Just so you know,
you outrank me today
because you have been in the Army for longer than I have.
And that's cool,
because there are things you know,
that I don't know.
But I'm not going to be this rank for long.
And pretty soon, I'm going to run into you again.
And we'll be the same rank.
And you'll be confused.
And pretty soon after that, I'm going to run into you again.
And I'll be a higher rank than you.
And you'll get mad.
And think "Boy, he must suck dick a lot to get promoted fast!".
But you're just lying to yourself.
Because I'm not a political person.
I don't fucking like you, I don't like your fucking boss, and I'm not going
to play stupid politics.
So, when I get promoted, it's all fucking talent and accomplishment.
I get promoted when I am so fucking amazing that they can't ignore me.
So lie to yourself.
I don't mind.
Because you are a fucking amateur.
I did things before I joined the Army
that were far harder
than anything you have ever done
or ever will do.
When I joined, you would say:
"Hah, I've been deployed"
You don't say that any longer: I've done that.
When I joined, you would say:
"Hah, I've been in combat"
You don't say that any longer: I've done that.
When I joined, you would say:
"Hah, I've been blown up"
You don't say that any longer: I've done that.
I've known it all along, but you'll come to know it too:
I'm made of harder stuff than you are,
and I'm made of harder stuff than you can even imagine.
And when I joined, I had just gone through some of the worst shit
I have ever heard of, and I was sucking pretty bad.
But I've had a little bit of time to recover.
And I'm feeling a lot more like the old me.
And I'm feeling a lot more like I can take on anything
that anyone can throw at me.
So, bring it on,
because next time we meet, you'll be working for me,
if you're good enough.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
My health this year
After over twenty years of my diet being very very screwed up, with massive intakes of sugar on a daily basis, after the last year of controlled diet and exercise I have completely cut out soda, completely cut out candy, completely cut out sweets. I've dropped about ten pounds, give or take, and what I have is a LOT more muscles and tendons and veins and a LOT less soft white marshmallow.
And my PT test has gone up around 60 points.
I still use a lot of caffeine, because I work 12 hour shifts without any days off ever, and the caffeine helps me focus, but I get it in pill form now, so I'm not consuming tons of sugar and crap with it. Seemed like the best compromise, focusing on the solvable problem of sugar without touching the other problem of caffeine until later.
And my PT test has gone up around 60 points.
I still use a lot of caffeine, because I work 12 hour shifts without any days off ever, and the caffeine helps me focus, but I get it in pill form now, so I'm not consuming tons of sugar and crap with it. Seemed like the best compromise, focusing on the solvable problem of sugar without touching the other problem of caffeine until later.
Know what I hate? Stupid stupid people.
Know what I hate? Stupid stupid people.
People who say "oh, yeah, you got a good pt test. but you are old, so you are scored differently"
Yes, asshole, except I score higher than you do on the young person scale too.
Or "Oh, you have lots of promotion points, but its because you went to college"
Yes, asshole, why don't you try it? Since I did it while I worked, I guess you can too.
Or "Well, I don't know how you would be as a leader if we promoted you"
Well, asshole, why don't you ask the three soldiers who have been calling me their leader for the better part of the past year?
Asshole.
Yes, I am better than you. I am better than you, on every scale except the "who's fattest" contest. You couldn't beat me in a fucking "eat doughnut" competition. I'll play your game, because I have to, but we both know it: I am better than your fat, lazy, ass, and always will be.
Have a nice day!
People who say "oh, yeah, you got a good pt test. but you are old, so you are scored differently"
Yes, asshole, except I score higher than you do on the young person scale too.
Or "Oh, you have lots of promotion points, but its because you went to college"
Yes, asshole, why don't you try it? Since I did it while I worked, I guess you can too.
Or "Well, I don't know how you would be as a leader if we promoted you"
Well, asshole, why don't you ask the three soldiers who have been calling me their leader for the better part of the past year?
Asshole.
Yes, I am better than you. I am better than you, on every scale except the "who's fattest" contest. You couldn't beat me in a fucking "eat doughnut" competition. I'll play your game, because I have to, but we both know it: I am better than your fat, lazy, ass, and always will be.
Have a nice day!
SCORE!
SCORE!!!!
Just git a present from my departing Australian Battle Major.
Hmmm....how to describe it. It's a giant map of this area of Afghanistan. It's printed on a cloth fabric, like money is, so it is rip resistant. The edges of it have pictures of local flora and fauna. It can be used as a shelter, a map, all sorts of different uses. It has phrases in local dialects. It is what pilots take in their helicopters so if they crash in the mountains they can use it to survive.
TOTALLY AWESOME THING TO HANG ON MY FUCKING WALL!
GO ME!
Just git a present from my departing Australian Battle Major.
Hmmm....how to describe it. It's a giant map of this area of Afghanistan. It's printed on a cloth fabric, like money is, so it is rip resistant. The edges of it have pictures of local flora and fauna. It can be used as a shelter, a map, all sorts of different uses. It has phrases in local dialects. It is what pilots take in their helicopters so if they crash in the mountains they can use it to survive.
TOTALLY AWESOME THING TO HANG ON MY FUCKING WALL!
GO ME!
Todays conversation
So, if I stay more than 365 days in Afghanistan, Congress says I am supposed to get extra money. That money isn't budgeted in, so they can't have anyone get it without having a big stink. So, they asked if I wanted to sign a voluntary waiver saying I would stay more than 365 days w/o being paid anything extra. Since I am paid monthly, and this would involve coming home late in september instead of early, I wouldn't get any extra pay, or any extra promotion incentives (because it is still in the same calender month). So.....I could stay here, for an extra three weeks, and get nothing for it at all. Basically because I am very good at my job, I would be punished by working an extra three weeks for free, while everyone else goes home on time. Should I mention, I have been in Afghanistran for 22 of the last 30 months already?
