an accurate morning report, checking that the barracks Duty NCOs are posted and relieved, responding to taskers from the Battalion or the Company Commander... it all just turns into a non-stop hit parade most mornings.
That afternoon, the Battalion Executive Officer (XO) bought me a Pepsi... then proceeded to announce to the entire Company that I'd won a bet with him about a specific aspect of uniform regulations. He then shook the bottle furiously and handed it over, giving me a pat on the back and a handshake. I'm not sure if the announcement won me respect from anyone, but every Marine in the building damn sure knew about it.
An hour or so later, we had a celebrity visitor drop by (which isn't as rare as you'd think). John Mayer played in Raleigh last night, and had contacted the Public Affairs office here to see if he could make an unannounced, low-key visit Tuesday to meet some wounded and injured Marines to thank them for their sacrifice and just hang out for an hour or so. Personally, I haven't really heard any of his music, but I did recognize his name. Apparently he's pretty popular, because there were MANY Marines and others from outside the Battalion that mysteriously appeared just before he showed up.
Right after he arrived, one of the Sergeants who was playing tour guide for him and his crew named me specifically as one of the platoon sergeants who takes care of the Marines and runs the Company daily. I shook John's hand, talked to him for a bit, and later answered a couple of his questions about different wounds and injuries that many of my Marines have. He seemed genuinely interested, and even asked if we had a unit t-shirt he could get hold of. 45 seconds later, after an NCO had magically located one in his size and given it to him, he was smiling like it was Christmas. He read the back of it - a helmeted skull and crossed crutches with the words "Sweat dries, blood clots, bones heal, chicks dig scars" - and joked that next time he slept with a supermodel, he'd wear it. At least the guy has a sense of humor!
Later that afternoon, we secured the Company and I went back to my barracks room to unwind a bit and grab some dinner. Just as I arrived at the SNCO Club and ordered a gigantic greasy burger, my Company Commander called. One of my Sergeants (call him Sgt C.), who was in a call-in patient status due to the strength of his medications, had apparently showed up drunk for an appointment that morning. Later in the afternoon, he missed a different appointment altogether. Already, alarm bells were ringing. I like C. a lot, and when he first checked in he struck me as a good to go Marine who wanted to take care of himself and make a full recovery. I was also concerned since his medical issues are all psychological, and VERY deep.
Cutting to the chase, by the time I'd tracked him down an hour later, he was on his way to the Naval Hospital in a Sheriff's car. He'd tried to check himself into a civilian rehab facility because he's been drinking a LOT more than usual over the past two weeks, as well as acting out some. The drinking ramped up right after his doctor yanked all the meds out from under him, and a close friend eventually convinced him to check himself into rehab. As soon as they heard the "S" Word at the civilian facility, the slapped a court order on him mandating his admission to Naval Hospital. I'd known that C. was going through a really rough patch - he's called me just to talk a few times, and he told me about a setback he had a week or two ago - but I still felt like I'd let him down by not being there sooner. Staying there with him in the ER for a few hours didn't count for shit in my book, because I might have been able to help if I'd taken that time days or weeks earlier. At least that's how I view it.
He's a good Marine, and he's even told me that he really would love to get back to his unit and deploy again because "they're my boys, you know?". I believe him when he says that, and what's more, I actually trust him. I know I can't help him work through his issues - frankly, I don't want to. That's not my job, and something that will take a LOT of time and effort. But C., this total Southie from Boston who loves his Harley, rides in a motorcycle club, and has been through God knows what in the past four years... I think he trusts me as well. To me, that's more important than what questions are asked about how this happened, who dropped the ball, or why he wound up doing what he did.
Someday, I really do hope that someone figures out how to treat severe PTSD effectively. When that happens, I will go to the ceremony in Sweden in full battle rattle and jack someone's Nobel Prize at gunpoint so I can award it to that guy. If modern medical science can ever crack the code on that one, millions of veterans from the past forty years or so could regain control of their lives. Friends and loved ones who feel the second- and third-order effects of PTSD would have a great burden lifted off their shoulders as well. Sadly, this is one rare problem that I can bitch about all day long and still not even begin to propose a solution for, and I hate that.
I got back from the ER around 2200, changed back into utilities, and made my rounds as Officer of the Day. I went through the motions, toured my assigned areas, filled out my logbook, and got back to the crib around 2300. Even then, C. was still on my mind. Since that night, nobody in my chain of command has even asked me for a detailed explanation (I briefed my Captain on the phone as events unfolded), much less questioned my actions as a leader over what went down with Sgt C. Maybe I'm seeing a problem where there really is none... but if nothing else, I know I've learned a valuable lesson and I thank God that he's getting some help instead of face down in a ditch somewhere.
If there is such a thing, I guess sometimes I care way too much about my Marines.
Quotation of the Moment: "If you ever get bored with your life, try risking it." - Albert Camus
Song of the Moment: "Medication" (acoustic) - Garbage
Mornings are usually a madhouse from about 0700 until sometime around 1030 or so. Basic Platoon Sergeant business: checking accountability on your guys, ensuring an accurate morning report, checking that the barracks Duty NCOs are posted and relieved, responding to taskers from the Battalion or the Company Commander... it all just turns into a non-stop hit parade most mornings.
That afternoon, the Battalion Executive Officer (XO) bought me a Pepsi... then proceeded to announce to the entire Company that I'd won a bet with him about a specific aspect of uniform regulations. He then shook the bottle furiously and handed it over, giving me a pat on the back and a handshake. I'm not sure if the announcement won me respect from anyone, but every Marine in the building damn sure knew about it.
An hour or so later, we had a celebrity visitor drop by (which isn't as rare as you'd think). John Mayer played in Raleigh last night, and had contacted the Public Affairs office here to see if he could make an unannounced, low-key visit Tuesday to meet some wounded and injured Marines to thank them for their sacrifice and just hang out for an hour or so. Personally, I haven't really heard any of his music, but I did recognize his name. Apparently he's pretty popular, because there were MANY Marines and others from outside the Battalion that mysteriously appeared just before he showed up.
