Here is an article about how our upcoming deployment is affecting soldiers jobs. I am glad to see this topic covered in the media. (Thank you Lindsay Wise!)
I have seen a couple of my buddies "laid-off" but we all know that all the extra military duties we have taken on in the past few months is part of the reason they have been cut loose. A few others have mentioned that their employers are looking for reasons to let them go because we are called away by the Guard so often. The state of the economy makes it easier for employers to mask the reason why these guys are let go. The sad thing is that these employers do not realize that if soldiers do not fight they would not have a business to run.
http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/headline/metro/6547577.html
P.S. Those you you who left comments arguing that the Guard is not meant to be deployed oversees...go read up on your military history.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
My buddy and I were driving back home this weekend from our last "real" drill . We have one more drill in the chute but it will be dominated by a family readiness event. We were both sleep deprived and extremely exhausted. He was driving the first leg in route to Houston via I-10 while I tried to get some shut eye. The only thing I could think of was what the passengers of passing vehicles were thinking when they saw me wearing huge black ballistic goggles and ear plugs. The thought of it made me laugh a little; I had to block out the sunlight and music right?
As I shut my eyes I began to realize that the monkey that had been following me around all year had finally climbed onto my back. I occurred to me that we had one last road trip to and from drill. The unit will be hitting our second annual train-up soon with the mobilization immediately following that. Up until now, the thought of the upcoming mobilization has felt a little fake. There has been nothing that has given me any indication that the reality of the situation had finally caught up with the one constant in everyone lives, time. One minute, one hour, one day, one week; it doesn't matter what the measure of it is, it the same to us all. For the first time all year I realized that the monkey on my back was a biter; reality set its teeth deep into my back.
There were several other insignificant events that played out over the weekend that contributed to that bite mark on my back. One occurred when I was sitting outside the company orderly room waiting on another solider when one of the guys on the rear detachment came over to shoot the shit. He had been in the sandbox while on active duty and came into the Guard a few months back. He is on stabilization orders and cannot be deployed oversees until those orders expire.
"The operational tempo needs to slow the fuck down, this is the Guard," he said while swinging his arms and legs around as if he were playing the mythical drums of war.
"You guys are going to get there and end up guarding the chow hall."
We both started laughing our asses off. The one thing that I love about being with all the Joes is the amount of sarcasm, comedy and cursing that takes place. It is more than an art form, it is the signature of the personality. There was a little truth in what he said, we were so busy over those last four days that the guys in my section were averaging four hours of sleep a night.
I tried to sleep but the DVD player in my head replayed that moment and I knew that the operational tempo was what we should expect in country. Your always told to train like you fight.
The second came when I pulled a PFC in our section aside and had to play Daddy. He had failed to complete a task I had assigned. In addition to the failed task he had showed up late to our first formation. I was upset with him because he is a smart kid, very young, right out of high school,and very intelligent. Over the last few months I had come to the conclusion that some of the guys that hadn't been deployed to a combat zone were suffering from what I like to call Hollywood syndrome. These guys thought they were going to a Hollywood film shoot; reality hadn't set it. I've never been deployed but I didn't lose the 45 IQ points your required to lose when joining the ranks of the grunts. OK, so that was a joke that only a grunt will get, deal with it. Anyhow, I am aware of the situation we are putting ourselves into, he was not.
We began our conversation by talking about how the decisions he makes effects more people than he could ever imagine.
"When you first joined the army how many people did you think your decision affected," I asked.
"Me," he said as he shrugged his shoulders.
"Now that we are leaving, how many people has that decision touched."
"Everybody," he said as his smile faded and the severity of the situation set it.
I had burst his bubble, and that is an understatement. I could tell by the way he would look at the floor while he was thinking that I had flipped the right switch. That moment made me realize we were in this together. I had asked him those questions because I had struggled with them myself in one of those self analytical moments and I knew the effect they would have. He understood that soon his decisions could potentially have dire consequences.
The final moment came when I was standing out at the M-4 qualification range waiting to go through night qualification. I began to visit with an NCO that was in the same firing order as I when he mentioned the packing list for the deployment. I had never met the guy before but when I told him I had never deployed he began offering advice on what to pack.
"Bring your personal bed linens and pillows, maybe a laptop with some movies and books to keep you entertained while our gear catches up to us," he said.
Have a few hundred dollars at the ready when we get there because the guys we will be replacing will sell you all the stuff they can't pack. T.V., mini fridge, DVD player, video game consoles, if they cannot pack it and you want it, they'll sell it."
He went on explaining how some T.V. sets had changed hands four or five time because there is no point in bringing them back when you can help your replacement out by selling it to him dirt cheap. He said the army would not be happy if troops are bringing back large plasma televisions in army planes. I went on to ask him about smuggling my acoustic guitar into the combat zone.
"You can probably buy one too, if not have someone mail you yours. Make packages to yourself and number them. Keep a list of those numbered packages and their contents with you and when you call home you can ask to have a specific package sent to you."
I walk away form the conversation and went in sat in my Humvee and started making a list of items I would take and items I would have mailed to me. The only item I had on my mailing list; my guitar.
I was going to a far away land for a long time and all I want is my guitar. Playing guitar is my escape from life here, I am sure it will serve the same purpose overseas. It's the only thing that can remove me from time.
As I shut my eyes I began to realize that the monkey that had been following me around all year had finally climbed onto my back. I occurred to me that we had one last road trip to and from drill. The unit will be hitting our second annual train-up soon with the mobilization immediately following that. Up until now, the thought of the upcoming mobilization has felt a little fake. There has been nothing that has given me any indication that the reality of the situation had finally caught up with the one constant in everyone lives, time. One minute, one hour, one day, one week; it doesn't matter what the measure of it is, it the same to us all. For the first time all year I realized that the monkey on my back was a biter; reality set its teeth deep into my back.
