Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

IN THE FUTURE THE PAST MATTERS MOST

When I was in 1^st Battalion 5^th Marine Regiment, we were deployed to fight fires in Washington State and in Montana. Our Commander was Lt Col David F. Bonwit, a great Marine, and a great leader. He was a soft spoken man, of quiet conviction who possessed a keen intellect a deep understanding of the abilities and weaknesses of each man under his command. At the time I was only an Corporal, and my faults were abundant, yet when he spoke to me, he did just that, he spoke to not at me, or down to me. When anyone in his charge spoke to him, they felt as if the “old man” heard them. When we initially landed we were given another crash course in forest and structural fire fighting procedures, broken down into our teams, and assigned sectors or areas where we were to concentrate our efforts. There were areas we would be able to save, and areas we had to burn to save other areas. For a group of Marines fighting fire was something new, but we were so ordered so off we went; and we were led by the finest officer I have ever had the pleasure of serving with. In a future better than this present, and in a place different from this one I hope to one day share a drink with him and thank him for being a Marine, and a damn good man.

 

We were gone for about 45 days, and in that time we walked about 300 miles over some of the most arduous and gorgeous terrain of the American North West. We hated each and every second of it, we suffered 2^nd and 3^rd degree burns, heat exhaustion, home-sickness, blisters, splinters, concussions, fractured and broken bones, and in general we were sick and tired of each other. Through it we saw an entire mountain literally explode as the flames raced zig-zag up and down the mountainside igniting trees sending them shooting high above the firestorm below. The sap from the super heated trees acting as a propellant, in peace time it was one of the most awesome displays of destruction I have ever been witness to. The raw power of nature was incredible, Earth, Wind, and Fire united in a torrent destruction completely engulfing the landscape and rendering it devoid of life. In less than two hours where lush green forest once stood remained nothing but smoldering ash. I stood witness to the wrath of Mother Nature, and I stood in awe of the sheer power of it. We had spent most of the previous day, well in to the night digging a line in the sand if you will, a fire break to stop the wrath that we knew was coming, we spent the night in a fire camp watching the fire sweeping all before it, just as the Legio XXI “Rapax” once did, nothing was spared. We were briefed that the mission before us was to draw that proverbial line in the sand and in doing so we’d be saving peoples homes. At the time all that meant to us was more work, and more hills. Being Pendleton Marines, we were quite used to climbing hills. Yet to date, we had climbed nothing like the mountains we were about to ascend and as usual we were fighting against the clock. But in this case, our enemy would not succumb to fatigue, fear, doubt or pain. Fighting fires is a war wholly different from anything any of us had ever experienced, before or since.

 

As we descended the mountain having at least reached detente with our fiery nemesis as we crested yet another lesser mountain ridge we were over looking Lake Chelan Washington, the sight was one of the most magnificent and breathtaking visions of the majesty of American scenery I have ever been witness to, the stark contrast from what lie behind us was beyond description. As we stood there with soot, and ash clinging to every square inch of our uniforms, kit and exposed skin, we stood there at the point of exhaustion. Yet, each of us stood a little taller looking at the homes that we’d helped to save, when we reached the road, a Jeep pulled up and a Captain from the Washington National Guard stepped out in a clean starched uniform, and he promptly told us there was to be no swimming in the lake. He continued on about this and that for nearly 10 minutes, none of us really listening to him.  Finally he got back in his Jeep and drove off. Our Platoon Sergeant, looked around and said with a look on his face I’ll never forget; “The hell with him, I’m going swimming!” It was a mad dash to the water, Marines jumping in, in various stages of undress, what was behind us just over the hill was almost immediately forgotten. When we emerged from the water, there was a van parked there and several women were standing there, Marines being Marines, began approaching the women, it looked rather like peacocks dancing about trying to gain favor. Yet the ladies had other intentions; opening the back of their van they produced the largest submarine sandwich I have ever seen, and more importantly BEER! We of course were forbidden from consuming alcohol during this time, but as all good Marines do, we embraced the locals and their strange customs so as not to offend. We didn’t offend them to the tune of consuming the whole sandwich, and 18 beers between us. It was a feast worthy of kings. I dare say I have eaten so well in the last 9 months. That day we did a good thing, we didn’t do it for thanks, not for free food nor beer (which helped by the by). We did it because we were asked to.

