My Seekrit Christmas

So last week, I spent a few days thinking about what to do with some extra money. Lately, I've taken on some bills (mostly not for necessary items), but I had a little chunk of change fall into my lap. Seems the reimbursement for Official Government Travel executed in October finally posted to my account.

I'm having the GTO tidied up some - which will set me back a bit - but was still daydreaming. More GTO stuff? A new firearm (or two)? Tires, suspension, seats for my Jeep? What to do?

After about the fourth day, I googled up "children's hospital Charleston". Sure enough, there is one there.

I'm heading down to see my sister & her family there, and mom's flying in from Colorado. This has been planned for a few months. What happened next was totally impulsive and emotional hip-shooting on my part.

I got on the hospital's website and spoke with their PR director. I introduced myself and asked if she knew of any Marines that had visited or planned to visit the hospital as art of the annual Toys For Tots campaign. She said there were none... which is PERFECT.

Next I called the director of Child Life. I explained that I was calling neither on behalf of my unit nor the Marine Corps, but as a private individual. I asked if it would be possible to come by the hospital on Christmas day and give a few toys to the kids there. She said that yes, Santa would be in their common play area on Christmas day handing out gifts for a few hours, and I was welcome to stop by then and hand out my gifts as well.

I also asked her if - and explained it was a slim chance - one of my sister's kids might be allowed to help me carry toys and hand them out. Normally, she said, outside children under 18 aren't permitted in the hospital... but she could make an exception.

So, on Christmas day, I'll be going to the children's hospital with my nephew Micah - who I hadn't realized was a guest in that same hospital a couple of years back during a bad spell in his battle with Crohn's - and we will hand out a bigass gang of toys to the kids there. Just because.

I'm so stoked, I could just about pee all over myself. Seriously, I don't know where this idea came from so suddenly, but after thinking about it, rethinking it, coordinating, planning, and spending a chunk of change on it... is just seems so damn RIGHT that it makes me wanna hug something.

I work daily with Marines who have been injured in combat or combat operations who will never be the same. Most of them fight through their recovery and rehabilitation process every step of the way, gutting it out while still being able to care for their families and children. It's impressive as hell and makes me proud of what I'm part of every day... but I also know that it's something they signed up for. Most of them will be the first ones to point that out as well.

The kids in that hospital, though... God, it blows my mind to think about them fighting through illness and injury as bad or worse than some of my Marines, having it thrust upon them, not having any help with it except their families. Waking up scared every day, not knowing or understanding fully what's happened to you, just knowing that it hurts really bad or you're tired all the time from the chemo or the dialysis. Parents who might not know how the hell they can afford the next round of treatment, but will do whatever they can to get the best care for their kid.

It goes on and on, and I know I could never do half as well as most of those kids if the shoe was on the other foot. This might be their only Christmas in the hospital, or the last one in the hospital... or their last one, period.

If I can go in there and hand out some teddy bears and games in my dress blues and make them smile for a minute, and have them remember that a Marine cares that much about them... shit, that's worth a few hundred bucks of extra beer money any day of the week.

It almost makes you wonder who's gonna come away more changed by the experience, huh?

Remedial Action - Part I

So yeah, some associate VP at UGA denied my application for admission a couple of weeks ago.

As of today, I have letters of recommendation in hand from my Company and Battalion Commanders. They were written the SAME DAY that I formally submitted a request for them. Highlights:

"SSgt D....is a huge asset to this command." "I was personally surprised to hear that he was not accepted to your university." "Attending UGA has been a goal of his since I've known him and I am willing to help this Marine obtain this goal any way I can."

Thanks, Captain! And from the Bn CO:

"I agree with the Captain's statement that SSgt D.'s present demeanor & qualifications do not marry up with his past GPA snapshot. I would have thought that his initial package to your university would have been a slam dunk approval and that is why I am writing this recommendation to ask for reconsideration."

Next step: I'm speaking to a local UGA alumnus this week for advice and a gameplan. Should he decide to pull a string or make a phone call, that's purely out of the kindness of his heart.

After that comes the campus visit, and I will have firm appointments with t1) the admissions counselor who told me the soonest I could appeal is June of 2009, and 2) the Associate VP for Admissions who signed off on my rejection letter.

I'll still be shopping housing, jobs, and speaking with University VA and financial aid reps while I'm there. I'm going to be fucking well admitted, and likely enrolled, for the Fall 2009 semester. I might as well plan accordingly.