There were several other insignificant events that played out over the weekend that contributed to that bite mark on my back. One occurred when I was sitting outside the company orderly room waiting on another solider when one of the guys on the rear detachment came over to shoot the shit. He had been in the sandbox while on active duty and came into the Guard a few months back. He is on stabilization orders and cannot be deployed oversees until those orders expire.
"The operational tempo needs to slow the fuck down, this is the Guard," he said while swinging his arms and legs around as if he were playing the mythical drums of war.
"You guys are going to get there and end up guarding the chow hall."
We both started laughing our asses off. The one thing that I love about being with all the Joes is the amount of sarcasm, comedy and cursing that takes place. It is more than an art form, it is the signature of the personality. There was a little truth in what he said, we were so busy over those last four days that the guys in my section were averaging four hours of sleep a night.
I tried to sleep but the DVD player in my head replayed that moment and I knew that the operational tempo was what we should expect in country. Your always told to train like you fight.
The second came when I pulled a PFC in our section aside and had to play Daddy. He had failed to complete a task I had assigned. In addition to the failed task he had showed up late to our first formation. I was upset with him because he is a smart kid, very young, right out of high school,and very intelligent. Over the last few months I had come to the conclusion that some of the guys that hadn't been deployed to a combat zone were suffering from what I like to call Hollywood syndrome. These guys thought they were going to a Hollywood film shoot; reality hadn't set it. I've never been deployed but I didn't lose the 45 IQ points your required to lose when joining the ranks of the grunts. OK, so that was a joke that only a grunt will get, deal with it. Anyhow, I am aware of the situation we are putting ourselves into, he was not.
We began our conversation by talking about how the decisions he makes effects more people than he could ever imagine.
"When you first joined the army how many people did you think your decision affected," I asked.
"Me," he said as he shrugged his shoulders.
"Now that we are leaving, how many people has that decision touched."
"Everybody," he said as his smile faded and the severity of the situation set it.
I had burst his bubble, and that is an understatement. I could tell by the way he would look at the floor while he was thinking that I had flipped the right switch. That moment made me realize we were in this together. I had asked him those questions because I had struggled with them myself in one of those self analytical moments and I knew the effect they would have. He understood that soon his decisions could potentially have dire consequences.
The final moment came when I was standing out at the M-4 qualification range waiting to go through night qualification. I began to visit with an NCO that was in the same firing order as I when he mentioned the packing list for the deployment. I had never met the guy before but when I told him I had never deployed he began offering advice on what to pack.
"Bring your personal bed linens and pillows, maybe a laptop with some movies and books to keep you entertained while our gear catches up to us," he said.
Have a few hundred dollars at the ready when we get there because the guys we will be replacing will sell you all the stuff they can't pack. T.V., mini fridge, DVD player, video game consoles, if they cannot pack it and you want it, they'll sell it."
He went on explaining how some T.V. sets had changed hands four or five time because there is no point in bringing them back when you can help your replacement out by selling it to him dirt cheap. He said the army would not be happy if troops are bringing back large plasma televisions in army planes. I went on to ask him about smuggling my acoustic guitar into the combat zone.
"You can probably buy one too, if not have someone mail you yours. Make packages to yourself and number them. Keep a list of those numbered packages and their contents with you and when you call home you can ask to have a specific package sent to you."
I walk away form the conversation and went in sat in my Humvee and started making a list of items I would take and items I would have mailed to me. The only item I had on my mailing list; my guitar.
I was going to a far away land for a long time and all I want is my guitar. Playing guitar is my escape from life here, I am sure it will serve the same purpose overseas. It's the only thing that can remove me from time.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
God's message to me.
I read somewhere that only men at peace with themselves could go to war for the sake of others. I wish I could remember the source or the exact quote but that concept has haunted me for the past few weeks. Every grunt experiences the moral dilemmas unique to the experience of war. Every grunt also contemplates the many scenarios that may unfold in his presence while deployed in a combat zone. He begins to question his ability to react to situations that endanger himself and his fellow soldiers. All of these thoughts had been constantly flying through the grey matter between my ears until Friday June 19th, 2009.
I had gladly volunteer to drive to San Antonio to pick up the middle child of a family that treats me as one of their own. About an hour and a half into the trip, a car about half a mile ahead of me suddenly veered off the interstate and flipped three times. The only reason I realized an accident was occurring was the swerving of the big rigs up ahead. I drove up on the accident scene a few minutes later and I saw a few guys pulling a man from the wreckage. I knew this was not the way to move a man with potential life threatening injuries. As I drove by, the casualty was laying down with everyone standing around not sure what to do next. I decided to pull over and offer the limited medical knowledge I learned in Combat Lifesaver Course, more commonly known as CLS. A few others had already begun to manage traffic but I the injured man needed help. As I ran up to the guy and took control of his care, I issued a few orders to the bystanders, and they surprisingly complied. I told the man to remain still and asked the bystanders to help me find something to immobilize his neck. I then began asking the guy questions to check for a head injury. Not more than a few minutes had elapsed when a nurse and a doctor, who did not know each other and were traveling in different directions, stopped and offered assistance. Without saying a word, I deferred control to them and assisted in keeping the man calm. It soon became clear to us that the man was going to be fine; he was scratched up and battered, but he would probably walk away from it all after a thorough checkout at the ER thanks to everybody that pulled over to help.
Now I told you this story because of the manner in which I reacted, I was calm, collected, unphased and almost methodical in my actions. I never raised my voice, didn't feel any nerves fraying and kept my cool. As soon as the man was loaded into the ambulance I began a ARR or After Action Review to analyze my actions. ARR's are used in the military to critique the outcome of missions at every level, from the lowly fire team to the brigade command. I took my time walking back to the Suburban and began to compare my response to this situation to one that occurred a few months earlier.