 

What is my point in this little aside to where I am now? Only this, Lt Col Bonwit gathered us at the end of our deployment as we prepared to return to our lives; he often gathered us together to “give us the gouge” as to what was what in our little world. I used to dread those massive formations, having to “bring it in, and sit, kneel, and bend so all could see, be seen, and hear the “old man” speak. He always told us like it was, he never fluffed the situation, or sugar coated things for us. He treated us like men… no he treated us like Marines. If we asked he’d always be honest, never taking out his anger, or frustration on a subordinate. He always found something positive to add, even after he or his XO Maj Dan Trout removed a piece of ones ass. He always admonished in private, but his was always the first hand to pick you up. He had a decent way with words, he spoke softly and plainly, never condescending, or short. He stood smiling before us and he said simply; “That sucked!” We all laughed out loud with a thunder that echoed all over the camp, he always told it like it was, and his humor was never lost on any of us. He said that he knew that it had been hard going, but that’s how Marines liked it, and that’s why they sent us. He said he’d be glad to be away from this place, but that in 5-10 years from now, each and every one of us would look back at the job we did here, and be proud. He was right. So, that is my hope for this place, for our struggle here in Iraq that in 5-10 years from now I’ll be able to look onto the fields that our blood was spilt and see a new Iraq growing from the turmoil of the old. It will not abate the sense of loss we all feel for our departed comrades, friends, brothers, sons, Fathers, and husbands, but it will lessen the sting and anger of their passing and their children can know that it was not in vain.

 

In three or four month’s time, I will do my best to forget this war, and leave it behind me. That of course will be short lived as the events of my future will not allow it. What will the future hold for the men I have met here that I know call friend, that are now and forever more brothers. What will become of us as we separate from the “big Army return to the world of the National Guard, or retire, or separate altogether from the Army? Where will the path then take us, will we become like the men who stand at rapt attention as the colors pass by on Memorial Day, and the 4^th of July, whose faces bear the scars of wars past, and whose eyes burn with intensity beyond explanation. Already a member of the VFW, at 23, and now again at 34, I look at my face and wonder where the time has gone. It is of course rhetorical, but I ask nonetheless. Will, Dan, Murph, Greg, and I be those old warriors who stand on the side of the road, as the parade passes by? What will the coming year bring for us? Children, return to careers and family, finish PhD’s, maybe try a new career, but what I do know is this. As Dan said all of us have changed in many ways, some changes we aren’t even aware of yet. All with one thing in common, we were here. Lt Col Bonwit’s words still ring in my ears, in 5 or 10 years we will look back on what we did here with pride. Young for his years, Luke Stricklin aptly stated, “I don’t care why Bush went into Iraq, I know what I did here and I’m damn sure proud of that.”

 

THE CONSTITUTIONAL REFERENDUM (THE SOUL OF A NATION)

 

Last night I went on a patrol with Civil Affairs, our mission was to see if everything was ready for today’s vote. We drove around from site to site accessing the security of the polling sites, what we found was an Iraqi population that was calm and eagerly awaiting their chance to vote once again, and take part in their own destiny. The day passed virtually without incident, and once again the Iraqi people took a step towards complete independence. Today didn’t belong to the insurgency, or the Coalition, it belonged to all of Iraq, and everyone in it. Again, I find it interesting to be here on the ground and witness to this historic event, for better or for worse we will say years from now, we walked the ground on that day. I was there.

RDC

How do you write a story that hasn’t ended?