Right after he arrived, one of the Sergeants who was playing tour guide for him and his crew named me specifically as one of the platoon sergeants who takes care of the Marines and runs the Company daily. I shook John's hand, talked to him for a bit, and later answered a couple of his questions about different wounds and injuries that many of my Marines have. He seemed genuinely interested, and even asked if we had a unit t-shirt he could get hold of. 45 seconds later, after an NCO had magically located one in his size and given it to him, he was smiling like it was Christmas. He read the back of it - a helmeted skull and crossed crutches with the words "Sweat dries, blood clots, bones heal, chicks dig scars" - and joked that next time he slept with a supermodel, he'd wear it. At least the guy has a sense of humor!
Later that afternoon, we secured the Company and I went back to my barracks room to unwind a bit and grab some dinner. Just as I arrived at the SNCO Club and ordered a gigantic greasy burger, my Company Commander called. One of my Sergeants (call him Sgt C.), who was in a call-in patient status due to the strength of his medications, had apparently showed up drunk for an appointment that morning. Later in the afternoon, he missed a different appointment altogether. Already, alarm bells were ringing. I like C. a lot, and when he first checked in he struck me as a good to go Marine who wanted to take care of himself and make a full recovery. I was also concerned since his medical issues are all psychological, and VERY deep.
Cutting to the chase, by the time I'd tracked him down an hour later, he was on his way to the Naval Hospital in a Sheriff's car. He'd tried to check himself into a civilian rehab facility because he's been drinking a LOT more than usual over the past two weeks, as well as acting out some. The drinking ramped up right after his doctor yanked all the meds out from under him, and a close friend eventually convinced him to check himself into rehab. As soon as they heard the "S" Word at the civilian facility, the slapped a court order on him mandating his admission to Naval Hospital. I'd known that C. was going through a really rough patch - he's called me just to talk a few times, and he told me about a setback he had a week or two ago - but I still felt like I'd let him down by not being there sooner. Staying there with him in the ER for a few hours didn't count for shit in my book, because I might have been able to help if I'd taken that time days or weeks earlier. At least that's how I view it.
He's a good Marine, and he's even told me that he really would love to get back to his unit and deploy again because "they're my boys, you know?". I believe him when he says that, and what's more, I actually trust him. I know I can't help him work through his issues - frankly, I don't want to. That's not my job, and something that will take a LOT of time and effort. But C., this total Southie from Boston who loves his Harley, rides in a motorcycle club, and has been through God knows what in the past four years... I think he trusts me as well. To me, that's more important than what questions are asked about how this happened, who dropped the ball, or why he wound up doing what he did.
Someday, I really do hope that someone figures out how to treat severe PTSD effectively. When that happens, I will go to the ceremony in Sweden in full battle rattle and jack someone's Nobel Prize at gunpoint so I can award it to that guy. If modern medical science can ever crack the code on that one, millions of veterans from the past forty years or so could regain control of their lives. Friends and loved ones who feel the second- and third-order effects of PTSD would have a great burden lifted off their shoulders as well. Sadly, this is one rare problem that I can bitch about all day long and still not even begin to propose a solution for, and I hate that.
I got back from the ER around 2200, changed back into utilities, and made my rounds as Officer of the Day. I went through the motions, toured my assigned areas, filled out my logbook, and got back to the crib around 2300. Even then, C. was still on my mind. Since that night, nobody in my chain of command has even asked me for a detailed explanation (I briefed my Captain on the phone as events unfolded), much less questioned my actions as a leader over what went down with Sgt C. Maybe I'm seeing a problem where there really is none... but if nothing else, I know I've learned a valuable lesson and I thank God that he's getting some help instead of face down in a ditch somewhere.
If there is such a thing, I guess sometimes I care way too much about my Marines.
Quotation of the Moment: "If you ever get bored with your life, try risking it." - Albert Camus
Song of the Moment: "Medication" (acoustic) - Garbage
2008-08-21
I have a dream...
So... back in June, Congress finally passed the Post-9/11 GI Bill, which my main man Jim Webb co-sponsored back in 2006. I won't lie, I took notice. I had been vaguely hearing a thing or two about this for a while now, and as a guy who paid in his $1200 for the Montgomery GI Bill way back in the day, I was somewhat interested. Not paying close attention, mind you... just vaguely registering a change on my radar.
I won't lie, I've been going through some major changes lately. What SSgt Sykes would call "some pretty heavy dope". But eventually, I pulled my head out of my ass and figured something out: this is a lifelong dream that's essentially plopped in my lap, screaming "TAKE ME! Carpe Diem, you big retard!"
The MGIB pretty much sucked, no doubt. It gave you something like "$28,000 towards college", which ain't a lot of return for a four- to thirty-four year investment by a guy like me who joined the Marine Corps. Granted, I never once for a moment made that decision because of the college money - belive me, a million times please believe me, when I say that. I'm just sayin', if you enlist at all, it's a minimum eight years of your life you've put on the line. And, yet again, I digress.
The Post-9/11 GI Bill is a HUGE improvement. If I ever meet Jim Webb, I'll probably give him a hug - but not in that gay way. I just owe him one, because the new GI Bill offers:
Let me tell you a thing or two about the University of Georgia. I was born in Dalton, as were my mom, dad, and sister. Mom's got four sisters, five brothers, and each of them have at least two kids. I can't swing a dead cat in North Georgia without hittin' someone who's kin. Seriously, I have stories to back that up.
And nobody in my family has ever enrolled at UGA, much less graduated from there.