In mid April I was returning to my unit headquarters from a military school that had ended that day when the person directly in front of me swerved to miss a braking car. The lady behind the wheel over corrected and began skidding all over the road. We just happened to be on a bridge and she bounced between the guardrails like a super ball being thrown across the room. I was just glad to be far enough behind to avoid getting hit but I wasn't phased by the danger. This time I was the first to stop and as approached the car I realized she was out cold. I went to open her door and nothing. It was locked. At that instant my legs began shaking uncontrollably, I began to yell at her through the window hoping she would stir. I quickly ran around the vehicle and checked all the doors while growing more desperate. I decided to smash one of the rear windows to get to her. I was about to swing at the rear driver side window with my elbow when I heard the unmistakable click of the power locks. She was beginning to stir. My nerves, however, were taking over. I could feel my body trembling and I could not seem to control the volume of my voice. Once I gained entry to the vehicle, another driver had stopped to give a hand and I was glad he did. He was more collected and began to speak to the lady, whom was still semi-unconscious. I on the other hand was mumbling whatever came to mind as my heart raced; I was still panicking. We must have been just minutes away from a fire station; not more that two or three minutes had passed before the first responders arrived and I was very relieved, the medics could now take over. After answering a few questions for the investigating officers, I jumped in my truck and began my ARR. In my self analysis I concluded that I felt powerless to help the lady once I realized the SUV was locked. I knew why I reacted the way I did. I had felt similar to this once before but it was not someone else I was trying to help.
On September 11th, 2008, I was over at my cousin's house, back in my hometown, helping him repair his sub flooring when the unthinkable happened. I was about to nail down a new sheet of decking material when I fell through the floor and put my arm through a window. The glass cut though my left forearm and severed everything until it hit bone. I had only seen arterial bleeding in the medical training video's during our CLS course but now I had a a front row seat to the taping.
After seeing my mangled arm my heart damm near torn through my chest. I could feel every beat pound against my chest so hard I thought a heavy metal band had booked a concert in my chest and the drummer had replaced his bass drum with my heart. I immediately knew that I was going to need a tourniquet but first I was going to apply a pressure dressing to the wound. My two cousins had run out the front door in a panic. I that point I realized that I needed to keep my head on straight or I was going to bleed to death. Retrospectively, I don't blame them, I would have shit myself too. I got up and walked to the front door to get my cousins' attention. Once I did I instructed them to remove my shirt an proceeded to instruct them to apply the makeshift pressure bandage. My cousins were afraid to hurt me and could not find it in them to tighten the dressing tight enough to stop the bleeding. I immediately began searching for something to use as a tourniquet. At this point, I was scared, but I was in control, issuing order's and maintaining situational awareness. That military training always seems to kick in without letting me know. I began to apply direct pressure to the wound with my one good arm right after I gave my cell phone to one of my cousins and instructing him to call 911. At this point I realized I was wearing a belt! Why hadn't I thought of it sooner? I had not worn a belt all week because it was packed somewhere in one of my bags and I could not find it. That morning however, I found it inside a laundry bag so I put it on. We were already in a bad situation, we were in a small town about 20 miles of country road away from the nearest hospital but what happen next made me lose my cool. My cousin turns to me and tells me he cannot figure out how to dial 911 on my blackberry. My cousins tell me I was yelling commands at them the entire time; I was probably just using my command voice, but at this point I knew I was yelling. Once we were in the truck and in motion, I dialed 911 while holding the end of the belt between my shoulder and chin, the way you would a telephone, to keep the belt tight around my arm. With that out of the way my next concern was getting a hold of myself. My heart was racing, my legs were shaking uncontrollably and my body had pumped itself so full of adrenaline that I could not feel the pain that should have been ripping through my arm. It also didn't help that we broke countless traffic laws several times over. I could feel my body shutting itself off. First I became extremely thirsty and my skin looked like a sheet of white copier paper. Once I started feeling sleepy, I turned to my cousin in the driver's seat a told him to pull the belt tight if I passed out. Then, a wall of white, my vision began to phase between a mild fogginess to a cloudy white. Retrospectively, If God was watching over me, he could not have picked a better day. It was at this moment that that my cousin first spotted the ambulance that was dispatched to meet us half way. For brevity's sake I'll cut the story short, but if you haven't figured it out yet I'm still kicking.
This experience on Sept. 11 was the catalyst. It turned the key to the engine that runs deepest darkest regions of my head. This is when I started analyzing life and death. It was at this instant that I knew I had taken for granted the delicate existence we call life. At first I could not understand why God would let me go through something so traumatic. God and I always had our differences; let's just say we never really saw each other eye to eye, but this time I was furious.
I could have died that day. Why was I spared? What if I had died. How many people would have attended my funeral? What would the world be like if I had died? Was my purpose on this plain of existence my fulfilled? These were only a few of the hamsters spinning the wheel in my head.
My initial thoughts brushed all these incidents aside as coincidences but then someone hit the light switch. There wasn't even a thought process involved. It was one of those moments where you figured out it was easier to peel the stickers off the Rubik's cube and place them on corresponding sides instead of finishing the puzzle. I realized that if I had died that September afternoon, I would not have been there to help those two people and I would not be here to deploy to the middle east. That day, as I continued my little trek to San Antonio, it dawned on me that God had intervened in all three experiences because he wanted me to be prepared. I cannot explain how this connection came to fruition but it was one of those eureka moments.