Yeah, no.
Yeah, no.
Is your life perfect?
Is your life perfect?
Do you have a wonderful wife, a fulfilling job where you make a ton of money?
Did you graduate college, and were a straight A student?
Do you have great kids, and they are big, and beautiful, and smart?
You don't drink, or smoke, or do drugs?
And you have perfect skin, and perfect hair and perfect teeth?
Your dog even shits in the toilet, and you go to church every Sunday?
You know how to use apostrophe's correctly, and allways know whether the i or the e comes first?
If this the case, feel free to criticize my wife and my family, and how we choose to live.
Granted, I will probably not listen, but maybe you have something interesting to say.
If not, kindly go fix your own life, we are doing just fine without your stupid feedback.
Do you have a wonderful wife, a fulfilling job where you make a ton of money?
Did you graduate college, and were a straight A student?
Do you have great kids, and they are big, and beautiful, and smart?
You don't drink, or smoke, or do drugs?
And you have perfect skin, and perfect hair and perfect teeth?
Your dog even shits in the toilet, and you go to church every Sunday?
You know how to use apostrophe's correctly, and allways know whether the i or the e comes first?
If this the case, feel free to criticize my wife and my family, and how we choose to live.
Granted, I will probably not listen, but maybe you have something interesting to say.
If not, kindly go fix your own life, we are doing just fine without your stupid feedback.
A typical phone call home:
Get to the phone.
Some days this means go sign in, get a number, wait in line thirty minutes, name called out, go to phone. Some days its easier. Some days it is not as easy.
Dial thirty-three numbers.
Busy.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Get ex. Ex is still at work, not at home. Get number son is at. Remind ex that today is other sons birthday, perhaps son could call him and wish him happy birthday?
Ex asks if when I call, and no-one picks up, could I call back, because sometimes the phone is in the other room, and they don't pick up in time, and son is sad when he misses my call. I agree.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Get answering machine.
Tell answering machine date and time and ask that son call other son, who has birthday today.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers. Voicemail, called ex’s number by accident. FML.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Call does not go through.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Call does not go through.
Dial thirty three numbers.
“This card is currently in use”
Hang up, pick up phone, hang up, pick up phone, hang up.
Pick up phone. Dial thirty three numbers.
Third ring, wife picks up.
Talk to her for a minute. Talk to the boy for a couple minutes.
Wish him happy birthday.
Talk to the wife for a couple minutes.
Wife asks the daughters if they want to say 'hi' to daddy.
They say "no". Odds are, as soon as she hangs up, they will change their minds and scream for an hour.
She won't be able to call me if that happens, she'll have to wait for the next time I call.
Talk for a minute.
Get disconnected.
Hang up. Pick up phone.
Dial thirty three numbers, busy signal.
Hang up.
Some days this means go sign in, get a number, wait in line thirty minutes, name called out, go to phone. Some days its easier. Some days it is not as easy.
Dial thirty-three numbers.
Busy.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Get ex. Ex is still at work, not at home. Get number son is at. Remind ex that today is other sons birthday, perhaps son could call him and wish him happy birthday?
Ex asks if when I call, and no-one picks up, could I call back, because sometimes the phone is in the other room, and they don't pick up in time, and son is sad when he misses my call. I agree.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Get answering machine.
Tell answering machine date and time and ask that son call other son, who has birthday today.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers. Voicemail, called ex’s number by accident. FML.
Hang up.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Call does not go through.
Dial thirty three numbers.
Call does not go through.
Dial thirty three numbers.
“This card is currently in use”
Hang up, pick up phone, hang up, pick up phone, hang up.
Pick up phone. Dial thirty three numbers.
Third ring, wife picks up.
Talk to her for a minute. Talk to the boy for a couple minutes.
Wish him happy birthday.
Talk to the wife for a couple minutes.
Wife asks the daughters if they want to say 'hi' to daddy.
They say "no". Odds are, as soon as she hangs up, they will change their minds and scream for an hour.
She won't be able to call me if that happens, she'll have to wait for the next time I call.
Talk for a minute.
Get disconnected.
Hang up. Pick up phone.
Dial thirty three numbers, busy signal.
Hang up.
Pride, a first draft
I've been thinking about this one. I think I may write an extended note about it. See, each unit has certain key things that you have to have. For the 82nd, its graduating airborne school. For tenth mountain, it is combat patch and CIB. I s...uspect it may be air assault for 101st. I know it is ranger school for ranger bat. If you don't have this, you really aren't a member of the group. You don't have the right to an opinion, and you are basically an E-1. The interesting thing is this: with a combat patch and CIB, someone has spent at least a year deployed, seen combat, and come back. So, the people who have it probably deserve to be respected, and the people who don't probably deserve to listen. For airborne school, its a 2 week school, being macho and tough. It shows you are brave enough to jump out of a plane, but says nothing about what you know. For air assault, replace 2 weeks with 10 days and plane with helicopter. So where our respected elders are combat veterans, the respected elders at 82nd and 101 are 19 year olds who got out of basic last month.
Thats my best guess, and why I asked about air assault: if Jay doesn't have it, he may get a lot of social stigmata because of it. Just my thoughts for the day.
The 82nd is the only Airborne unit. You can be Airborne qualified, but they are the only unit that way. And they are trained from the day they get to the unit that ONLY THEY ARE REAL SOLDIERS, BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE WAS TOO AFRAID TO GO AIRB...ORNE. Actually, Airborne is an Army school, and for the rest of us, most of us do not get the opportunity to go, just as I don't get to go to SERE school or culinary school. The same indoctrination program is given to the 101st, because of AIR ASSAULT! They are taught that they are the ULTIMATE KILLING MACHINES because of some shit they did three months after joining the Army.