To me, this is kind of like realizing you just won the goddamn lottery two or three months after the fact. I can get my stupid degree paper from a pretty damn good school while maintaining my status as a United States Marine. Once that's done, I have two options:
1) Go out into The World and get a civilian job making big fat stacks of paper, or
2) Head back into the Corps, active duty, likely approaching the zone for promotion to Master Sergeant (with my degree), and get back into the fight.
Because yes, folks, if I forego the whole "big money civilian job" thing to come back to the Corps... I want to go to Afghanistan and do some Marine Shit there. If I didn't want to do things like that, I'd have joined the friggin' Air National Guard.
Remind me next time, I'll have to spout off about The 'Stan. For now, though, I'm just thrilled (and stunned) that one year from now I'll be in Athens smoking all of those 18-year-old freshmen in anything they can try academically. I'm so focused on this dream, I can't think of anything else until I get there.
Well, maybe a new car. But again, I save that for later.
Quotation of the moment: "Sober thoughts become drunk words." - My Neighbor
Song of the moment: "Whiskey Without Women", Drive-By Truckers.
More specifically, the line "Think I'm gonna tell her that I'm gonna go away for a while,
'Til I can get this demon out"
I won't lie, I've been going through some major changes lately. What SSgt Sykes would call "some pretty heavy dope". But eventually, I pulled my head out of my ass and figured something out: this is a lifelong dream that's essentially plopped in my lap, screaming "TAKE ME! Carpe Diem, you big retard!"
The MGIB pretty much sucked, no doubt. It gave you something like "$28,000 towards college", which ain't a lot of return for a four- to thirty-four year investment by a guy like me who joined the Marine Corps. Granted, I never once for a moment made that decision because of the college money - belive me, a million times please believe me, when I say that. I'm just sayin', if you enlist at all, it's a minimum eight years of your life you've put on the line. And, yet again, I digress.
The Post-9/11 GI Bill is a HUGE improvement. If I ever meet Jim Webb, I'll probably give him a hug - but not in that gay way. I just owe him one, because the new GI Bill offers:
- Full tuition price paid for four years at the highest-priced public university in each state
- $500 per semester for books, etc.
- BAH at the rate of an E-5 with no dependents - per month!
Let me tell you a thing or two about the University of Georgia. I was born in Dalton, as were my mom, dad, and sister. Mom's got four sisters, five brothers, and each of them have at least two kids. I can't swing a dead cat in North Georgia without hittin' someone who's kin. Seriously, I have stories to back that up.
And nobody in my family has ever enrolled at UGA, much less graduated from there.
To me, this is kind of like realizing you just won the goddamn lottery two or three months after the fact. I can get my stupid degree paper from a pretty damn good school while maintaining my status as a United States Marine. Once that's done, I have two options:
1) Go out into The World and get a civilian job making big fat stacks of paper, or
2) Head back into the Corps, active duty, likely approaching the zone for promotion to Master Sergeant (with my degree), and get back into the fight.
Because yes, folks, if I forego the whole "big money civilian job" thing to come back to the Corps... I want to go to Afghanistan and do some Marine Shit there. If I didn't want to do things like that, I'd have joined the friggin' Air National Guard.
Remind me next time, I'll have to spout off about The 'Stan. For now, though, I'm just thrilled (and stunned) that one year from now I'll be in Athens smoking all of those 18-year-old freshmen in anything they can try academically. I'm so focused on this dream, I can't think of anything else until I get there.
Well, maybe a new car. But again, I save that for later.
Quotation of the moment: "Sober thoughts become drunk words." - My Neighbor
Song of the moment: "Whiskey Without Women", Drive-By Truckers.
More specifically, the line "Think I'm gonna tell her that I'm gonna go away for a while,
'Til I can get this demon out"
2008-08-20
Crohn's
I don't know where to begin with this one, really. Let me just go ahead and dive in.
I love my sister dearly. She has been stronger in many ways over the past fifteen years than I probably ever will be.
She got married early - and yes, the proverbial shotgun wedding - to an Army dude she had been dating right there in Colorado Springs, where she and I went to high school. That was 1993 - and now she's still married to the same guy, living in Charleston, three kids (17, 14, & 11), and a really nice life. Nice big house, nice schools, nice church... everything you can think of that a family needs - or even just wants - they have. I've never been jealous of that, but I have been proud as hell of how things have turned out for her.
Her youngest, Micah, was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease a few years ago. Needless to say, it's made things tough for the family. And poor Micah... God, sometimes I really have to struggle just keeping my shit together when I think of all he's been through this early in life.
He's undergone several different treatment regimes since he was diagnosed, each with success... for varying lengths of time. The thing with Crohn's, I guess, is that eventually the treatment becomes inneffective, and you have to search for a different solution. There's one out there that could fix things for Micah, and he's in line to get it soon at Duke University... but I digress.
In June, Micah got to take a trip to NYC thanks to the Make-A-Wish foundation. He (with mom & dad) got to go see My Chemical Romance in concert, and go backstage to meet the band. After talking to them for a bit, the guitarist asked if Micah would play something for them... so he did.
Three or four minutes and a kickass rendition of Ozzy's "Ironman" later, there was much applause being rained down on little Micah. After which, said guitarist told him "I'm so jealous of you, dude. I couldn't play "Ironman" until I was, like, nineteen!"
Fast forward to this month. My brother-in-law had been on some bereavment leave from work, due to his father's recent death. They were very close, and I have no doubt that he was in A Very Bad Place, mentally. The day he returned, he was given two weeks' notice and shitcanned. His employer cited skyrocketing costs of insurance for him and his family, to wit: Micah's medical expenses.
Before you ask: yes, they're already talking to a lawyer!
But for now... it's been a few weeks. Charleston has no real market for a man with his skills, and the "desired endstate" (to coin a very Marine Corps phrase) is to avoid relocation at all costs. Zach, the eldest kid, is a Senior in high school this year. The family has been in Charleston since 2004 - they've all established friends and networks, and it would just be too traumatic to uproot everyone to, say, Sheboygan.