He was preparing me for something; he was helping my actions and reactions under extreme stress to evolve. He was giving me the courage and fortitude I needed to deal with what lies ahead. I do not mean to imply that God is preparing me for war. I would like to think that an omnipotent being would discount the very notion of war, although he allows if because it negates free will. I am merely stating that he is tending his flock. I realized that he wants me to be ready for something that is going to test my mettle. Whatever lies ahead is one of those unknowns that can drive a man insane, but at least I'll be ready for it.
This revelation has in turn subdued many of the dilemmas that I have contemplated over the last few months. A few remain but I am sure I will act accordingly when they present themselves. God had a strange why of shuffling the deck, he may have pocket aces and I do not think I can bluff myself out if this one.
I had gladly volunteer to drive to San Antonio to pick up the middle child of a family that treats me as one of their own. About an hour and a half into the trip, a car about half a mile ahead of me suddenly veered off the interstate and flipped three times. The only reason I realized an accident was occurring was the swerving of the big rigs up ahead. I drove up on the accident scene a few minutes later and I saw a few guys pulling a man from the wreckage. I knew this was not the way to move a man with potential life threatening injuries. As I drove by, the casualty was laying down with everyone standing around not sure what to do next. I decided to pull over and offer the limited medical knowledge I learned in Combat Lifesaver Course, more commonly known as CLS. A few others had already begun to manage traffic but I the injured man needed help. As I ran up to the guy and took control of his care, I issued a few orders to the bystanders, and they surprisingly complied. I told the man to remain still and asked the bystanders to help me find something to immobilize his neck. I then began asking the guy questions to check for a head injury. Not more than a few minutes had elapsed when a nurse and a doctor, who did not know each other and were traveling in different directions, stopped and offered assistance. Without saying a word, I deferred control to them and assisted in keeping the man calm. It soon became clear to us that the man was going to be fine; he was scratched up and battered, but he would probably walk away from it all after a thorough checkout at the ER thanks to everybody that pulled over to help.
Now I told you this story because of the manner in which I reacted, I was calm, collected, unphased and almost methodical in my actions. I never raised my voice, didn't feel any nerves fraying and kept my cool. As soon as the man was loaded into the ambulance I began a ARR or After Action Review to analyze my actions. ARR's are used in the military to critique the outcome of missions at every level, from the lowly fire team to the brigade command. I took my time walking back to the Suburban and began to compare my response to this situation to one that occurred a few months earlier.
In mid April I was returning to my unit headquarters from a military school that had ended that day when the person directly in front of me swerved to miss a braking car. The lady behind the wheel over corrected and began skidding all over the road. We just happened to be on a bridge and she bounced between the guardrails like a super ball being thrown across the room. I was just glad to be far enough behind to avoid getting hit but I wasn't phased by the danger. This time I was the first to stop and as approached the car I realized she was out cold. I went to open her door and nothing. It was locked. At that instant my legs began shaking uncontrollably, I began to yell at her through the window hoping she would stir. I quickly ran around the vehicle and checked all the doors while growing more desperate. I decided to smash one of the rear windows to get to her. I was about to swing at the rear driver side window with my elbow when I heard the unmistakable click of the power locks. She was beginning to stir. My nerves, however, were taking over. I could feel my body trembling and I could not seem to control the volume of my voice. Once I gained entry to the vehicle, another driver had stopped to give a hand and I was glad he did. He was more collected and began to speak to the lady, whom was still semi-unconscious. I on the other hand was mumbling whatever came to mind as my heart raced; I was still panicking. We must have been just minutes away from a fire station; not more that two or three minutes had passed before the first responders arrived and I was very relieved, the medics could now take over. After answering a few questions for the investigating officers, I jumped in my truck and began my ARR. In my self analysis I concluded that I felt powerless to help the lady once I realized the SUV was locked. I knew why I reacted the way I did. I had felt similar to this once before but it was not someone else I was trying to help.
On September 11th, 2008, I was over at my cousin's house, back in my hometown, helping him repair his sub flooring when the unthinkable happened. I was about to nail down a new sheet of decking material when I fell through the floor and put my arm through a window. The glass cut though my left forearm and severed everything until it hit bone. I had only seen arterial bleeding in the medical training video's during our CLS course but now I had a a front row seat to the taping.
After seeing my mangled arm my heart damm near torn through my chest. I could feel every beat pound against my chest so hard I thought a heavy metal band had booked a concert in my chest and the drummer had replaced his bass drum with my heart. I immediately knew that I was going to need a tourniquet but first I was going to apply a pressure dressing to the wound. My two cousins had run out the front door in a panic. I that point I realized that I needed to keep my head on straight or I was going to bleed to death. Retrospectively, I don't blame them, I would have shit myself too. I got up and walked to the front door to get my cousins' attention. Once I did I instructed them to remove my shirt an proceeded to instruct them to apply the makeshift pressure bandage. My cousins were afraid to hurt me and could not find it in them to tighten the dressing tight enough to stop the bleeding. I immediately began searching for something to use as a tourniquet. At this point, I was scared, but I was in control, issuing order's and maintaining situational awareness. That military training always seems to kick in without letting me know. I began to apply direct pressure to the wound with my one good arm right after I gave my cell phone to one of my cousins and instructing him to call 911. At this point I realized I was wearing a belt! Why hadn't I thought of it sooner? I had not worn a belt all week because it was packed somewhere in one of my bags and I could not find it. That morning however, I found it inside a laundry bag so I put it on. We were already in a bad situation, we were in a small town about 20 miles of country road away from the nearest hospital but what happen next made me lose my cool. My cousin turns to me and tells me he cannot figure out how to dial 911 on my blackberry. My cousins tell me I was yelling commands at them the entire time; I was probably just using my command voice, but at this point I knew I was yelling. Once we were in the truck and in motion, I dialed 911 while holding the end of the belt between my shoulder and chin, the way you would a telephone, to keep the belt tight around my arm. With that out of the way my next concern was getting a hold of myself. My heart was racing, my legs were shaking uncontrollably and my body had pumped itself so full of adrenaline that I could not feel the pain that should have been ripping through my arm. It also didn't help that we broke countless traffic laws several times over. I could feel my body shutting itself off. First I became extremely thirsty and my skin looked like a sheet of white copier paper. Once I started feeling sleepy, I turned to my cousin in the driver's seat a told him to pull the belt tight if I passed out. Then, a wall of white, my vision began to phase between a mild fogginess to a cloudy white. Retrospectively, If God was watching over me, he could not have picked a better day. It was at this moment that that my cousin first spotted the ambulance that was dispatched to meet us half way. For brevity's sake I'll cut the story short, but if you haven't figured it out yet I'm still kicking.