(WARNING: This post has nearly nothing to do with the war…)

 

There are many forms of addiction in life, drugs alcohol, sex, gambling, and adrenaline. For me it is writing rather communication that is delivered from that medium, I have tried and failed at many things, I have failed at painting, I have failed at drawing, I have failed in more relationships that I care to admit (however, all of those painful lessons have not been forgotten, or repeated much to my wife’s satisfaction), I have failed at sports, even my beloved baseball (I did manage to steal home twice in a single game, but that is another story). I have failed at business (Granted the Dot Com world didn’t really count, did it?). I have been marginally successful at being a son; I have failed my parents at times. I have failed my friends at times, and to my disdain when they needed me most. I failed at photography, granted I loved my work, but for the life of me developing my own film was nearly catastrophic. With the exception of the military I have never been good at much; save for communication, debate, recollection of seemingly irrelevant material; names, dates, places, and events, and of course writing. The one passion in life that I have had a tangible and realistic grasp over is writing. It is my obsession, it holds me together and it has spanned the entirety of my life. Everything that I have ever read is chronicled in a marble covered notebook, rather volumes of them (I tend to have an obsessive compulsion to buy these notebooks when and wherever I find them), and from ever book I read I take something from it, a particular phrase, a metaphor, a pun, or a thought that it awoke within me. In essence I learn, from and evolve with each page I read.

 

At Kemper two of my classmates and I invented a holiday, May 6^th 1990 we christened Writer’s Day, Stephen Susnar, Edward Brandon, and I were the most celebrated writers in our time, rather we arrogantly thought so, and we were nurtured, by Madame Francoise Bien and Mrs Patricia Turner, they encouraged and pushed our writing to the very limits of our life experience, and then some. Susnar, a dear friend of mine and quite possibly the man who gave definition to the word procrastinate wrote a masterful narrative on procrastination; it began; “As I awoke, I looked at my Apple computer screen, the cursor flashing, slowly, mocking me. As my eyes came into focus I saw in the screen, that a piece of paper I’d fallen asleep on had be glued to my face with saliva, prying it from the side of my head, it was my notes from 3 weeks ago, it stated two things, write paper, and don’t procrastinate… As I looked at the clock it read 5:30 am, in exactly three hours this paper assigned over three weeks ago was due. Ahhhh, I now had the motivation I needed; a crushingly repressive and rapidly approaching deadline.”

 

 

We’d all been fond of British humor, and in fact much of the reason for our being late on oh so many assignments was due to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, over and over and over and over we watched this film until we had to trade our worn out copy, for a brand new one at the local video store. A particular favorite of mine was Douglas Adams, specifically for our little band of essayists was this quote; “I love deadlines, and that whooshing sound they make when the go flying by, well. Susnar was a master of “roping” that deadline and using the inertia generated by its approach to not only meet the deadline but he had this uncanny knack for getting an A, receiving high praise from Madame and Mrs turner for having such a well thought out and executed story or essay. God how I hated and admired him for that, to our group of would be novelists, he was our Hemingway. For this particular assignment I decided to ignore it completely and drink bad beer instead, my punishment was more horrific than my 18 year old mind could fathom. It was (at the time) no great secret that I absolutely HATED Hamlet, of all the classics

 

 

forced upon the eager minds of youth, I dreaded, hated, loathed, and despised Hamlet above all others. Why, for this simple reason; when his stepfather the King was in the chapel praying Hamlet had, opportunity, and motive to end him on the spot. Yet, (this is THE primary reason I loathe the character) he hesitated and as a result of that three other characters died. In Hagakure it says when you decide upon a course of action, it is best to act, even if it will be very difficult. I mean c’mon the man was on his knees with his back to him, and for some moral reason he decides to wait to “murder” the king. It makes the brain baby kick just thinking about it. However I digress. My punishment was, since I hated Hamlet so, much was to re-write it, in a modern context. Oh, and I had 48 hours to not only start it but turn it in! Oh, how I love pressure! Did I mention how much I loathed Hamlet.