I'm deeply concerned, no doubt. But I'm not horribly worried.
If you're the prayin' type, maybe you could start throwin' her and her family in your rotation.
Micah, February 2007, Camp Lejeune. I was happy as hell to have him help see me off on Iraq deployment #2.
On a separate (but closely related) note: you may or may not know that my current job has me supervising combat-wounded and ill or injured Marines. I've got what might be the most job satisfaction I've ever had in my life doing what I do right now. I don't personally know what it's like going through the entire limited duty/physical evaluation process - and what can I say? I zigged when I should have zigged - but I do feel like I have credibility, given my two year-long tours in Iraq. No, I wasn't kicking in doors and killing bodies... but I volunteered each time and GLADLY accepted the chance to get in the fight.
All that aside... I feel honored and privileged to have the job I do rigght now. The Mission of my unit is twofold: Ensure each Marine/patient is accounted for at all times, and ensure that they have every tool, resource, and benefit available to them on their road to recovery. In short, we get them out of there quickly and in the right way as they head back to their unit or head home medically retired or discharged.
As it turns out, I do have a Marine (let's call him Corporal D.) under my charge. He's also been diagnosed with Crohn's. It fucking wrecks me deep down inside to know that a 21-year-old is stuck for life having to deal with a colostomy bag. It wrecks me even worse to know that this guy enlisted post-9/11 and never got to deploy or get into the fight because of his condition.
All I'm sayin' is... someday, I'm going to make sure that Micah gets to spend a day with Corporal D. I think it could do them both a lot of good... and I'm damn sure it'd do me a world of good.
Quotation of the moment: (Overheard at work yesterday) "I wish my grass was as emo as you, so it'd cut itself."
Song of the moment: "Na", Zazie
I love my sister dearly. She has been stronger in many ways over the past fifteen years than I probably ever will be.
She got married early - and yes, the proverbial shotgun wedding - to an Army dude she had been dating right there in Colorado Springs, where she and I went to high school. That was 1993 - and now she's still married to the same guy, living in Charleston, three kids (17, 14, & 11), and a really nice life. Nice big house, nice schools, nice church... everything you can think of that a family needs - or even just wants - they have. I've never been jealous of that, but I have been proud as hell of how things have turned out for her.
Her youngest, Micah, was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease a few years ago. Needless to say, it's made things tough for the family. And poor Micah... God, sometimes I really have to struggle just keeping my shit together when I think of all he's been through this early in life.
He's undergone several different treatment regimes since he was diagnosed, each with success... for varying lengths of time. The thing with Crohn's, I guess, is that eventually the treatment becomes inneffective, and you have to search for a different solution. There's one out there that could fix things for Micah, and he's in line to get it soon at Duke University... but I digress.
In June, Micah got to take a trip to NYC thanks to the Make-A-Wish foundation. He (with mom & dad) got to go see My Chemical Romance in concert, and go backstage to meet the band. After talking to them for a bit, the guitarist asked if Micah would play something for them... so he did.
Three or four minutes and a kickass rendition of Ozzy's "Ironman" later, there was much applause being rained down on little Micah. After which, said guitarist told him "I'm so jealous of you, dude. I couldn't play "Ironman" until I was, like, nineteen!"
Fast forward to this month. My brother-in-law had been on some bereavment leave from work, due to his father's recent death. They were very close, and I have no doubt that he was in A Very Bad Place, mentally. The day he returned, he was given two weeks' notice and shitcanned. His employer cited skyrocketing costs of insurance for him and his family, to wit: Micah's medical expenses.
Before you ask: yes, they're already talking to a lawyer!
But for now... it's been a few weeks. Charleston has no real market for a man with his skills, and the "desired endstate" (to coin a very Marine Corps phrase) is to avoid relocation at all costs. Zach, the eldest kid, is a Senior in high school this year. The family has been in Charleston since 2004 - they've all established friends and networks, and it would just be too traumatic to uproot everyone to, say, Sheboygan.
I'm deeply concerned, no doubt. But I'm not horribly worried.
If you're the prayin' type, maybe you could start throwin' her and her family in your rotation.
Micah, February 2007, Camp Lejeune. I was happy as hell to have him help see me off on Iraq deployment #2.
On a separate (but closely related) note: you may or may not know that my current job has me supervising combat-wounded and ill or injured Marines. I've got what might be the most job satisfaction I've ever had in my life doing what I do right now. I don't personally know what it's like going through the entire limited duty/physical evaluation process - and what can I say? I zigged when I should have zigged - but I do feel like I have credibility, given my two year-long tours in Iraq. No, I wasn't kicking in doors and killing bodies... but I volunteered each time and GLADLY accepted the chance to get in the fight.
All that aside... I feel honored and privileged to have the job I do rigght now. The Mission of my unit is twofold: Ensure each Marine/patient is accounted for at all times, and ensure that they have every tool, resource, and benefit available to them on their road to recovery. In short, we get them out of there quickly and in the right way as they head back to their unit or head home medically retired or discharged.
As it turns out, I do have a Marine (let's call him Corporal D.) under my charge. He's also been diagnosed with Crohn's. It fucking wrecks me deep down inside to know that a 21-year-old is stuck for life having to deal with a colostomy bag. It wrecks me even worse to know that this guy enlisted post-9/11 and never got to deploy or get into the fight because of his condition.
All I'm sayin' is... someday, I'm going to make sure that Micah gets to spend a day with Corporal D. I think it could do them both a lot of good... and I'm damn sure it'd do me a world of good.
Quotation of the moment: (Overheard at work yesterday) "I wish my grass was as emo as you, so it'd cut itself."