This experience on Sept. 11 was the catalyst. It turned the key to the engine that runs deepest darkest regions of my head. This is when I started analyzing life and death. It was at this instant that I knew I had taken for granted the delicate existence we call life. At first I could not understand why God would let me go through something so traumatic. God and I always had our differences; let's just say we never really saw each other eye to eye, but this time I was furious.
I could have died that day. Why was I spared? What if I had died. How many people would have attended my funeral? What would the world be like if I had died? Was my purpose on this plain of existence my fulfilled? These were only a few of the hamsters spinning the wheel in my head.
My initial thoughts brushed all these incidents aside as coincidences but then someone hit the light switch. There wasn't even a thought process involved. It was one of those moments where you figured out it was easier to peel the stickers off the Rubik's cube and place them on corresponding sides instead of finishing the puzzle. I realized that if I had died that September afternoon, I would not have been there to help those two people and I would not be here to deploy to the middle east. That day, as I continued my little trek to San Antonio, it dawned on me that God had intervened in all three experiences because he wanted me to be prepared. I cannot explain how this connection came to fruition but it was one of those eureka moments.
He was preparing me for something; he was helping my actions and reactions under extreme stress to evolve. He was giving me the courage and fortitude I needed to deal with what lies ahead. I do not mean to imply that God is preparing me for war. I would like to think that an omnipotent being would discount the very notion of war, although he allows if because it negates free will. I am merely stating that he is tending his flock. I realized that he wants me to be ready for something that is going to test my mettle. Whatever lies ahead is one of those unknowns that can drive a man insane, but at least I'll be ready for it.
This revelation has in turn subdued many of the dilemmas that I have contemplated over the last few months. A few remain but I am sure I will act accordingly when they present themselves. God had a strange why of shuffling the deck, he may have pocket aces and I do not think I can bluff myself out if this one.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
HERE WE GO!
Well, if anyone had any hopes of the deployment being scratched, do not read the link to article. Those of you that have been relying in the RUMOR INTELLIGENCE, you need to read this. HAHA!!!
http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/metropolitan/6501078.html
http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/metropolitan/6501078.html
Are there Ghost in Iraq?
Well, operating under my insatiable need for information, I have been reading every Iraqistan war book I can get my hands on. I need to prepare myself for what is ahead, right? Well the book I just finished reading was Paul Rieckoff's Chasing Ghost. This man is a true Patriot. The are no words that can describe the intensity and sincerity of his beliefs.
His accounts of the fire fights and raids he and his men took part in were so realistic I could almost see myself running along side his men or riding in one of the SUV's they had to commandeer. The most incomprehensible issues presented was the constant lack of supplies and the clusterfuck his chain of command called communication. I do not want to ruin the book for those of you that have not read it so I'll stop there. The book is a must read for anyone trying to understand what a soldier goes through and where the war when wrong.
Other books I recommend are: My War: Killing time in Irag-Colby Buzzell, Fiasco-Thomas Ricks, The Mission, The Men, and Me-Pete Blaber, The Unforgiving Minute,-Craig m. Mullaney, Two Wars,-Nate Self
His accounts of the fire fights and raids he and his men took part in were so realistic I could almost see myself running along side his men or riding in one of the SUV's they had to commandeer. The most incomprehensible issues presented was the constant lack of supplies and the clusterfuck his chain of command called communication. I do not want to ruin the book for those of you that have not read it so I'll stop there. The book is a must read for anyone trying to understand what a soldier goes through and where the war when wrong.
Other books I recommend are: My War: Killing time in Irag-Colby Buzzell, Fiasco-Thomas Ricks, The Mission, The Men, and Me-Pete Blaber, The Unforgiving Minute,-Craig m. Mullaney, Two Wars,-Nate Self
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Unkowns
Emotions are a bitch. One of the toughest things I've endured over the last few weeks is the feeling on uncertainty. When are we going? Where we going? What happens if one of us gets shot? How will I react if I get shot or hit by an IED. Will I pull the trigger when I am staring down the barrel of a Russian made AK-47. How will I react, that's the million dollar question. I am not scared of doing my duty, but I am petrified of the unknown. Not knowing how I am going to react the first time I am getting shot at is tearing me up inside. I would like to think that I am a going to keep a cool head, execute some fancy tactic that I am trained to execute and move on to complete the mission, but not knowing is a bitch. I do know that I don't want to be the idiot that pisses his pants. The number one thing I have learned in the military is to embrace the unknown.
I do know I love serving my country. I do know I don't want to die doing it. I do not want to be another name on a wall somewhere. I want to return to the States and life a happy life. I know I want to get married someday, I know I want kids, a nice job and a big house. I do not even know if I'll be back in one piece, physically and mentally. My buddies that have been to Iraqistan tell me PTSD is a bitch.