However, I was not to be alone in this misery, my compatriots Stephen and Edward were with me, and together we were going to do justice to this “piece” of… literature. But first we had to go out and drink beer. So, it seems that I am rather fond of procrastination as well, and let’s be honest my work had been written a few hundred years ago. How hard could it be? It is now 15 years and change later, and it still makes me laugh to think how utterly wonderful it was to be so profoundly dumb! How hard could it be? Three boxes of NoDoz (1 for each of us), no less than a small Columbian plantation of coffee, and breaking into the school library to “liberate” a word processor; for those of you reading this who cannot remember a time before laptops, we had this device called a word processor. It had a screen about as big as an 8 inch TV, and it was dreadfully slow, in fact it was so slow I now wonder if it was sent by the agents of procrastination to punish me more for waiting. We hijacked a high school student from class to type for me, and I had to fake illness (Nurse Royston, had an odd sort of crush on us, she always read our work like a star struck bobby-soxer), suffice to say I was given bed-rest all day and the four of us (including my hijacked high student drafted a piece of (for its time, (and by time I mean the lack of it that we actually had to think of and write) literary sorcery. We took the base story, and added ourselves, in the military school context, it worked out quite well, and 40 pages later (we in-fact called it the hyper-abridged Hamlet), We ended our little experiment in reinventing a “classic”. Thoroughly burned out, and mentally exhausted we did what any college students do, we blew off study hall and got more bad beer, and as Cliff Claven would assert killed off our weaker brain cells. On an aside; I failed to mention William Shakespeare in my works cited. I still have an axe to grind over the whole Hamlet/procrastination thing. Interesting how these things tie themselves into our lives. Back then we really did fancy ourselves to be capable of writing the next great American Novel for our generation, I do miss being that idealistc, young, and foolsih.  The world was ours for the taking, but we just never reached high enough.

I’ve never been a great student, even at Pepperdine I barely squeaked by with a 3.0 GPA, the semester of 9/11 2001 was the only time in my life I actually got a 4.0. I was a 31 year old man, and I plastered my report card all over every refrigerator I could find. I mailed a copy to my parents, for the first time in my life, I didn’t try to hide my report card, or hope that they forgot about it. It seems comically irrelevant now, but comical nonetheless.

 

 
My sophomore year at Kemper (JUCO) I wrote a paper comparing Conrad’s Heart of Darkness to Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now; my favorite book ever, and favorite movie followed by Sallinger’s Catcher in the Rye and Mike van Diem’s Character respectively. The paper was nearly 70 pages in length in its draft form when I left a copy of it on the libraries word processor. A villainous (and MASSIVE) college football player nicknamed Bump, an unflattering reference to his apparent relationship to prehistoric man decided to steal my work and turn in my draft as his own. When I turned in my paper I was accused of cheating. I wasn’t entirely offended at this and in this digression I’ll explain;

 
 

I once took a religion class, felling a need to understand man, God, and man’s relationship with God. In said class Religion 101, we were taught by our school Chaplain, a Catholic Priest; this may be wrong but I never really liked him. ON the surface he seeme a decent chap, yet there was just something about him I never trusted. I guess it was apparent in my dealings with him; I went out of my way to avoid mass (which was often mandatory). I did other homework in his class, if I went at all. Well he was in general displeased with our entire class as we had done terribly on his mid-term examination, lack of interest. Wait, it does get worse. So when it came time for our final review he allowed us to review the actual examination. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot??? This was unheard of at military school, so of course all of us copied the answers any and everywhere we could. When it came test time we were all adequately prepared. Most of the class got 100’s, that was ludicrous! I got a respectable 87% which raised my overall grade to 79%. Now, comes the part where to this day I still would like to go back in time and kick my own ass. As I mentioned he was a Catholic Priest, and conducted mass in town, so I went to one of his early masses, and entered his confessional. I told him about the test. I have never heard a priest so enraged, and use so many profane words, nor has a priest, in a church, ever cursed at me. He grabbed me and ushered me outside and said;

 

“Mr. Currie, you think you are pretty damn clever don’t you!? The sanctity of the confessional is a sacred trust, and you think that you can use it for your amusement!?”

Well, I was only 18, and c’mon, I found a loophole to clearing my conscience and getting away with it. Of course, I didn’t say any of that, but I did (AT THE TIME) think it was damn clever. About 8 years ago, I went back to see the old school and stopped by the church and Father B was still there. We shared a glass of wine, or a bottle or two, and laughed for nearly 2 hours about it. To this day I have no idea why I never liked him. It was great to revisit that moment.