Song of the moment: "Na", Zazie
2008-08-19
OIF Flashback #1 (Why I hate kids sometimes)
Time: Early November, 2007
Location: SW Haqlaniya, Iraq
A routine foot patrol with Lima Company
This was only about the eighth or ninth time I had been out on foot in Haqlaniya, the city I'd recently been assigned to for routine Civil Affairs matters. Oh, I was at the goddamn city council meetings every week for four hours or more - they'd only appointed a mayor and established the council in August, so personalities were emerging in that inexorably roundabout Iraqi fashion. But I had been neglecting to get out and see the town, meet the people, and see the faces, the routine of the city. I was glad for the excuse of a "site survey/progress check" on the Iraqi Police (IP) station as an excuse to get out with a squad and take some pictures that afternoon.
Typically, we'd depart out the back gate of the FOB (Forward Operating Base) after the squad leader had briefed the mission, turned in his kill sheet to the Watch Officer, and issued pyro (grenades, flares, etc.) to those in the squad who needed it. All the rifle squads in Lima Company also had an unfailing, almost mandated habit of huddling up in a circle, touching gloved hands, and repeating The Lord's Prayer. All that happened this day, and we left along the dusty street leading out on the high ground outside the back gate.
The patrol went well, and despite an unusually cool afternoon - 85 degrees, tops - we were all pretty drained from humping up and down hills most of the time. One thing I never liked about Haqlaniya was the hilly terrain; it was virtually impossible for you to know at any given moment whether or not any house within sniper range had line of sight on you from a window or rooftop.
I took note of the faces in the souk, noticing which shops were filled with people paying us no mind as we passed, and which had men sitting or standing in the shade, arms crossed, giving us the evil eye. At one end of the souk stood a mosque we always referred to as the JTJ Mosque, after one of the prime terrorist orginizations in the country - its members had frequently been granted refuge there after engaging friendlies, and the Imam wouldn't budge when we politely asked the men inside to come out and play. Whether that was out of an obligation to the Q'uran or his complicity, I never knew.
When we were only about ten minutes from the back gate, I had one of the most terrifying moments of my life. Instead of taking the usual route back - up a hill 500 meters or so from the gate, then back along the same street - we had gone down an alternate route into a small valley, which would bring us in about 100 meters outside the gate. Nothing unusual; I trust the infantry squad leaders I roll with, and aside from changing routine it was just good to change the scenery as well.
Just before we started uphill again, the ground levelled out. There was no activity in the street, nor in any of the houses and yards nearby. There were four Marines about 30-50 meters in front of me, so I didn't shout out to them when I saw the perfectly straight line of small rocks sitting across the road about 8 feet ahead. I called out to the squad leader, two men behind me, and held up my left hand in a fist. The patrol stopped in place - probably a bad thing to do, but right after "Oh, fuck!", my next thought was "Well, too late for me anyway - 'specially if it's a *big* explosion."
The squad leader moved up to my position and stood right behind me. That was probably the only smart thing anyone had done up to that point. I spoke to him over my right shoulder in hushed tones, describing exactly where to look instead of pointing to the rocks. When an IED triggerman sees someone point, that's usually the time he picks to pop his little surprise.
Keeping my eyes on the rocks as I spoke, I followed the line to the edge of the road.... where there were more rocks lined up perfectly parallel to the road. Looking back, it was the same on the other side as well. Then another line across the road about fifteen meters further up. And... well, shit. Another one fifteen meters further. If I hadn't been sweating so much the past three hours, I'd probably have pissed myself.
The squad leader confirmed what I saw... but then I noticed something else that made me feel like a dumbass - an immensely relieved and much safer dumbass than I had been about thirty seconds prior. The line of rocks closest to me, as well as the one farthest from me, both had a little arc of rocks arranged curving towards each other.
I immediately recognized it for what it was - an impromptu soccer field, where kids had likely been playing just minutes before we passed by. I was 1) mentally kicking myself for not seeing it sooner because I was too busy scanning windows and yards for movement, and 2) thrilled that I recognized it that quickly by virtue of being a huge soccer fan. My squad leader and I would have felt like assholes reporting strange rock activities to Razorback 6, who already knew about the "Ghetto Stadium" that had been there for weeks.
But yeah, if I'd seen any of those kids there right about then, I'd have been throwing out all the curse words I know in Arabiac at those little fuckers. Maybe even their damn rocks, too...
Location: SW Haqlaniya, Iraq
A routine foot patrol with Lima Company
This was only about the eighth or ninth time I had been out on foot in Haqlaniya, the city I'd recently been assigned to for routine Civil Affairs matters. Oh, I was at the goddamn city council meetings every week for four hours or more - they'd only appointed a mayor and established the council in August, so personalities were emerging in that inexorably roundabout Iraqi fashion. But I had been neglecting to get out and see the town, meet the people, and see the faces, the routine of the city. I was glad for the excuse of a "site survey/progress check" on the Iraqi Police (IP) station as an excuse to get out with a squad and take some pictures that afternoon.
Typically, we'd depart out the back gate of the FOB (Forward Operating Base) after the squad leader had briefed the mission, turned in his kill sheet to the Watch Officer, and issued pyro (grenades, flares, etc.) to those in the squad who needed it. All the rifle squads in Lima Company also had an unfailing, almost mandated habit of huddling up in a circle, touching gloved hands, and repeating The Lord's Prayer. All that happened this day, and we left along the dusty street leading out on the high ground outside the back gate.
The patrol went well, and despite an unusually cool afternoon - 85 degrees, tops - we were all pretty drained from humping up and down hills most of the time. One thing I never liked about Haqlaniya was the hilly terrain; it was virtually impossible for you to know at any given moment whether or not any house within sniper range had line of sight on you from a window or rooftop.
