Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

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 senses 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…

ONE DAY LESS

25SEP 0003hrs (My apologies in advance for any spelling errors, the net is back up, and my mind has been running on fumes for 72 hours.)

Our hearts are heavy, and thoughts of our own mortality have crept into our waking hours, fear attaches itself to the winds, whispering in our ears.  So very close to home, yet so many unseen dangers that lurk in the darkened hearts of our enemies.  Here in "this war" we have all peered into the heart of darkness, and all to often we have seen ourselves gazing back.  Fatigue has once again set in, and black humor has mercifully albeit temporarily lifted our spirits.  An off colour joke (I'll not share it in this venue) lifted my mood to the point of tears; this time they fell freely but not from the dread and sorrow of this place, but from a perfectly timed joke of a fellow officer, and friend.  The laughter was loud and hearty, it removed us from thoughts of "when it's my time..."  It was needed and will forever be emblazoned in my memory as we watched the clock pass the midnight hour, one less day in Iraq, one more day we are thankful simply to be alive...

24 SEPTEMBER 2005

 

“The future looks bright when the hearts of our young grow cold.”

                                                         

Today, one of the finest soldiers I have ever known entered the Operations Center, and found out that one of his soldiers had fallen. Victim, of yet another cowardly act against us. A young man that I had spent time with that very day hours before; laughing with as he drove our HMMWV into a ditch drenching all of us with water from a cooler. I heard his name called over the robotic static of the radio, and my first thought was so utterly cliché'; “I just saw him...how can this be?”

 
As this fine soldiers disbelief turned to grief, and his tears fell, he began to sob uncontrollably. I was told that he was in the building so I sought him out, and found him there alone in his anger and grief, I reached out to this warrior, and embraced him, not as a parent would a child, but as brothers do. I shared his pain and refusal to accept that another glorious, and fine young man was gone.

 
September is a dark month for us, we have paid for the freedom of the Iraqi people with far too much of our blood. It is my hope that Iraq “Earns this” gift we pay for in our blood. It is my hope that our blood aids the flourishing of the seeds of democracy grown here in this alien land. I comprehend the political landscape of that which comes to pass here, in this place, I understand (all to well) the culture we now find ourselves interwoven with. We are the imperfection on the rug, for nothing save for god is perfect; thus we stand out to the naked eyes of the Iraqi people, the moving imperfection of the tapestry of life...and death in Iraq

.

Some of you may think that our desire to find these “arhabi” is blood lust, no it sadly is not. It is simply our seeking of balance, our desire to manage this chaos that surrounds us. In finding and closing with our enemies, it lends reckoning to our resolve. Yet, all too often there is no enemy to engage, no spore to follow, there is only the lingering rage of being attacked and the scale tilted yet again against us.

 
This month will always be a dark reminder for me, not only in my rememberence of September 11^th 2001, but of September, 5^th, September, 16^th , and September 23^rd 2005. Of the sounds of dogtags clanking in the wind, of anger, of sorrow, of a coldness not brought on by the onset of fall. Rather a coldness that slowly creeps into the heart of rational men, of caring, and merciful brothers in arms. A coldness that removes parts of our souls, and replaces the memories of hearth and home, with bitterness, with a rip-tide that lies just beneath the masks of indifference we all don here, the masks that help us cope with what surrounds us.

 
As our embrace turned into a slightly more relaxed conversation about “what now”, another young soldier entered the building; he hadn't yet heard, of our loss. This scenario is being played out all too often, and again for the 5^th time in nearly as many days my heart tightened, and another piece of who I was, was lost to who and possibly what I am now. Wars have always changed men, perhaps it alters us, as Steinberg asserted, perhaps warriors will forever be “Homo sapien saevus.” Today my heart is cold, and my soul feels lost. Yet what I do know is that “this course” I am now on grows curiouser and curiouser as we venture down this hole.

 

18 SEPTEMBER 2005

How do you sum up the memory of a man? How do you remember a man in a few short moments? Another soldier from our Battalion has fallen. This man, I have known for some time. This memorial service left emptiness inside my heart, and has caused me yet again to remain in the shadow of doubt as to where my own faith lies. The memorial was full of the typical military ceremony VIPs from across our Division were present, and then there were his friends, the men who have shared his memories and walked a mile along side of him, his friends…His brothers.