Preparing to go to war is the emotional. Emotional unknowns are the most difficult to deal with. How will I feel after after I've been shot at or after I have pulled the trigger myself. Lately I've been experiencing the full spectrum of human emotion and I haven't even left the States yet. I don't need my shitfaced buddies telling me, "Hey man don't go over and try to be a hero." Fuck them, I know what I got myself into, I love serving my country. They can stay home play video games, get up every morning drink their coffee and go to their job, if they still even have one. I will defend every one's right to call me a fucking baby killer, even after my buddy just lost his job because he has missed to much work due to military obligations. His employer can go fuck himself too. I don't need my mom telling me how she does not want to lose me. Fuck, I do not need to think about these things, I just want to live my life as I see fit. I do not need everyone questioning why I live the life I lead.
It's a powerful burden to carry but someone has to carry it.
I do know I love serving my country. I do know I don't want to die doing it. I do not want to be another name on a wall somewhere. I want to return to the States and life a happy life. I know I want to get married someday, I know I want kids, a nice job and a big house. I do not even know if I'll be back in one piece, physically and mentally. My buddies that have been to Iraqistan tell me PTSD is a bitch.
Preparing to go to war is the emotional. Emotional unknowns are the most difficult to deal with. How will I feel after after I've been shot at or after I have pulled the trigger myself. Lately I've been experiencing the full spectrum of human emotion and I haven't even left the States yet. I don't need my shitfaced buddies telling me, "Hey man don't go over and try to be a hero." Fuck them, I know what I got myself into, I love serving my country. They can stay home play video games, get up every morning drink their coffee and go to their job, if they still even have one. I will defend every one's right to call me a fucking baby killer, even after my buddy just lost his job because he has missed to much work due to military obligations. His employer can go fuck himself too. I don't need my mom telling me how she does not want to lose me. Fuck, I do not need to think about these things, I just want to live my life as I see fit. I do not need everyone questioning why I live the life I lead.
It's a powerful burden to carry but someone has to carry it.
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Path We Walk
We were all trying to hold back laughter as we stood by our cots as stiff and straight as we possibly could while avoiding eye contact with each other. A few seconds before we were busting each others balls and trying to get a few minutes of rest before our next hard time. Some of the guys were talking about our up coming graduation and the insane amounts of booze and nicotine they were going to consume or the pornographic things they were going to do to their girlfriends or wives that first night out of here. All I could think of was sleep, a shower and the rest of the day's training. Call me short sighted but the Army indoctrination process had worked; get your head out of the game and you were dead. Here it was a game but we all knew that someday, soon, the blanks would be replaced with live ammo and we would be keeping score.
We were all just a bunch of Joes with different reasons for being here. Some of us had a duty to our country, some needed college money, but most of us needed a steady paycheck. There was even one guy who claimed to be the classic, “go to war or go to jail” case. Regardless of each persons reason for enlisting we had all joined the less than one percent of the population that is American Armed Services. Today however, we were biting our tongue’s trying to hide the hilarity of one of the Drill Sergeant’s antic’s.
The circumstances that led to the scene that was unfolding were unknown to us, but at the time it felt like we were the supporting cast in a movie staring Will Ferrell and Vince Vaughn. The only thing that was certain was that the Drill Sergeant had busted a private doing something he was not supposed to be doing, perhaps his head wasn't in the game. That, in basic training terms meant that the unfortunate soul was "smoked", or told to do push-ups, sit-ups and other exercises to the point of having an out of body experience, all this before being ordered to become the center of our attention.
The unknown Private was laying on an aid litter and covered with Old Glory as he was marched around the makeshift Forward Operating Base while some of the guys carried him. As the soldier was marched by our 40 man tent, I remember looking around and everyone looked as if they were about to piss their pants in laughter. A few moments later the entire platoon burst into a loud roar of profanity and laughter as we heard a twenty-one gun salute honor our fallen battle buddy. The Drill had made the Private play dead to teach us a lesson, we later concluded the he had fallen asleep out on an Observation Point, but the intended effect was a distant thought. We were not keeping score.
A few months before we were a ragtag bunch of guys that George Washington himself would not lead into battle, even if it meant surrendering the American cause to the British. Some of us had no idea what we were doing here but I am sure it all made sense one night over a case of beer right before being dared to drink the bong water.
Regardless of the insane story leading up to signing the dotted line, the crossing of our path’s had been triggered by different events in each of our lives that somehow converged at Kilo Troop’s front doors. Kilo Troop, also known as Killer Troop would be our home for the next 17 weeks, as we were broken down, some reduced to tears, then rebuilt, reprogrammed, slapped on the ass and sent off into the world as U.S. army Cavalry Scouts.
My path to those front doors began September 12, 2001. Ok, so this does sound like line out of a movie but it is the truth. After the events of the days before, I was still a little shell shocked, not knowing how our world had changed in the blink of an eye. The day before I was eating my breakfast in the University cafeteria with a few other classmates and one of my best friends when reports of the first plane slamming into the World trade center came in via the radio playing over the cafeteria’s overhead speaker system. My initial thoughts were that of a small plane striking the tower after its inexperienced pilot came to close. No one seemed to care until the reporter over the radio announced that the plane was a commercial airliner. I don't recall the conversation at the breakfast table but I don't think that anyone even thought of it being a terrorist attack. We all thought it was just a bad accident.
As my buddy and I arrived at our first class that morning our professor came in, tears on her face and her heart on her sleeve, canceled class and told us to find a television. Not knowing the severity of the situation, we made a beeline to the big screen on the second floor of the cafeteria we had just left. We made it a few minutes before the second plane changed our lives forever.