I took note of the faces in the souk, noticing which shops were filled with people paying us no mind as we passed, and which had men sitting or standing in the shade, arms crossed, giving us the evil eye. At one end of the souk stood a mosque we always referred to as the JTJ Mosque, after one of the prime terrorist orginizations in the country - its members had frequently been granted refuge there after engaging friendlies, and the Imam wouldn't budge when we politely asked the men inside to come out and play. Whether that was out of an obligation to the Q'uran or his complicity, I never knew.
When we were only about ten minutes from the back gate, I had one of the most terrifying moments of my life. Instead of taking the usual route back - up a hill 500 meters or so from the gate, then back along the same street - we had gone down an alternate route into a small valley, which would bring us in about 100 meters outside the gate. Nothing unusual; I trust the infantry squad leaders I roll with, and aside from changing routine it was just good to change the scenery as well.
Just before we started uphill again, the ground levelled out. There was no activity in the street, nor in any of the houses and yards nearby. There were four Marines about 30-50 meters in front of me, so I didn't shout out to them when I saw the perfectly straight line of small rocks sitting across the road about 8 feet ahead. I called out to the squad leader, two men behind me, and held up my left hand in a fist. The patrol stopped in place - probably a bad thing to do, but right after "Oh, fuck!", my next thought was "Well, too late for me anyway - 'specially if it's a *big* explosion."
The squad leader moved up to my position and stood right behind me. That was probably the only smart thing anyone had done up to that point. I spoke to him over my right shoulder in hushed tones, describing exactly where to look instead of pointing to the rocks. When an IED triggerman sees someone point, that's usually the time he picks to pop his little surprise.
Keeping my eyes on the rocks as I spoke, I followed the line to the edge of the road.... where there were more rocks lined up perfectly parallel to the road. Looking back, it was the same on the other side as well. Then another line across the road about fifteen meters further up. And... well, shit. Another one fifteen meters further. If I hadn't been sweating so much the past three hours, I'd probably have pissed myself.
The squad leader confirmed what I saw... but then I noticed something else that made me feel like a dumbass - an immensely relieved and much safer dumbass than I had been about thirty seconds prior. The line of rocks closest to me, as well as the one farthest from me, both had a little arc of rocks arranged curving towards each other.
I immediately recognized it for what it was - an impromptu soccer field, where kids had likely been playing just minutes before we passed by. I was 1) mentally kicking myself for not seeing it sooner because I was too busy scanning windows and yards for movement, and 2) thrilled that I recognized it that quickly by virtue of being a huge soccer fan. My squad leader and I would have felt like assholes reporting strange rock activities to Razorback 6, who already knew about the "Ghetto Stadium" that had been there for weeks.
But yeah, if I'd seen any of those kids there right about then, I'd have been throwing out all the curse words I know in Arabiac at those little fuckers. Maybe even their damn rocks, too...
2008-08-18
Legacy
(Banged out at 5:27PM EDT, 15 August)
Some people wanna be rich or famous, loved, or just happy where they are in life. Me? I just want to leave a legacy, no matter how fleeting, after I'm gone.
I know friends, family, and loved ones will have that for me - there's no doubt in my mind. I just know I could do better than I have so far at leaving something meaningful behind - aside from general worldwide hate & discontent, that is.
In my line of work, let's face it: when I'm doing my job well, at the pinnacle of my profession, in a way that everyone in my tribe strives for... people want to kill me. And there's a fair chance of it happening whether or not you find yourself in that exact situation. Hell, half the time, just getting to that point, you're subjected to a lot of risk. In this world, risk can kill you as surely as a bullet aimed at your head.
I guess that's why I'm aware that I could go away forever at any moment. And knowing this as well as I do now - having had several friends who have done so suddenly - it's probably not viewed by the general populace as a healthy thing to listen to the same song (which deals directly with mortality) on repeat for eight hours at a stretch.
But this one got to me somehow. Normally, I'm not the guy to hop on board whatever band is popular, or even attempt to keep current with music nowadays. But the song I've been listening to all day... I don't know what bad place the songwriter was in mentally when he scribbled it down, but I can relate - at least to some degree.
These lyrics, they could be a conversation I want to have with one particular woman who means a lot to me. I kind of doubt that conversation can ever happen... but I don't think I'll ever wind up closing that door.
And in a broader sense, these words represent a lot of feelings I have towards the Marines I've served with from day one - every single one.
I'm not sure what else I can say, but sometimes you get an earworm for a reason.
I dreamed I was missing
You were so scared
But no one would listen
Cause no one else cared
After my dreaming
I woke with this fear
What am I leaving
When I'm done here
So if you're asking me
I want you to know
When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
And don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest
Don't be afraid
I've taken my beating
I've shared what I made
I'm strong on the surface
Not all the way through
I've never been perfect
But neither have you
So if you're asking me
I want you to know
When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
Don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest
Forgetting
All the hurt inside
You've learned to hide so well
Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are
When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
Don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest
Forgetting
All the hurt inside
You've learned to hide so well
Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are
I can't be who you are
Some people wanna be rich or famous, loved, or just happy where they are in life. Me? I just want to leave a legacy, no matter how fleeting, after I'm gone.
I know friends, family, and loved ones will have that for me - there's no doubt in my mind. I just know I could do better than I have so far at leaving something meaningful behind - aside from general worldwide hate & discontent, that is.
In my line of work, let's face it: when I'm doing my job well, at the pinnacle of my profession, in a way that everyone in my tribe strives for... people want to kill me. And there's a fair chance of it happening whether or not you find yourself in that exact situation. Hell, half the time, just getting to that point, you're subjected to a lot of risk. In this world, risk can kill you as surely as a bullet aimed at your head.
I guess that's why I'm aware that I could go away forever at any moment. And knowing this as well as I do now - having had several friends who have done so suddenly - it's probably not viewed by the general populace as a healthy thing to listen to the same song (which deals directly with mortality) on repeat for eight hours at a stretch.