At Drum, there are standards of excellence that we wear. The CIB, the Combat Patch, the EIB, the Ranger Tab. But they require AT LEAST one year to get one. Some may take three or four years. And anything you did in basic? DONT TELL US. WE DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU DID IN BASIC. Basic = kindergarten. You get to Drum, you learn EVERYTHING you have done so far was easy, so be quiet and learn for a year or two before you start mouthing off. The guys at the 101st and 82nd get taught YOU ARE THE ULTIMATE KILLING MACHINE, BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ARMY, BECAUSE OF YOUR TWO WEEK/TEN DAY SCHOOL. ALL OTHERS ARE COWARDS WHO STILL SUCK AT THEIR MOTHERS TIT.
So, that's my analysis of why those two units are the way they are.
Yes, at Drum, after being there for four years, earning my combat patch and my CIB, and working on the other two, I am pretty cocky. I've also done a few things, and I know when to be humble.
Thats my best guess, and why I asked about air assault: if Jay doesn't have it, he may get a lot of social stigmata because of it. Just my thoughts for the day.
The 82nd is the only Airborne unit. You can be Airborne qualified, but they are the only unit that way. And they are trained from the day they get to the unit that ONLY THEY ARE REAL SOLDIERS, BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE WAS TOO AFRAID TO GO AIRB...ORNE. Actually, Airborne is an Army school, and for the rest of us, most of us do not get the opportunity to go, just as I don't get to go to SERE school or culinary school. The same indoctrination program is given to the 101st, because of AIR ASSAULT! They are taught that they are the ULTIMATE KILLING MACHINES because of some shit they did three months after joining the Army.
At Drum, there are standards of excellence that we wear. The CIB, the Combat Patch, the EIB, the Ranger Tab. But they require AT LEAST one year to get one. Some may take three or four years. And anything you did in basic? DONT TELL US. WE DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU DID IN BASIC. Basic = kindergarten. You get to Drum, you learn EVERYTHING you have done so far was easy, so be quiet and learn for a year or two before you start mouthing off. The guys at the 101st and 82nd get taught YOU ARE THE ULTIMATE KILLING MACHINE, BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ARMY, BECAUSE OF YOUR TWO WEEK/TEN DAY SCHOOL. ALL OTHERS ARE COWARDS WHO STILL SUCK AT THEIR MOTHERS TIT.
So, that's my analysis of why those two units are the way they are.
Yes, at Drum, after being there for four years, earning my combat patch and my CIB, and working on the other two, I am pretty cocky. I've also done a few things, and I know when to be humble.
Is there a benefit to enlisting in the Army? Just something I wrote in response to someone saying there wasn't.
See, I have to disagree. Enlisting does -lots- of people good. It does good for the person who now has a steady job. A steady job in a field where you are trained, continually. Where you are pushed to better yourself, continually. Where you are taught to strive to accomplish more and achieve more. A steady job that provides full medical, full dental, all your clothes, all your food, where you live, that provides for your education. Where you go out into the worst parts of the world, where terrible things happen, where Red Cross and International Aid are never seen. Places where they can -not- be seen, because they would just be killed. And you provide security, which allows for rebuilding.
If it is good to help people when there is a disaster, if it is morally just to help people in Japan and Haiti and New Orleans, why do we not help people when the disaster occurs in a dangerous place? Well we do. We send people to help them who are not afraid of being shot at. And when the place has been quieted down, then we provide the aid they so desperately need.
Your vision of what the military does is narrow, shallow, and not very accurate. Imagine: take the Red Cross. Take the Peace Corps. Take the Police Department. Merge them. Now give them armor so they don't get shot, and weapons, to keep people from shooting at them. That is about 50% of todays military. Th other 50% more actively provide security and safety for that group, but there is NO OTHER GROUP IN THE WORLD who provides the service we do. NO ONE can provide aid in a country where there is shooting, where there are mass executions, where there are "night letters" and bombs. It is military or abandonment. And I, for one, am not willing to abandon the poor, desperate people, just because it's a little dangerous where they live.
If it is good to help people when there is a disaster, if it is morally just to help people in Japan and Haiti and New Orleans, why do we not help people when the disaster occurs in a dangerous place? Well we do. We send people to help them who are not afraid of being shot at. And when the place has been quieted down, then we provide the aid they so desperately need.
Your vision of what the military does is narrow, shallow, and not very accurate. Imagine: take the Red Cross. Take the Peace Corps. Take the Police Department. Merge them. Now give them armor so they don't get shot, and weapons, to keep people from shooting at them. That is about 50% of todays military. Th other 50% more actively provide security and safety for that group, but there is NO OTHER GROUP IN THE WORLD who provides the service we do. NO ONE can provide aid in a country where there is shooting, where there are mass executions, where there are "night letters" and bombs. It is military or abandonment. And I, for one, am not willing to abandon the poor, desperate people, just because it's a little dangerous where they live.
I know
I know that I exist because you imagine me.
I am tall because you believe I am tall,
and I am clean because you watch me
with your clean glance.
Your thought makes me intelligent,
......and in your tenderness,
I am simple and kind.
But if you forget me
I will be dead and nobody will know it.
They will see that my flesh lives
but that will be another man - dark, clumsy, bad-
the one that inhabits it.- Angel Gonzalez.
I am tall because you believe I am tall,
and I am clean because you watch me
with your clean glance.
Your thought makes me intelligent,
......and in your tenderness,
I am simple and kind.
But if you forget me
I will be dead and nobody will know it.
They will see that my flesh lives
but that will be another man - dark, clumsy, bad-
the one that inhabits it.- Angel Gonzalez.
Progress
So, I was thinking how amazingly open minded our country was.
Think about our presidents name.
It's like we had elected Adolph Moussellini president in 1948.
JFK almost didn't get elected because of his chosen religion.
Today, some people couldn't even tell you the difference between a Prostant and a Catholic.