  

Ok, back to the paper, I was called out to defend my honor, so I walked into the room where my fate was to be decided and began to recite verbatim the first 15 minutes of “Apocalypse Now”, I was told to stop, they asked Mr. Bump to reciprocate, of course he could not, thus he found himself on a bus back home. Oh, that and the fact that he stole about $2000.00 worth of merchandise from the school store. For some reason the aforementioned films and books set me on a path years and years ago. As I mentioned Susnar was like our Hemingway, Eddie was more like a modern Kerouac, and me, well I was something else. I can’t explain it really I just loved to read and I began to absorb words, symbolism, metaphor, and the power of words. Getting into speech and debate, student council, writing classes, writing one act plays, attending abstract theatre, watching foreign film, and more writing classes.  Several attempts at novels, and other works, yet it was the military that held my attention, always back to the uniform, it in essence became my religion, my sole driving purpose, it came to and has for nearly two decades defined me. For some time during my writing classes I realized a theme in my writing, I developed what I called inflexibility of character. Rather, characters that either by choice or inability do not change, resigned by the powers that be to move in a line towards a defining moment, or the end. Then in 1993 I went overseas, and my passion for writing almost overnight disappeared.

 

Upon my return the gift of written communication deserted me, no matter where I went, or how many classes I took, my writers block, was with me like a scar reminding me of what was once nearly perfect, now tainted leaving me with a memory of what was no longer there. I thought that I’d lost it forever, and it really saddened me. I thought that losing the ability to give tongue to my thoughts had been a punishment for the things I’d done. I took my medicine and moved on and for three years I didn’t write, rather I couldn’t write. Until I was in Washington DC for a military course, at FT Belvoir , I walked the hallowed ground of the capitol and it began to come back to me. I walked all over that evening until the dawns early light and once again in my life I was questioning who I was, and what was my purpose, but it felt to me that I’d find the answer here, if anywhere. For me it wasn’t to be a wise man on mountain high in Tibet, the reason I was who I thought I was, was born in this place in 1776. I ended up by the reflecting Pond as the sun took the darkness. As I walked to the edge of the pool I wondered what a lie looked like, fear prevented me from looking for the reflection would be my own. Had I been lied to all those years, or had I been lying to myself? Regardless, I walked to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and began to write in; yes, you guessed it a marble covered lined notebook. I wrote until well into the afternoon, the words flowed from my pen as if being excised from my past I wrote for nearly 5 hours until a Capitol Police Officer walked by for the fourth time, and asked what was I doing. The only word I could muster to him was “Freedom”. I held his gaze for a moment longer; smiling down at me he tilted his hat and walked on his way. Being in DC had unlocked something inside me and since that moment, I have tried to write as much as I can, when I can and where I can. Being here in “this war” there is so much I have written about, so much I have been witness to and so much that has for now gone unshared…for now.

 

Today was a good day; I was in as good a mood as I have been in months, so I kept it to myself. Wouldn’t want to have anyone spoil it. I got a great email from a friend, and it put a smile on my face. On the inside. Another time perhaps… I am a little tired so until next time.

 

To be or not to be… (What a joke!)

 

RDC

PS Have I mentioned I really hate Hamlet!

A Tale of Two Cities

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times…

 

Imagine somewhere in the city this morning a man got up early and checked his slumbering children, he walked into his kitchen and brewed a cup of tea. His wife walks up behind him and embraces him, he turns and kisses her as he heads for the door one of the children comes into the kitchen trying to wipe the sleep from weary eyes. A father picks the child up and blows softly into the childs eyes, blinking rapidly the child smiles at “daddy”, the Father kisses the child and the Mother takes the child from his arms as the he walks out of the house for the days work. Inside the  children are slowly making their way to the kitchen for breakfast, and on the counter the mornings cartoons are on, and the children watch intently as the screen dances with coulour and comes alive with sound. Once again, the daily routine has begun, and the children are ushered out the door for a day of school.

 

At work a Father clocks in, and is harassed by his boss, teased by his coworkers for not going out the night before, and for being a slave to his family, he laughs and takes their ribbing in good humor. He smiles to himself, and thinks with warmth in his heart that he has the love of his family to return to.  It is love that helps him endure a job that he hates, in a city he no longer understands.  He is working and saving for his family, and for something more than he has now.