But this one got to me somehow. Normally, I'm not the guy to hop on board whatever band is popular, or even attempt to keep current with music nowadays. But the song I've been listening to all day... I don't know what bad place the songwriter was in mentally when he scribbled it down, but I can relate - at least to some degree.
These lyrics, they could be a conversation I want to have with one particular woman who means a lot to me. I kind of doubt that conversation can ever happen... but I don't think I'll ever wind up closing that door.
And in a broader sense, these words represent a lot of feelings I have towards the Marines I've served with from day one - every single one.
I'm not sure what else I can say, but sometimes you get an earworm for a reason.
I dreamed I was missing
You were so scared
But no one would listen
Cause no one else cared
After my dreaming
I woke with this fear
What am I leaving
When I'm done here
So if you're asking me
I want you to know
When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
And don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest
Don't be afraid
I've taken my beating
I've shared what I made
I'm strong on the surface
Not all the way through
I've never been perfect
But neither have you
So if you're asking me
I want you to know
When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
Don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest
Forgetting
All the hurt inside
You've learned to hide so well
Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are
When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
Don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest
Forgetting
All the hurt inside
You've learned to hide so well
Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are
I can't be who you are
2008-08-10
Berlin
While my dad was in the Army, I had the opportunity - albeit without a choice - to move around a lot and see a lot of the U.S. and the world. Of all the places we lived, there's no doubt in my mind that the two years we lived in West Berlin made the biggest impact on my life, my future, and how I've come to view the world in my lifetime.
We arrived in late 1979, just after my 5th birthday. I flooded my parents with questions about The Wall, the Russians, why people couldn't live together, all the other things I couldn't quite understand at the time. By the time we returned to the States, I had grown to understand a lot of the history, culture, and politics of the city. But it was only years later that I began to fully understand and appreciate one of the greatest humanitarian efforts in modern history - the Berlin Airlift.
June of this year marked 60 years ago that the Soviet military blockaded Berlin, shutting down rail, road, and boat traffic to the city. General Lucius Clay, who was appointed as the civil/military governor for the occupied zone, rightly concluded that leaving Berlin would be the wrong thing to do. Although the the Soviets would likely resolve all "technical difficulties" causing the blockade immediately, it would be a huge loss of prestige for America - not just her government leadership, but her military as well. All this, not to speak of how the lives of two million Germans could be changed forever.
Now, keep in mind that I hate math, statistics, and having numbers thrown in my face to make a point. But in this instance, I think the numbers give a good basic understanding of how monumental this effort truly was. On 24 June, 1948, there was enough food in the city to last 35 days, and 45 days' worth of coal. The next day, 32 US aircraft flew in 80 tons of supplies. Four days later, the RAF began flying in supplies as well. Based on numbers generated by Clay and legendary Air Force General Curtis LeMay, American and RAF pilots in C-47s, C-54s, RD-5s, DC-4s, and the venerable Avro York began flying almost 278,000 sorties in and out of the city that would continue for 15 months. 2.3 million tons of food and supplies were taken into the city, at the rate of roughly 5,000 tons per day loaded at 3-4 tons of cargo per flight, depending on aircraft type - the larger birds held around 10 tons. Tempelhof Airport had aircraft touching down every ninety seconds for the bulk of that 15-month period.
The picture I'm painting here (and the definite impression that I have of the Airlift) is one of constant activity, countless moving parts, and true selfless dedication to accomplish a mission - in this case, helping Berliners to not only keep their city, but live life as they had prior to the blockade. I'd imagine one other big factor in those very early days of the Cold War was being able to roll up your sleeves as part of a team and give the Russkies a big one-fingered wave while you were at it. Despite all this, the pilots who flew these missions knew how vital every single flight was - particularly the first flight, piloted by the late Jack Bennett. I can only sort of imagine what it's like knowing that you'll be on the ground again in an hour, yet still wondering if it'd be wheels down or in a burning heap of potatoes and avgas.
This, to me, is THE PICTURE of the Berlin Airlift. I saw it a lot as a kid, all over Berlin - it is to the Airlift what the Suribachi picture is to the Marine Corps.
What really drives home the significance of the Airlift for me is that to this day, all Germans - and Berliners in particular - remain grateful for what the American and British pilots did for them. Tempelhof Airport, one of the very few remaining structures that was built ground-up by Hitler's Reich, became an icon of the Airlift. I'll tell you something - when you have lifelong residents of the city which was the beating heart of the Nazi regime actually fighting to preserve something the Nazis built - that speaks volumes about what Tempelhof represents in their hearts. Sadly, their efforts failed and Tempelhof will soon be swept aside for a larger Berlin airport.
Maybe I'm talking out of my ass, but I think Berliners in general would call it a travesty that most Americans have never heard of the Berlin Airlift. I know it pisses me off a little bit. Just to narrow it down further from my perspective, as a serving member of the Armed Forces: there are many proud moments, legendary battles, and timeless heroes who have formed a legacy that I strive to carry on every day I put on this uniform. For my money - and especially in light of America's post-Korea views of her military - you'd have to dig pretty deep to find an operation more selfless, more righteous, and more deserving of respect and admiration than the Berlin Airlift. Regardless of the circumstances or the politics surrounding the entire affair, it came down to American and British fighting men putting their lives on the line to help two million strangers keep their own.
If that's not as good as it gets, I really don't know what is.
The three prongs represent the only three air corridors opened for flights to & from Berlin during the Blockade; they remained the only three air routes authorized for Allied/NATO and commercial traffic until the wall fell in 1989.
We arrived in late 1979, just after my 5th birthday. I flooded my parents with questions about The Wall, the Russians, why people couldn't live together, all the other things I couldn't quite understand at the time. By the time we returned to the States, I had grown to understand a lot of the history, culture, and politics of the city. But it was only years later that I began to fully understand and appreciate one of the greatest humanitarian efforts in modern history - the Berlin Airlift.