Yet we managed to see beyond this mans name and his race, see past stories about his religion and his birth, and saw fit to elect him to lead us.
What'll we have in twenty years?
A Chinese Lesbian Hermaphrodite worshipper of Ra?
More power to us, if s/he's the best (wo)man for the job!
Think about our presidents name.
It's like we had elected Adolph Moussellini president in 1948.
JFK almost didn't get elected because of his chosen religion.
Today, some people couldn't even tell you the difference between a Prostant and a Catholic.
Yet we managed to see beyond this mans name and his race, see past stories about his religion and his birth, and saw fit to elect him to lead us.
What'll we have in twenty years?
A Chinese Lesbian Hermaphrodite worshipper of Ra?
More power to us, if s/he's the best (wo)man for the job!
Children.
If you really loved your children, you would set a bad example for them to rebel against.
Tell them how you dropped out of high school, how much fun it is to do drugs, leave cigarette butts all over and half empty cans of beer on the stove.
Talk loudly, use the word "Aint" and "Y'all" a lot, make sweeping generalizations.
Tell them you don't have a job, and are a "dancer".
Tell them "SKOOL AINT NEVER DONE NUFFINK FOR ME!!".
That way, they can rebel against you, get an education and a job, and thank you later.
When they are thirty or so I'd recommend telling them the truth.
Tell them how you dropped out of high school, how much fun it is to do drugs, leave cigarette butts all over and half empty cans of beer on the stove.
Talk loudly, use the word "Aint" and "Y'all" a lot, make sweeping generalizations.
Tell them you don't have a job, and are a "dancer".
Tell them "SKOOL AINT NEVER DONE NUFFINK FOR ME!!".
That way, they can rebel against you, get an education and a job, and thank you later.
When they are thirty or so I'd recommend telling them the truth.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Best. Argument. Ender. Ever.
"Blaming the other side is a fools errand, and an attempt to avoid personal responsibility. As is an inability to treat any subject as serious, I might add. Because if a subject were serious, we might have to do something about it. We might have to stand up for our beliefs. We might have to believe in something.
I believe. I believe with all my heart, and I back it up, every day. You don't have to take this discussion seriously. It's not an issue for you. Lots of things aren't issues for you. It might not be an issue for you if some kid I see on the street here has enough to eat, or whether my interpreter friends family is safe, or what justification is enough to pull a trigger. But that doesn't mean that other people don't wonder those questions, those issues. I wonder them. For me, this is an issue that matters, that has meaning. So are the others I describe. I put my life on the line, standing up for what I believe, for what I find to have meaning. I sincerely hope you have beliefs which you hold as strongly, although I doubt that you do. I'm sorry, that must be really sad. I hope you find reason, find purpose. I hope you find things that are true for you, and simple, and clear. I'm afraid it is very obvious to me that cutting off pieces of a child because they used to do it is evil. I'm sorry, but it is very obvious to me that your callous humor and petty squabbling just shows a lack of maturity and a desire for self gratification. Arguing with you is like jerking you off: it satisfies you, it leaves me feeling dirty and soiled, and brings us no closer to anything good. Have a great day."
I believe. I believe with all my heart, and I back it up, every day. You don't have to take this discussion seriously. It's not an issue for you. Lots of things aren't issues for you. It might not be an issue for you if some kid I see on the street here has enough to eat, or whether my interpreter friends family is safe, or what justification is enough to pull a trigger. But that doesn't mean that other people don't wonder those questions, those issues. I wonder them. For me, this is an issue that matters, that has meaning. So are the others I describe. I put my life on the line, standing up for what I believe, for what I find to have meaning. I sincerely hope you have beliefs which you hold as strongly, although I doubt that you do. I'm sorry, that must be really sad. I hope you find reason, find purpose. I hope you find things that are true for you, and simple, and clear. I'm afraid it is very obvious to me that cutting off pieces of a child because they used to do it is evil. I'm sorry, but it is very obvious to me that your callous humor and petty squabbling just shows a lack of maturity and a desire for self gratification. Arguing with you is like jerking you off: it satisfies you, it leaves me feeling dirty and soiled, and brings us no closer to anything good. Have a great day."
Back to Afghanistan, again.
Sigh. Nothing deep. Words are meaningless, tawdry, cheap.
I am thankful I get to spend what time I have with my family.
I am thankful I get to spend what time I have with my family.
Pants
Do you know how, when you aren't feeling confident, they tell you:
"Imagine other people putting on their pants. They do it the same way you do: One leg at a time."
Well, that's bullshit. I put on my pants both legs at the same time. Always have. Fuck you, world: I've got you outnumbered, all by myself.
"Imagine other people putting on their pants. They do it the same way you do: One leg at a time."
Well, that's bullshit. I put on my pants both legs at the same time. Always have. Fuck you, world: I've got you outnumbered, all by myself.
Progress
So, I was thinking how amazingly open minded our country was.
Think about our presidents name.
It's like we had elected Adolph Moussellini president in 1948.
JFK almost didn't get elected because of his chosen religion.
Today, some people couldn't even tell you the difference between a Prostant and a Catholic.
Yet we managed to see beyond this mans name and his race, see past stories about his religion and his birth, and saw fit to elect him to lead us.
What'll we have in twenty years?
A Chinese Lesbian Hermaphrodite worshipper of Ra?
More power to us, if s/he's the best (wo)man for the job!
Think about our presidents name.
It's like we had elected Adolph Moussellini president in 1948.
JFK almost didn't get elected because of his chosen religion.
Today, some people couldn't even tell you the difference between a Prostant and a Catholic.
Yet we managed to see beyond this mans name and his race, see past stories about his religion and his birth, and saw fit to elect him to lead us.
What'll we have in twenty years?
A Chinese Lesbian Hermaphrodite worshipper of Ra?
More power to us, if s/he's the best (wo)man for the job!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Coming back to America.