I was two weeks into my freshman year of college and I was in over my head. I did not know what I wanted or where I was going in life but I did know I wanted the animals responsible for our generations defining moment to pay. I did not want justice with its lawyers and jurors to decide their fate, I wanted these assholes dead. I wanted to tie the persons responsible to the nose of a jet plane and pilot the plane that was going fly his ass into the ground.
The morning of the 12th, as I walked to the same cafeteria where I sat the morning before, I walked passed a couple of Army recruiters who had set up a table at the doors on the north end of the building. I took one look at them, one look at recruiting literature on the table and without hesitation, kept walking. Why hadn’t I stopped? Till this day I could not answer that question. That moment replayed itself several times in my head over the next couple of years; haunting me, mocking me, flipping me the finger, making a fool of me and my inability to act on the feelings I had had inside. I was like the other ninety-nine percent.
I don’t remember much about the initial invasion of Afghanistan. I vaguely remember the nightly news reports of the battle of Tora Bora which we now know as Operation Anaconda and its attempts to kill or capture Osama bin Laden. I was too busy living the college life, lots of partying, little studying and the weekend greyhound bus trip home to jam with the metal band I was in, I even had the long rock star hair. I was so full of myself that my picture is next to the definition of smug in the dictionary.
Partying, there was enough partying in those first few years in college to last me ten lifetimes. I did not have the support structure back home to keep me grounded. My parents were recently separated and divorced, so as long as a kept to myself I could of formed a cult, convinced my followers to drink the punch and no one back home would have noticed. I was free to do as I pleased. The partying intensified and so did the hangovers, as the hangovers took control of my mornings, my grades began to suffer.
Like I mentioned earlier, I was in over my head. I was the oldest child and I was treading new waters. Who would I turn to if I needed advice or help? My Mother worked hard to help me financially but her pay as a cook at the mexican restaurant in our hometown was not enough to support her, my brother and sister in addition to supplementing what little income I had from student loans, grants and scholarships.
To make matters worst the dorms at our University had been deemed uninhabitable due to structural issues stemming form a tropical storm that battered the coast prior to our arrival. My roommate and I decided that an apartment near campus was the best solution. As money grew tighter I began contemplated leaving school to relieve the financial burden on my family.
If I were going to do this I needed a plan. I did not want to quit school, move back home and become another statistic. I wanted to finish school, receive a degree and land a job that would take me places. Now what? I weighed my option and put together plans of action. Plan A, I could go home, bruised ego and all and start taking classes at the local junior college. It was cheaper and closer to home. Plan B, join the military, serve my time, get the college money and come back to school.
Plan A required little research since I had attended the junior college while I was in high school and knew the nuances of the game. Plan B needed a little more exploration before I made my decision so I called an Air Force recruiter. At this point America was gearing up for round two in Iraq, as a kid I was amazed at the air campaign American pilots flew in the first Gulf War. Those bombing raids were all I could think of when those bomb alarms rang over the school's intercom system and our grade school teacher would run around the classroom making sure we had all made it under our desk. They were just bomb drills but I was young and knew that our bombs were blowing Iraqi buildings overseas, surly theirs could do the same to ours. The televised footage of the bombing raids were the dreams a young impressionable kid’s dreams were made of when he was playing war with he buddies in the back yard. The recruiter told me what I needed to know about education benefits and the enlistment process. After a little thought and a few illegal beers later I decided that Plan A would be the best option.
For the second time in my life I was shunning the military, but somewhere in the twelve pack I swallowed that night I promised that there would not be a third time. First, I had to finish what I has started, I could not be a failure. It was not an option. I had to have a piece of paper with a watermark, fancy font and my name on it to hang on a wall somewhere.
After two years at the junior college, and a little help from a man that would become a dear friend and mentor, I returned to the university where I stared my degree. Now I was a little older a little wiser and no longer full of myself, or so I thought. We were still fighting the war the Bush Administration affectionately called the Global War on Terror, but I was too ambitions to look past the flaws the administrations war strategy, if there ever was one, and put Plan B into motion. Once I entered my final year in college I began to make good on that promise I had made to myself a few years before. This time however, I was eager to go out into the world and put to use the knowledge and wisdom I had gained over the course of my education. The solution: look into joining the Reserves.
We were all just a bunch of Joes with different reasons for being here. Some of us had a duty to our country, some needed college money, but most of us needed a steady paycheck. There was even one guy who claimed to be the classic, “go to war or go to jail” case. Regardless of each persons reason for enlisting we had all joined the less than one percent of the population that is American Armed Services. Today however, we were biting our tongue’s trying to hide the hilarity of one of the Drill Sergeant’s antic’s.
The circumstances that led to the scene that was unfolding were unknown to us, but at the time it felt like we were the supporting cast in a movie staring Will Ferrell and Vince Vaughn. The only thing that was certain was that the Drill Sergeant had busted a private doing something he was not supposed to be doing, perhaps his head wasn't in the game. That, in basic training terms meant that the unfortunate soul was "smoked", or told to do push-ups, sit-ups and other exercises to the point of having an out of body experience, all this before being ordered to become the center of our attention.
The unknown Private was laying on an aid litter and covered with Old Glory as he was marched around the makeshift Forward Operating Base while some of the guys carried him. As the soldier was marched by our 40 man tent, I remember looking around and everyone looked as if they were about to piss their pants in laughter. A few moments later the entire platoon burst into a loud roar of profanity and laughter as we heard a twenty-one gun salute honor our fallen battle buddy. The Drill had made the Private play dead to teach us a lesson, we later concluded the he had fallen asleep out on an Observation Point, but the intended effect was a distant thought. We were not keeping score.