At the end of that week, should the Admissions retards still be telling me "no", I will get that from them in writing.

After that, I'll route a formal request through my chain of command for recommendation letters from LtGen Coleman, the first flag officer in my chain of command, as well as General (four fucking stars) Amos, who was heavily involved in making the Wounded Warrior Battalion (my unit, if you recall) a reality. And, uh, also happens to currently be the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps.

On the side, I will also write Zell Miller a nice letter explaining my situation - with my admissions essay, letters of recommendation, rejection letter(s), and current SAT scores enclosed. I will politely ask if he knows how I should proceed.

Take a gander at Zell's biography. I'm pretty sure he is not only able to help me out, but would be seriously predisposed to do so. Call it a hunch.

I'm reasonably certain that if it even gets to that point, this here four-generation Georgia native will be personally guaranteed a place at the table with the UGA Class of 2013.



Failing all that, I'll shame my entire family name and heritage, selling out my own personal honor and good name like a cheap whore, by enrolling at Emory. Or (God help me) worse yet, Georgia Tech.

Or some shit.

Song of the Moment - "I Got Loaded", Los Lobos

Quotation of the moment: "Heaven knows its time; every bullet has its billet." - Sir Walter Scott, 1862

Why I Love Navy Medicine

My funniest story involving Navy "medics", which we call Corpsmen:

It was back in 1996, I'd only been at Lejeune a couple of years or so. LCpl Dugger went to one of the satellite clinics for a scheduled pre-commissioning physical. Part of that physical was an EKG.

Come time for the EKG, a young female HN (Paygrade E-3, equivalent rank to me) walks me back to the exam room, has me strip from the waist up and lie down on the exam table. She attached a few little pads and leads around my chest, then flipped on the EKG machine. One the bep-beep-beep rhythm was established, she hit the button for a printout.

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

She tore off the printout, squinched up her eyes for a second, and said "Hmmm. That's weird."

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

"Hey, um... are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just fine."

"Wait right here for a minute," she said, then walked out.

A couple of minutes later, she returned with an HM3 (E-4), who also walked over to the machine and hit the button for a printout.

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

"Hmmm," he said, peering at the prntout.

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

Staring more intently now, he looks at it, asking me "Do you feel okay? Experiencing any pain or anything?"

"No,", I said. "Just a little sore from PT this morning."

"Well, just relax and wait right here, we're gonna take care of you!" Then they both walk out, whispering to each other.

A minute or two later, in walks the doctor - and I don't just mean an MO, or any ol' Navy doctor - it's a Captain (equivalent to a Marine Colonel!), the commander of the clinic, strolling in with the HN and HM3 in his wake.

"Good morning! How are we feeling today, Lance Corporal?"

"Just fine, sir!" says I, fighting the urge to jump up and stand at attention.

So now, the Captain took his turn with the machine - GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

Reading the EKG intently, he asks me "Are you in any pain, son? Feeling light-headed or anything?"

"Um, no sir... I feel just fine," I replied, although I was actually sweating a bit at this point.

Well, you just lie right there and relax, son. Everything is going to be alright!" They all three moved out of the room with a definite sense of purpose as I watched, wondering WTF was going on.

A minute later, the HN walks in again. GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*She took another printout sheet and starts to head back out before I stop her. "Excuse me," I asked. "Is there anything wrong?"

She stopped midstride, turned around to look me in the eye, raising her hands, and said "I'm NOT ALLOWED to tell you!", then scurried off.

At this point, I am seriously wondering how and why I have screwed up the insides of my 21-year-old body so badly that nobody can figure out what my problem is.

Three minutes later, an HMC (E-7) walks in, appearing businesslike but not overly concerned. "Hey, man. How ya doin' this morning?"

"Ummm... okay so far, Chief."

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!* The Chief looked at the printout for a moment, glanced at me, then did it again. GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!*

"Ah, Jesus, you gotta be SHITTIN' me!" He reached over, pulled one lead off my chest, then another one, switched their locations, and snapped them back onto the pads.

GARRRBZZZGARRBZZT - *RRRIP!* He looked at the printout, laughed, rolled his eyes, then sauntered out of the room. shaking his head.

Within five minutes, the HN had returned, made the proper entries in my record, and I was out the front door with my physical passed and complete. I guess sometimes, humorous though it might seem, the Navy Medical Corps doesn't really like to dwell on their mistakes...