When you deploy, the first three months you spend learning your job.
The last month you spend trying to not think about home, about getting extended, about getting hurt or killed.
I spent 2009 in Afghanistan.
I spent four months of 2010 in Afghanistan.
I’ve spent all of 2011 so far in Afghanistan.
In the last twenty nine months, I have spent twenty one of them in Afghanistan.
If I had deployed thirteen days earlier,
I would have been in Afghanistan for 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2011.
So, I’m coming “home” for leave.
Two weeks of R&R. Rest and Recreation.
Civilians probably think we have some stupid name for it, like “Rest and Reproduction”.
No, we don’t joke about it. We joke about death. We joke about being hurt. We joke about being captured, and having our heads cut off, we joke about prosthetics.
We just call it “Leave”.
I’ll come “back” to America for two weeks.
“Back”.
I don’t know America any more. I don’t know how to be there. Is there stuff I want to do, are there places I want to see?
I have no idea.
What am I supposed to do for two weeks?
And I am haunted by the knowledge that Leave is a reflection of being deployed back to the States, and that is a reflection of being a civilian.
What the fuck would I do as a civilian?
How would I find a job? What would I be qualified as? What would happen when I lose that job?
Coming back to America is too much like dying.
Here, I have a job, a task, a purpose. Here I am valuable.
There, what am I?
Useless.
Unemployed.
Without purpose.
How do I go “home”?
What would the point even be?
Will she like me?
Will she like the changes that have happened to me?
The callouses, the cuts, the bruises, the fact that I shave my head every morning? The muscles, the fat, the wrinkles and lines, the differences in my body, my mind, my soul?
Will she still like me?
Will the children want me around? Will I be patient enough? Will I be a good father? Will they remember me? When will they judge me? Will they forgive me?
The mind attempts to grab on to things to focus on. A present! If I could find the right present, _that_ would make things better! A stuffed animal, or a scarf, something beautiful, or silly, or strange, or endearing. The item, ultimately empty. Meaningless, except to keep the mind anchored, keep it from drifting into shallow waters of fruitless worry and stress.
Never think about the possibilities. Do they love you? Do they still need you? Have you been replaced? Is there any meaning to the sacrifices you have made? Will they be there for you, or will you come home to an empty airport, and empty ceremony, and empty home?
And if they are there this time, what about next time? And the next time?
It’s like jumping. Leaping. In the dark. And you cannot see the other side, and you don’t know if there even _is_ another side.
You just jump.
And hope.
And again.
And again.
Tonight is my last night at work.
Getting ready for that plane flight. Getting ready for that ticket home.
Getting ready to jump.
In the dark.
Again.
The last month you spend trying to not think about home, about getting extended, about getting hurt or killed.
I spent 2009 in Afghanistan.
I spent four months of 2010 in Afghanistan.
I’ve spent all of 2011 so far in Afghanistan.
In the last twenty nine months, I have spent twenty one of them in Afghanistan.
If I had deployed thirteen days earlier,
I would have been in Afghanistan for 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2011.
So, I’m coming “home” for leave.
Two weeks of R&R. Rest and Recreation.
Civilians probably think we have some stupid name for it, like “Rest and Reproduction”.
No, we don’t joke about it. We joke about death. We joke about being hurt. We joke about being captured, and having our heads cut off, we joke about prosthetics.
We just call it “Leave”.
I’ll come “back” to America for two weeks.
“Back”.
I don’t know America any more. I don’t know how to be there. Is there stuff I want to do, are there places I want to see?
I have no idea.
What am I supposed to do for two weeks?
And I am haunted by the knowledge that Leave is a reflection of being deployed back to the States, and that is a reflection of being a civilian.
What the fuck would I do as a civilian?
How would I find a job? What would I be qualified as? What would happen when I lose that job?
Coming back to America is too much like dying.
Here, I have a job, a task, a purpose. Here I am valuable.
There, what am I?
Useless.
Unemployed.
Without purpose.
How do I go “home”?
What would the point even be?
Will she like me?
Will she like the changes that have happened to me?
The callouses, the cuts, the bruises, the fact that I shave my head every morning? The muscles, the fat, the wrinkles and lines, the differences in my body, my mind, my soul?
Will she still like me?
Will the children want me around? Will I be patient enough? Will I be a good father? Will they remember me? When will they judge me? Will they forgive me?
The mind attempts to grab on to things to focus on. A present! If I could find the right present, _that_ would make things better! A stuffed animal, or a scarf, something beautiful, or silly, or strange, or endearing. The item, ultimately empty. Meaningless, except to keep the mind anchored, keep it from drifting into shallow waters of fruitless worry and stress.
Never think about the possibilities. Do they love you? Do they still need you? Have you been replaced? Is there any meaning to the sacrifices you have made? Will they be there for you, or will you come home to an empty airport, and empty ceremony, and empty home?
And if they are there this time, what about next time? And the next time?
It’s like jumping. Leaping. In the dark. And you cannot see the other side, and you don’t know if there even _is_ another side.
You just jump.
And hope.
And again.
And again.
Tonight is my last night at work.
Getting ready for that plane flight. Getting ready for that ticket home.
Getting ready to jump.
In the dark.
Again.
Monday, April 18, 2011
My Father
So, two more packages from my father in the mail today.
Now, I have to give you some context.
I was two weeks old when my mom and dad split up. I’m pretty sure what happened was she split,
with me, possibly with another guy. Over the years, I was told a lot of bad shit about him.
When I was nine, I got a box from him. I remember there being a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull amongst the contents.
When I was seventeen, I flew to Alaska, where I got to meet him for the first time.
Now, this was an interesting experience.
Bob was a Marine. He volunteered for the Marines, for the Infantry, and he served in Viet-Nam. He ran long range patrols, weeks in the bush. He came home with a Purple Heart, a case of trenchfoot, and a lot of other things. Things you don't talk to people about all that much.