A few months before we were a ragtag bunch of guys that George Washington himself would not lead into battle, even if it meant surrendering the American cause to the British. Some of us had no idea what we were doing here but I am sure it all made sense one night over a case of beer right before being dared to drink the bong water.
Regardless of the insane story leading up to signing the dotted line, the crossing of our path’s had been triggered by different events in each of our lives that somehow converged at Kilo Troop’s front doors. Kilo Troop, also known as Killer Troop would be our home for the next 17 weeks, as we were broken down, some reduced to tears, then rebuilt, reprogrammed, slapped on the ass and sent off into the world as U.S. army Cavalry Scouts.
My path to those front doors began September 12, 2001. Ok, so this does sound like line out of a movie but it is the truth. After the events of the days before, I was still a little shell shocked, not knowing how our world had changed in the blink of an eye. The day before I was eating my breakfast in the University cafeteria with a few other classmates and one of my best friends when reports of the first plane slamming into the World trade center came in via the radio playing over the cafeteria’s overhead speaker system. My initial thoughts were that of a small plane striking the tower after its inexperienced pilot came to close. No one seemed to care until the reporter over the radio announced that the plane was a commercial airliner. I don't recall the conversation at the breakfast table but I don't think that anyone even thought of it being a terrorist attack. We all thought it was just a bad accident.
As my buddy and I arrived at our first class that morning our professor came in, tears on her face and her heart on her sleeve, canceled class and told us to find a television. Not knowing the severity of the situation, we made a beeline to the big screen on the second floor of the cafeteria we had just left. We made it a few minutes before the second plane changed our lives forever.
I was two weeks into my freshman year of college and I was in over my head. I did not know what I wanted or where I was going in life but I did know I wanted the animals responsible for our generations defining moment to pay. I did not want justice with its lawyers and jurors to decide their fate, I wanted these assholes dead. I wanted to tie the persons responsible to the nose of a jet plane and pilot the plane that was going fly his ass into the ground.
The morning of the 12th, as I walked to the same cafeteria where I sat the morning before, I walked passed a couple of Army recruiters who had set up a table at the doors on the north end of the building. I took one look at them, one look at recruiting literature on the table and without hesitation, kept walking. Why hadn’t I stopped? Till this day I could not answer that question. That moment replayed itself several times in my head over the next couple of years; haunting me, mocking me, flipping me the finger, making a fool of me and my inability to act on the feelings I had had inside. I was like the other ninety-nine percent.
I don’t remember much about the initial invasion of Afghanistan. I vaguely remember the nightly news reports of the battle of Tora Bora which we now know as Operation Anaconda and its attempts to kill or capture Osama bin Laden. I was too busy living the college life, lots of partying, little studying and the weekend greyhound bus trip home to jam with the metal band I was in, I even had the long rock star hair. I was so full of myself that my picture is next to the definition of smug in the dictionary.
Partying, there was enough partying in those first few years in college to last me ten lifetimes. I did not have the support structure back home to keep me grounded. My parents were recently separated and divorced, so as long as a kept to myself I could of formed a cult, convinced my followers to drink the punch and no one back home would have noticed. I was free to do as I pleased. The partying intensified and so did the hangovers, as the hangovers took control of my mornings, my grades began to suffer.
Like I mentioned earlier, I was in over my head. I was the oldest child and I was treading new waters. Who would I turn to if I needed advice or help? My Mother worked hard to help me financially but her pay as a cook at the mexican restaurant in our hometown was not enough to support her, my brother and sister in addition to supplementing what little income I had from student loans, grants and scholarships.
To make matters worst the dorms at our University had been deemed uninhabitable due to structural issues stemming form a tropical storm that battered the coast prior to our arrival. My roommate and I decided that an apartment near campus was the best solution. As money grew tighter I began contemplated leaving school to relieve the financial burden on my family.
If I were going to do this I needed a plan. I did not want to quit school, move back home and become another statistic. I wanted to finish school, receive a degree and land a job that would take me places. Now what? I weighed my option and put together plans of action. Plan A, I could go home, bruised ego and all and start taking classes at the local junior college. It was cheaper and closer to home. Plan B, join the military, serve my time, get the college money and come back to school.
Plan A required little research since I had attended the junior college while I was in high school and knew the nuances of the game. Plan B needed a little more exploration before I made my decision so I called an Air Force recruiter. At this point America was gearing up for round two in Iraq, as a kid I was amazed at the air campaign American pilots flew in the first Gulf War. Those bombing raids were all I could think of when those bomb alarms rang over the school's intercom system and our grade school teacher would run around the classroom making sure we had all made it under our desk. They were just bomb drills but I was young and knew that our bombs were blowing Iraqi buildings overseas, surly theirs could do the same to ours. The televised footage of the bombing raids were the dreams a young impressionable kid’s dreams were made of when he was playing war with he buddies in the back yard. The recruiter told me what I needed to know about education benefits and the enlistment process. After a little thought and a few illegal beers later I decided that Plan A would be the best option.
For the second time in my life I was shunning the military, but somewhere in the twelve pack I swallowed that night I promised that there would not be a third time. First, I had to finish what I has started, I could not be a failure. It was not an option. I had to have a piece of paper with a watermark, fancy font and my name on it to hang on a wall somewhere.
After two years at the junior college, and a little help from a man that would become a dear friend and mentor, I returned to the university where I stared my degree. Now I was a little older a little wiser and no longer full of myself, or so I thought. We were still fighting the war the Bush Administration affectionately called the Global War on Terror, but I was too ambitions to look past the flaws the administrations war strategy, if there ever was one, and put Plan B into motion. Once I entered my final year in college I began to make good on that promise I had made to myself a few years before. This time however, I was eager to go out into the world and put to use the knowledge and wisdom I had gained over the course of my education. The solution: look into joining the Reserves.
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