Why I Fight

Before you get the wrong impression, this is nothing to do with why I am proud (and enjoy every moment) of my martial profession. This is about why I flat out refuse to take "no" for an answer anymore.

August, 1992: I had been awarded a 3-year Army ROTC scholarship out of high school. I knew that I wanted to pursue some sort of military career as well as a college degree - in that order. I had begun shopping schools months earlier, and had decided on Norwich University in Vermont. They'd offered to take my three-year ROTC scholarship and make it a four-year (75% tuition each year) as well as paying for room & board all four years. For a $22,000/yr. private military college, you couldn't really beat that deal - especially given what a crap student I was in high school.

Mom and I drove out to visit the campus all the way from Colorado Springs. We met some faculty & staff. I got fitted for uniforms. We paid my deposit. Everything was locked on, and I was to report for my first day of classes on September 2nd.

Eight days before that, I received a form letter (and I CLEARLY remember that it was printed on perforated computer paper, almost dot-matrix style) signed by a Colonel at the US Army Medical Review Board, stating that the Board had decided to rescind my scholarship offer based on the fact that the specific refractive error in my corrective lenses was too great.

15 months later, after sliding by a year of college out of pocket (and still not applying myself), I shot 323 out of 350 on the Marine Corps Entry-Level Rifle Qualification Course with my M-16A2 at distances up to 500 yards. I wanted to take my "Rifle Expert" badge and mail it back to the Colonel, telling him to stick it up his ass.

April, 1996: After becoming a reasonably "salty" Lance Corporal, I came across some notification or order that solicited applications from enlisted members of the Navy and Marine Corps to apply for appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy. I'd tried the academies in high school, but had a shit GPA, great test scores, and zero extracurricular activities. With almost three years in the Fleet Marine Force, it seemed I'd have better odds. I was correct - Congressman Joel Hefley made me his primary nomination for the Class of 2000.

After all the other pieces were in place, my ACT score of 32 (of 35) was not good enough. Maxed out the reading, English, & science portions of it, but I scored a 26 on the math bit. Minimum required math score was a 27. I called the Chief Yeoman at the Academy and asked if there was any chance of a waiver. She told me there was not. I took no for an answer and kept on truckin', for better or worse - mainly, I think, because I was a complete moron and/or total wuss at the time.

December, 2008: I've applied to the University of Georgia, as alluded to in my earlier writings, because there is no other school I'd rather go to for completing my degree. With the new Post-9/11 GI Bill, I'll be more than able financially to attend full-time, and I feel reasonably certain that I will in no way take the opportunity for granted.

Less than two weeks after submitting my completed application and fee, I recieve a letter saying: "We regret that the credentials which you have submitted with your application do not meet the requirements for admission to the University of Georgia. On the enclosed summary of admissions policies, please note the specific reason, blhablahblah I'm a dirty whore.

(Overleaf)

"You have 30 to 59 transferable hours, and your GPA is less than the required 3.20. Your transfer average as calculated by standard UGA procedure currently is 2.08 on 40 total semester hours, 35 of which are transferable."

I'm already writing. I will respond - first personally to this particular minion, and (if required) later formally to whomever I need to above her head. Fact is, the last time I took any college-accredited course, Bill Clinton was a little over halfway into his first term in office. Also of note is that my tuition is more or less guaranteed for four years (albeit at the meager in-state rate) thanks to my legal Georgia residency and the GI Bill.

This is Setback Number One. I'm full-on looking forward to further setbacks, because I will face them head-on and crush them like a bag of stale Chee-Tos.

The sentence fragment "...somewhat preoccupied for the past few years executing the Global War On Terror both stateside and abroad" will likely appear in future correspondence at some point. FWIW, that is.

I had leave approved specifically for a campus visit last month, and I neglected to take that leave because my NCOs were not on hand for a few days, and I did not want my Platoon running around with no leadership. I'm resubmitting that request tomorrow, and come hell or high water (or Hezbollah, for that matter) I will be in Athens, Georgia in front of someone's desk in about a month's time.

"The Marines have a way of making you afriad - not of dying, but of not doing your job." - Captain Bonnie Little

Holiday Flashback, Episode I

It isn't often that I have very detailed, strong memories of a particular day or event. I personally count that as a failing of mine, yet I chalk it up to my dissociative nature and the way I bounced all over the place (literally, geographically) as a child growing up. But a conversation at work today triggered a memory that I knew I just had to put in black & white as soon as possible, if for no other reason than the hilarity of it all.