He came home without the name he left home with.
The Marines, like war, bring out the best in a man. They also bring out the worst.
My father and I spent two weeks together. I learned to drive a stick, I learned to shoot. I’m not sure if he learned much from the experience. It is possible he did, he never had an opportunity to be a father, maybe he got a taste of it. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell. Plus, he’s set in his ways. Any lesson he learns takes a few years to set in.
Bob came out to Buffalo when I was twenty-two. That visit went even less well. He managed to fight with every single person in the household.
While he was in Buffalo, I lost my job. I only misplaced it, it turns out, but at the time it looked like it was definitely missing, probably for good. When I was about two weeks unemployed, I received a check in the mail from one of my clients at the hospital. She had been dying, I had been taking care of her for years, her family didn’t care about her, she mailed me a check. The check happened to be for the same amount as I made in two weeks.
Well, Bob was in town. Fathers day was coming up. His birthday fell right around the same date. I went to the mall, and I saw a framed print. Odds are you have seen it. It depicts the Vietnam Memorial in Washington. It’s a print by Lee Teter. My dad fought in Vietnam. He was a volunteer, not a draftee. He looks a lot like the guy in the print. I bought it for him.
I didn’t have a job, which no-one knew yet, but I had the money my client had given me.
I wrote a note on the back and left it in the basement where he was staying. His response, to my grandmother, was, and I quote “Too Little, Too Late.” That print is still hanging on my wall in my living room. I am not one to forget, or forgive, a slight.
There were a few other things. My father and I are _painfully_ similar. We are both _right_. ALWAYS. We aren’t know-it-alls, we just know it better. See, for some reason, we both genetically have a sense of “rightness”. We are unbearably sure of ourselves. It makes us insufferable to people who don’t like us, and sometimes makes us capable of doing things others would not expect, or sometimes even believe possible. But we believe. Down to the core, whatever it is that we feel, or know, or are, there is not a shred of doubt. One of us can be annoying, provoking, difficult, arrogant, illuminating, amazing, daring. Two of us is guaranteed to be a disaster.
There are other problems. Men who are very confident and believe in themselves attract women. And are usually attracted to women. Soooooo, maybe it’s best we didn’t live in the same household. That being said, his visit when I was 22 was rather difficult.
I think I saw him once or twice since then. I think when the boys were young. I have this weird glitch in my memory, things beyond three years are really vague. Have had it since I was a kid. I suspect a cause, but have never been certain. So I am pretty sure I’ve seen him once or twice since then.
Well, a couple years ago, I was going through a bad time. Which is like describing a hurricane as a “spot of bad weather”. I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have much of anything. I had lost custody of one of my kids, gone bankrupt, lost a lot. I needed something. Maybe I needed a purpose. Maybe I needed a reason why I couldn’t see my kid, so when he asked why I didn’t see him, I could say “Because I was in Afghanistan” which is _so_ much better an answer than “Because of your mother”. Maybe I just needed to die. I was really close. So I stopped at the recruiters office, and talked to the Marine recruiter.
They called back, and said I was too old, would I be interested in having my info passed on to any other branches? I said sure, give it to the Army. And when the Army called, I demanded infantry, demanded combat, demanded enlisted. See, I remembered talking to my father. I knew a man who hasn’t seen combat has no business leading soldiers in combat. So I knew I wanted Infantry, and I knew I wanted enlisted. And I knew I wanted combat. After all, there was a war on: if there’s anyone who can use a man who isn’t afraid to die, it would have to be the Army, wouldn’t it?
My scores were rather high. By rather, I mean “so high I had to argue to get into the infantry because they wanted me to design rockets or some shit like that” rather high.
And now I’ve been in the Army for almost four years. In the Infantry, combat arms. Enlisted. A Sergeant. Like my father. I’ve deployed twice. I’ve been shot at, with machine guns and with RPGS. I’ve been blown up. I’ve shot back. Effectively. I’m a soldier, an Infantryman. Want to know what I do for a living? I walk around. I eat stuff. I talk to people. Sometimes people try to kill me, and I try really hard to not get killed, and I try to kill them back. I’m really good at my job.
You wouldn’t believe how much knowledge and training and experience goes into something so simple.
My father started sending me packages this deployment. I talk about getting healthy, and cutting down on candy, the packages include healthy snacks. The packages include things to disarm an IED. They include socks. They include knives, and flashlights, and multi-tools. They include external hard drives, and scarves, and earplugs. They include magazines and supplements and a lot of other things. I am an Infantryman. There are tools to my trade, and the name brands on the things he sends me? They are the best. And, incidentally, the most expensive. His packages, each and every single one of them, are loaded with the very best tools of the trade that he practiced and I practice. I know this: like any professional, I know what works, and what doesn’t. His packages usually don’t include letters.
My father talks to my wife sometimes, but he and I rarely speak, or directly write each other. We have a lot in common these days. We have each had a son taken from us. We are each hard men. We are each solitary men by nature. We both still believe. I doubt we could be together and get along. But sometimes, it’s easier to get along with someone when they are a little further away. And Afghanistan and Alaska are pretty far away.
Now, I have to give you some context.
I was two weeks old when my mom and dad split up. I’m pretty sure what happened was she split,
with me, possibly with another guy. Over the years, I was told a lot of bad shit about him.
When I was nine, I got a box from him. I remember there being a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull amongst the contents.
When I was seventeen, I flew to Alaska, where I got to meet him for the first time.
Now, this was an interesting experience.
Bob was a Marine. He volunteered for the Marines, for the Infantry, and he served in Viet-Nam. He ran long range patrols, weeks in the bush. He came home with a Purple Heart, a case of trenchfoot, and a lot of other things. Things you don't talk to people about all that much.
He came home without the name he left home with.
The Marines, like war, bring out the best in a man. They also bring out the worst.