June of this year marked 60 years ago that the Soviet military blockaded Berlin, shutting down rail, road, and boat traffic to the city. General Lucius Clay, who was appointed as the civil/military governor for the occupied zone, rightly concluded that leaving Berlin would be the wrong thing to do. Although the the Soviets would likely resolve all "technical difficulties" causing the blockade immediately, it would be a huge loss of prestige for America - not just her government leadership, but her military as well. All this, not to speak of how the lives of two million Germans could be changed forever.
Now, keep in mind that I hate math, statistics, and having numbers thrown in my face to make a point. But in this instance, I think the numbers give a good basic understanding of how monumental this effort truly was. On 24 June, 1948, there was enough food in the city to last 35 days, and 45 days' worth of coal. The next day, 32 US aircraft flew in 80 tons of supplies. Four days later, the RAF began flying in supplies as well. Based on numbers generated by Clay and legendary Air Force General Curtis LeMay, American and RAF pilots in C-47s, C-54s, RD-5s, DC-4s, and the venerable Avro York began flying almost 278,000 sorties in and out of the city that would continue for 15 months. 2.3 million tons of food and supplies were taken into the city, at the rate of roughly 5,000 tons per day loaded at 3-4 tons of cargo per flight, depending on aircraft type - the larger birds held around 10 tons. Tempelhof Airport had aircraft touching down every ninety seconds for the bulk of that 15-month period.
The picture I'm painting here (and the definite impression that I have of the Airlift) is one of constant activity, countless moving parts, and true selfless dedication to accomplish a mission - in this case, helping Berliners to not only keep their city, but live life as they had prior to the blockade. I'd imagine one other big factor in those very early days of the Cold War was being able to roll up your sleeves as part of a team and give the Russkies a big one-fingered wave while you were at it. Despite all this, the pilots who flew these missions knew how vital every single flight was - particularly the first flight, piloted by the late Jack Bennett. I can only sort of imagine what it's like knowing that you'll be on the ground again in an hour, yet still wondering if it'd be wheels down or in a burning heap of potatoes and avgas.
This, to me, is THE PICTURE of the Berlin Airlift. I saw it a lot as a kid, all over Berlin - it is to the Airlift what the Suribachi picture is to the Marine Corps.
What really drives home the significance of the Airlift for me is that to this day, all Germans - and Berliners in particular - remain grateful for what the American and British pilots did for them. Tempelhof Airport, one of the very few remaining structures that was built ground-up by Hitler's Reich, became an icon of the Airlift. I'll tell you something - when you have lifelong residents of the city which was the beating heart of the Nazi regime actually fighting to preserve something the Nazis built - that speaks volumes about what Tempelhof represents in their hearts. Sadly, their efforts failed and Tempelhof will soon be swept aside for a larger Berlin airport.
Maybe I'm talking out of my ass, but I think Berliners in general would call it a travesty that most Americans have never heard of the Berlin Airlift. I know it pisses me off a little bit. Just to narrow it down further from my perspective, as a serving member of the Armed Forces: there are many proud moments, legendary battles, and timeless heroes who have formed a legacy that I strive to carry on every day I put on this uniform. For my money - and especially in light of America's post-Korea views of her military - you'd have to dig pretty deep to find an operation more selfless, more righteous, and more deserving of respect and admiration than the Berlin Airlift. Regardless of the circumstances or the politics surrounding the entire affair, it came down to American and British fighting men putting their lives on the line to help two million strangers keep their own.
If that's not as good as it gets, I really don't know what is.
The three prongs represent the only three air corridors opened for flights to & from Berlin during the Blockade; they remained the only three air routes authorized for Allied/NATO and commercial traffic until the wall fell in 1989.
Where'd I leave it?
Introductions come pretty tough for me by nature. I do have a pretty fair idea of where I'm at right now, though.
34, divorced, no kids that I've been convicted of, two trips to Iraq that I'm as proud of as a couple of kids. On-track to retire at 45, but not sure yet if I'll be able to. Been living on the East Coast most of my adult life after growing up all over the place as a military brat. It's not the greatest, but I've grown to like it here more than I'll sometimes admit.
I love my current job and a vast majority of the folks I work with. I've served both pre- and post-9/11, and I can tell you the difference. When I'm working, I strive to be professional & proficient at all times. I pride myself on never taking work home with me, at least figuratively. I've no real interest in politics at any level, which is one of my many critical flaws in life. Among others are a slight lack of focus, champagne taste on a beer budget, and a moral compass that looks suspiciously like a pinwheel in a hurricane.
There's been too much in life - be it personal experiences, friendships, stories, or anything else - that I've let slip for no better reason than failing to put it in black and white. With any luck, that will change from now on - or at least subside a little.
I'm not big on self-glorification, but if I've got something on my mind, you'll know it. I might even tell you what it is.
Hell, you could always ask me yourself if you want.
34, divorced, no kids that I've been convicted of, two trips to Iraq that I'm as proud of as a couple of kids. On-track to retire at 45, but not sure yet if I'll be able to. Been living on the East Coast most of my adult life after growing up all over the place as a military brat. It's not the greatest, but I've grown to like it here more than I'll sometimes admit.
I love my current job and a vast majority of the folks I work with. I've served both pre- and post-9/11, and I can tell you the difference. When I'm working, I strive to be professional & proficient at all times. I pride myself on never taking work home with me, at least figuratively. I've no real interest in politics at any level, which is one of my many critical flaws in life. Among others are a slight lack of focus, champagne taste on a beer budget, and a moral compass that looks suspiciously like a pinwheel in a hurricane.
There's been too much in life - be it personal experiences, friendships, stories, or anything else - that I've let slip for no better reason than failing to put it in black and white. With any luck, that will change from now on - or at least subside a little.
I'm not big on self-glorification, but if I've got something on my mind, you'll know it. I might even tell you what it is.
Hell, you could always ask me yourself if you want.
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