It was late 1995, and I had been at Camp Lejeune for a whopping nine months, and had two years in the Corps under my belt. I was beginning to feel a bit experienced, though God knows I certainly wasn't at that point. In point of fact, I was working in the Company office for a few weeks since my particular style of heavy equipment operation didn't quite jive up with that of my supervisors. And yes, that's putting it very mildly.

One afternoon in early December, the Company Commander was hanging out in the office doing routine Captain-type stuff. I vaguely remember him asking those of us in the office if we wanted to "help out with some things for the Battalion Christmas party". Being the lowest-ranking Marine in the office, and not seeing how this could be anything but helpful anyway, I offered to pitch in.

Had this been a Star Wars movie, someone would have told me otherwise.

So, cometh the day of the party, and I'm already a bit cheery. All units aboard the base were being released at noon for a four-day weekend (a "96" as we call it) to go home for Christmas - everyone except the recently-returned 24th MEU. They were to stay an additional day so that the President could come down and personally award them the Presidential Unit Citation for their efforts in rescuing a downed Air Force pilot in Bosnia.

I arrived at Goettge Memorial Field House about a half-hour before the scheduled 1000 kickoff time for the party, dressed in camouflage utilities since that was the prescribed uniform. Within literally 90 seconds of walking through the door, Mrs. Company Commander swooped in on me and said "Ohhhhh, you must be the Lance Corporal that William told me would help us out! Thank you for being here a bit early! Here, take this, and I'll see you over by the Christmas tree in a bit", as she hands me a brown paper grocery sack. "You're going to be helping Santa!"

Well, thought I, no biggie. I got a sack of toys or candy or some shit to hand out to some ankle-biters. But lo, my friends, I was mistaken. So very horribly, irreversibly, catastrophically mistaken.

As I peered down into the bag, I saw parts and pieces. Parts and pieces of a costume, that is. Among these parts and pieces were a green, felt, pointy hat - complete with feather. There were also green, felt curly-toed boondocker-style shoes, complete with little dingle bells on the tips of the toes. There was a green felt skirt-lookin' thingy, as well as a pair of tights. TIGHTS, I tell you! Red-and white hoop-striped tights, no less! Topping it all off were some pointy rubber ears. Some sadistic bastard had, apparently, thought of EVERY last detail for this particular holiday soiree.

Resigned to the fact that I 1) could not back out since I was the proverbial minion, and 2) that I'm a complete retard for ever volunteering for anything in my life, I trudged back to the locker room which, thankfully, was completely empty.

After laying out all the goddamn Elf parts on the bench beside me, I began to disrobe, unblousing my trousers, kicking the boots off, and sliding into a near-suicidal state of depression, hatred, and resentment. The icy coldness of the hard wooden bench registered clearly when I sat my bare ass down, as I haven't owned a pair of underwear since 1993 (due to a painful lesson learned in Boot Camp, which story is told another day).

I had just gotten the goofy red & white tights on, as well as the culry-toed dingle-bell shoes, and was getting ready to put on the Elf-uniform-cum-dress that was provided when, unexpectedly, the door to the locker room slammed open with authority.

I stood there, completely bare-assed and balancing on one leg, trying to slip on that horrendous costume, and glanced up ant the entourage that had suddenly appeared. There was a tall, good-looking Marine Colonel (and God alone knows why, but I recognized him as the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence [G-2] of the 2d Marine Division) standing about eight feet away from me, flanked on either side by two or three tall, good-looking, well-dressed gentlemen in three-piece suits with slight bulges on the left side of their ribs. Apparently the 2d Combat Engineer Battalion Christmas Party coincided with the 24-hour advance site survey and security assessment being conducted by the US Secret Service for Mr. Clinton's visit to Camp Lejeune.

There was a moment there - a very brief moment, hamd'allah - where everyone's eyes were fixed directly on the poor, half-naked 21-year-old Marine. Once it was abundantly clear that I posed no threat, they moved onward, sweeping through the locker room and checking all the details that security teams check before wandering farther off into the field house and forgetting about me completely.

To be quite honest, the rest of the day was a hell of a lot more embarrassing for me personally. In hindsight, though, I knew at that very moment that I would never apply - or even be eligible for - a job with the Secret Service.

To this day I wonder if there's a note somewhere about my naked ass and whether or not it posed a threat to the President. Maybe that's just me my own personal shame talking, though...