My father and I spent two weeks together. I learned to drive a stick, I learned to shoot. I’m not sure if he learned much from the experience. It is possible he did, he never had an opportunity to be a father, maybe he got a taste of it. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell. Plus, he’s set in his ways. Any lesson he learns takes a few years to set in.
Bob came out to Buffalo when I was twenty-two. That visit went even less well. He managed to fight with every single person in the household.
While he was in Buffalo, I lost my job. I only misplaced it, it turns out, but at the time it looked like it was definitely missing, probably for good. When I was about two weeks unemployed, I received a check in the mail from one of my clients at the hospital. She had been dying, I had been taking care of her for years, her family didn’t care about her, she mailed me a check. The check happened to be for the same amount as I made in two weeks.
Well, Bob was in town. Fathers day was coming up. His birthday fell right around the same date. I went to the mall, and I saw a framed print. Odds are you have seen it. It depicts the Vietnam Memorial in Washington. It’s a print by Lee Teter. My dad fought in Vietnam. He was a volunteer, not a draftee. He looks a lot like the guy in the print. I bought it for him.
I didn’t have a job, which no-one knew yet, but I had the money my client had given me.
I wrote a note on the back and left it in the basement where he was staying. His response, to my grandmother, was, and I quote “Too Little, Too Late.” That print is still hanging on my wall in my living room. I am not one to forget, or forgive, a slight.
There were a few other things. My father and I are _painfully_ similar. We are both _right_. ALWAYS. We aren’t know-it-alls, we just know it better. See, for some reason, we both genetically have a sense of “rightness”. We are unbearably sure of ourselves. It makes us insufferable to people who don’t like us, and sometimes makes us capable of doing things others would not expect, or sometimes even believe possible. But we believe. Down to the core, whatever it is that we feel, or know, or are, there is not a shred of doubt. One of us can be annoying, provoking, difficult, arrogant, illuminating, amazing, daring. Two of us is guaranteed to be a disaster.
There are other problems. Men who are very confident and believe in themselves attract women. And are usually attracted to women. Soooooo, maybe it’s best we didn’t live in the same household. That being said, his visit when I was 22 was rather difficult.
I think I saw him once or twice since then. I think when the boys were young. I have this weird glitch in my memory, things beyond three years are really vague. Have had it since I was a kid. I suspect a cause, but have never been certain. So I am pretty sure I’ve seen him once or twice since then.
Well, a couple years ago, I was going through a bad time. Which is like describing a hurricane as a “spot of bad weather”. I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have much of anything. I had lost custody of one of my kids, gone bankrupt, lost a lot. I needed something. Maybe I needed a purpose. Maybe I needed a reason why I couldn’t see my kid, so when he asked why I didn’t see him, I could say “Because I was in Afghanistan” which is _so_ much better an answer than “Because of your mother”. Maybe I just needed to die. I was really close. So I stopped at the recruiters office, and talked to the Marine recruiter.
They called back, and said I was too old, would I be interested in having my info passed on to any other branches? I said sure, give it to the Army. And when the Army called, I demanded infantry, demanded combat, demanded enlisted. See, I remembered talking to my father. I knew a man who hasn’t seen combat has no business leading soldiers in combat. So I knew I wanted Infantry, and I knew I wanted enlisted. And I knew I wanted combat. After all, there was a war on: if there’s anyone who can use a man who isn’t afraid to die, it would have to be the Army, wouldn’t it?
My scores were rather high. By rather, I mean “so high I had to argue to get into the infantry because they wanted me to design rockets or some shit like that” rather high.
And now I’ve been in the Army for almost four years. In the Infantry, combat arms. Enlisted. A Sergeant. Like my father. I’ve deployed twice. I’ve been shot at, with machine guns and with RPGS. I’ve been blown up. I’ve shot back. Effectively. I’m a soldier, an Infantryman. Want to know what I do for a living? I walk around. I eat stuff. I talk to people. Sometimes people try to kill me, and I try really hard to not get killed, and I try to kill them back. I’m really good at my job.
You wouldn’t believe how much knowledge and training and experience goes into something so simple.
My father started sending me packages this deployment. I talk about getting healthy, and cutting down on candy, the packages include healthy snacks. The packages include things to disarm an IED. They include socks. They include knives, and flashlights, and multi-tools. They include external hard drives, and scarves, and earplugs. They include magazines and supplements and a lot of other things. I am an Infantryman. There are tools to my trade, and the name brands on the things he sends me? They are the best. And, incidentally, the most expensive. His packages, each and every single one of them, are loaded with the very best tools of the trade that he practiced and I practice. I know this: like any professional, I know what works, and what doesn’t. His packages usually don’t include letters.
My father talks to my wife sometimes, but he and I rarely speak, or directly write each other. We have a lot in common these days. We have each had a son taken from us. We are each hard men. We are each solitary men by nature. We both still believe. I doubt we could be together and get along. But sometimes, it’s easier to get along with someone when they are a little further away. And Afghanistan and Alaska are pretty far away.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
...
La la.
Working working.
Today "working" means "explaining Islamic and Afghan burial customs",
instead of "walking 20 kilometers carrying shit".
Working working.
Today "working" means "explaining Islamic and Afghan burial customs",
instead of "walking 20 kilometers carrying shit".
Saturday, April 16, 2011
It's dark.
It’s dark.
It’s dark, my eyes are closed.
I’m drifting.
There is a rhythmic
sound,
but it is far away.
I’m drifting.
The sound changes pitch,
becomes higher,
sharper,
more of a whine and
less of a throb.
My eyes come open.It’s dark.I’m holding my weapon, barrel pointed downwards.I’m strapped in,
heavily armed, heavily armored.
Emphasis on the “heavy” part.
Strapped in.
Next to me, on either side and across from me, are the rest of us, strapped in, faceless in the dark.