 

At home a mother tends to an infant, that today is more restless than before, she prays that the baby isn’t sick. She has no insurance , and to take from their savings now with the holidays and school could be devastating. She pushes the thought from her head, and kisses her baby as she puts the child down for a nap. Returning to the living room she finds refuge in the afghan on the couch, and buries her head in a pillow as the tears flow, she yields again to her fears. Fear for her husband, fear for her family, fear for an uncertain future. Feeling silly, and embarrassed she dries her eyes again and turns on the television. The news is always the same, politics, higher prices, war, suffering and reality television. She finds some small measure of solace in a daytime drama, the characters so far removed from her struggles, so alive. After a short time the baby begins to cry and she is certain that their savings will soon be spent on caring for the child. Looking back to the television she realizes that it isn’t reality at all, reality surrounds her and the walls of her reality grow smaller and smaller each day.

 

At school the oldest boy at recess has to contend with the playground bully all the while looking out for his little sister, more than once he has taken a beating protecting his little sister. She is always so quiet, so timid, but her eyes burn with an intelligence that he cannot fathom. On more than one occasion she has helped him with his homework, and on than more than one occasion she has helped tie his soccer cleats, and stood tall and proud along side her parents as her older brother tried his best to help his team win. They were not only siblings, they were best friends, well beyond their years they had been aged by the city, its harshness, and the cold reality of it. Early in school they’d learned of the struggle of their parents to put them through private school, early in life they’d had to learn to give back to the family. They were 11 and 9 respectively; in all reality they were closer to 20 and 18. It was their eyes, always their eyes that gave away their years.

 

At work a Father asks for overtime, but the boss has his favorites, and promises maybe next week there will be overtime. It is always next week, always an empty promise. A Father realizes that something has to change, sadly he realizes that the only change that will come is that he will get older another year has seen more promises broken.

 

Finally the evening comes, and the family prepares for dinner, children wash and mother prepares a great meal in their cramped kitchen, Brother and Sister set the table and fill glasses with water, and milk. As they hear the key in the lock, they all rush to see their Father. He hugs them tightly and reminds himself that every struggle he endures is for them, his wife walks to him and he embraces her, they steal a kiss, and all at once he sense her sorrow, and sadly he smiles at her as understanding takes hold of him. Brother and Sister too understand; baby is sick again and things are going to get tight again. A Father looks at his family and Brother smiles at him, Sister picks up Baby smothers a teary face with kisses. Mother beams with pride, she doesn’t know how but somehow they will get by.

 

As Father reads to Brother and Sister, they drift off to sleep, and dreams begin to fill their heads. Mother and Father kiss them and close the door, not all the way. Leaving it open just a crack so the light from down the hall can get in. As Mother finishes nursing Baby, Father watches as Baby is laid to sleep in the crib. As the day is finally over they embrace and she tells him that Baby is ill, and they will have to spend their savings on going to the doctor. As her tears fall, he holds her, and tries to reassure her. Yet his words ring hollow in his own ears, some how they have to make. They will make it…

 

Now imagine that this was an American family in an American city, I see families in Baghdad trying to survive this war. Everyday in Baghdad children well beyond their years walk a line between being children and combat veterans caught in the middle of a war, that threatens to rip their city down the middle and destroy the very dream of hope that they now dare to hold dear.

 

My time here grows shorter by the day, and I thank God for it, I cannot wait to never be here again, but I think a part of me will always remain here just as a part of this place will always remain with me.

 

I have remained silent for some time, partly because I have nothing positive to offer, partly because our freedom to write what we desire to write has been curtailed (necessity), and mostly because my own bitterness at much of what I have been witness to has left me questioning more than I care to admit.

There comes a point in every war when Soldiers say; “Why are we here?”. A few days ago, a Soldier asked me that question, and for the first time since I have been an officer word, and reason to our cause eluded me. All I could muster was “Because our nation asked…” I hope that helped him because the taste that answer left in my mouth has left me parched for reason in a desert that offers noting to quench my thirst. I am a Soldier, and I am discharging my duty. In 93 days said duty will have been discharged, and 17 years of nearly continuous service will be at a crossroads. There is an empty hanger in my closet that begs the question, is now the time to hang this faded uniform for the last time?

 

I miss Dan, and MAJ K, but more than that I miss the fallen, those I knew and those that I was too “busy” to get to know. Yet most of all I miss the naïve idealism I once possessed, as I recall it left me feeling much better inside than what has since taken it place. 93 days…

 

 

It was the best of times…