In some ways, it’s like being on a bus.
Or like being in an airplane.
But it’s not.
The shape next to me leans in:
“TWO MINUTES! LOCK AND LOAD!”
I pass the message on, as I snap to full consciousness, my hands loading my M-4, checking the safety,checking my ‘203 rounds, releasing my five point safety harness.
“ONE MINUTE! HOT LZ!”
The pilots must have seen tracer fire.
The insurgents know the sounds our helicopters make.
The engine is screaming now, the pilots don’t like people shooting, they are coming in fast and hard,they aren’t going to land, they’re going to skip off the ground and we are going to get the fuckoff their helicopter as fast as we can so they can leave.
A helicopter, a CH-47 Chinook helicopter,a “shit-hook” helicopter, the fastest, highest flying, double-rotor helicopter, costs between eighteen and twenty five million dollars, plus crew and extras.
We must be the extras.
We don’t cost nearly as much.
The back door is open.
It’s a ramp, it folds down.
We are a couple hundred feet over the Afghan hills,
we aren’t buckled in,
we are travelling around a hundred miles an hour,
the door is open,
we are in a helicopter,
and someone down there is shooting at us.
If the bullets hit us, they’ll go right through the airframe.
Right through us.
They’ll make a movie about how brave we were, how we were like brothers to each other, about our grieving, yet strong wives and parents and their noble sacrifice, about our heroism.
They always leave out the screaming in the movies.
The screaming and the crying.
And the whimpering.
They always leave out the screaming.
I even know guys who don’t seem to remember the screaming.
Who told me “wow, he didn’t scream at all! He just joked and laughed and was really brave!”
Really? Is that what you remember? Because I remember the screaming. I remember the screaming like someone shot a dog, and it was dying. Scared, and in pain. Dying, scared and in pain. When they bring you the news, and they tell you "it was quick, he didn't suffer" they lie. Its never quick. Even if it only takes a few hours, or a few minutes. Those are the longest, the worst minutes of your life. Every - last - second of them.
It’s dark, nighttime, almost pitch black.
The dark velvet is relieved only by small red lights, by the lighter green of glow-in-the-dark patches on some of our equipment.
I check my weapon again, make sure the safety is on, again, make certain the magazine is secure in my weapon, again.
We hit, and are running out the door, streaming out the back of the aircraft, falling out of the back of the chopper, dust, dust everywhere.
Throwing ourselves down into the prone, the last few guys literally jumping off the bird as it leaves.
The pilots are not sticking around, a helicopter costs 18 to 25 million dollars.
Plus extras.
The chopper is gone.
We’re alone,
in the desert.
They put us down 3 kilometers from where we were supposed to be.
Time to go.
It’s dark, my eyes are closed.
I’m drifting.
There is a rhythmic
sound,
but it is far away.
I’m drifting.
The sound changes pitch,
becomes higher,
sharper,
more of a whine and
less of a throb.
My eyes come open.It’s dark.I’m holding my weapon, barrel pointed downwards.I’m strapped in,
heavily armed, heavily armored.
Emphasis on the “heavy” part.
Strapped in.
Next to me, on either side and across from me, are the rest of us, strapped in, faceless in the dark.
In some ways, it’s like being on a bus.
Or like being in an airplane.
But it’s not.
The shape next to me leans in:
“TWO MINUTES! LOCK AND LOAD!”
I pass the message on, as I snap to full consciousness, my hands loading my M-4, checking the safety,checking my ‘203 rounds, releasing my five point safety harness.
“ONE MINUTE! HOT LZ!”
The pilots must have seen tracer fire.
The insurgents know the sounds our helicopters make.
The engine is screaming now, the pilots don’t like people shooting, they are coming in fast and hard,they aren’t going to land, they’re going to skip off the ground and we are going to get the fuckoff their helicopter as fast as we can so they can leave.
A helicopter, a CH-47 Chinook helicopter,a “shit-hook” helicopter, the fastest, highest flying, double-rotor helicopter, costs between eighteen and twenty five million dollars, plus crew and extras.
We must be the extras.
We don’t cost nearly as much.
The back door is open.
It’s a ramp, it folds down.
We are a couple hundred feet over the Afghan hills,
we aren’t buckled in,
we are travelling around a hundred miles an hour,
the door is open,
we are in a helicopter,
and someone down there is shooting at us.
If the bullets hit us, they’ll go right through the airframe.
Right through us.
They’ll make a movie about how brave we were, how we were like brothers to each other, about our grieving, yet strong wives and parents and their noble sacrifice, about our heroism.
They always leave out the screaming in the movies.
The screaming and the crying.
And the whimpering.
They always leave out the screaming.
I even know guys who don’t seem to remember the screaming.
Who told me “wow, he didn’t scream at all! He just joked and laughed and was really brave!”
Really? Is that what you remember? Because I remember the screaming. I remember the screaming like someone shot a dog, and it was dying. Scared, and in pain. Dying, scared and in pain. When they bring you the news, and they tell you "it was quick, he didn't suffer" they lie. Its never quick. Even if it only takes a few hours, or a few minutes. Those are the longest, the worst minutes of your life. Every - last - second of them.
It’s dark, nighttime, almost pitch black.
The dark velvet is relieved only by small red lights, by the lighter green of glow-in-the-dark patches on some of our equipment.
I check my weapon again, make sure the safety is on, again, make certain the magazine is secure in my weapon, again.
We hit, and are running out the door, streaming out the back of the aircraft, falling out of the back of the chopper, dust, dust everywhere.
Throwing ourselves down into the prone, the last few guys literally jumping off the bird as it leaves.
The pilots are not sticking around, a helicopter costs 18 to 25 million dollars.
Plus extras.
The chopper is gone.
We’re alone,
in the desert.
They put us down 3 kilometers from where we were supposed to be.
Time to go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)