 

“This war” has taken yet another Californian, another American, another husband, and Father. A sacrifice I will never forget, a good damned Soldier I will miss. There will be four places settings vacant upon our return. Our brothers who did not make it back, four empty chairs that cannot ever be filled, nor can they be replaced. I hope it will only be four, but as I have become fond of saying here in this place for me at any rate; hope is the beginning of unhappiness. I simply have no words of encouragement for this loss, no sense of higher purpose, or greater good. I think my heart has taken a step back last week. It was the costliest week thus far that this battalion has had to endure. Being in the Operations Center and hearing the battle unfold over the radio was…well it was not a place I look forward to going to anymore; we got bloody and for an agonizing 45 minutes there was no clear picture of who had perished, I know all who survived, and I knew the man that did not.

 

At the memorial you look into the eyes of those who were there, and the pain and sadness of the men who carried our fallen brother and tried to save him, it is an empty feeling. A desperate feeling begins to well within you and not unlike being shot at, or nearly blown up, you have the urge to flee this sadness. To run and hide, the little boy inside begs you to make it stop. It feels like there are ants crawling all over you, the stinging in your eyes gnaws at you, and the lump in your throat feels like it is strangling you. Then after the volley fires, and taps has faded the silence comes, and all that can be heard in the still of the evening is the dog tags of your brother clanking in the wind. Whispers cannot be heard over the solitary roar, of those two metal tags connecting with one another over and over.

 

Here in “This war” we are even denied that most human of things in time of war…revenge. Not that it is our way, or isn’t. Our enemy simply lays his devices, waits, attacks, and scurries away into the darkness like vermin when the lights come on. Granted, some of us probably do want blood, many of us are weary of it, and still more of us, want to end this one way or the other. Yet for our nation in this first great war of this newborn century, to fail here cannot be allowed to happen. I hate this place, this wonderful and terrible place, but I understand that what we are attempting here is simply bigger than me.

 

109 days to go…

 

Semper in Adsumus,

RDC

 

IT HAS BEEN A WHILE

It has been a while since I sat before this machine and put thought to writing anything of substance.  I was wandering in the dark if you will.  My spirit hadn't been broken, but it felt like I did in junior when Scott Helt beat me up during gym class.  Then something happened, well, to coin a phrase from Monty Python, "Suddenly nothing happened."  There wasn't any one thing, it was a combination of things, that pulled me from the hole I was in.  The situation here at Battalion, simply is.  The war in Iraq, continues, and as December draws nearer my anticipation for the elections grows.  My life at home is still on hold, but as each day passes by I am closer to something better than being here.  The anger I had over the situation here has been replaced not with indifference, not with scorn, it has been replaced with the passage of time.  After being angry for so long in life, there comes a time when you look over your shoulder and can't really remember why.  Yesterday was that day.  Naturally in my minds eye I know why I was so bitter, but yesterday it dawned on me, it doesn't really matter. 

It is a simple thing to reach out for help, and the hands that are often thrust out to render help come from the strangest places at times.  In this place a friendship that will last a life time can be made in the simplest of ways, sharing a drink of cold water on an abysmally hot day.  Making someone laugh when they are down, patting a stranger on the back who looks at the end of his rope.  For me it came with a conversation about all the things we aren't supposed to talk about with locals.  There is an interpreter here I'll call him Jim, I have come to appreciate this quiet and peaceful human being, and over the last few months I have come to call him friend.  I asked him the other day why he had worked here so long, and how he could face the dangers of being an interpreter so calmly.  I urged him to quit if for no other reason than to see him die, would tear at me.  Not like when a soldier dies, as a soldier you can respect it as a fallen warrior, but to see civilians die here for no reason is tragic.  "Jim" looked to the ground, and and thought about the question for a long time before he answered.  He smiled at me, and put it into words that we can all understand.  "This is my country, wouldn't you do the same?"  I just started to laugh, I am truly going to miss this man, I will pray that no harm ever comes to him or his family.  If men like him were in power here we would be home by Christmas (My favorite wartime rumor). 

Tonight we got some bad guys, and turned them over to the MPs, for proper processing, into the correctional system here.  Again looking at these Jihadists, holy warriors, terrorists, criminals etc... was not unlike looking at criminals in the US.  Flesh and bone, human beings.  Who even in flex cuffs with no chance of escape glared in contempt at us, seeing your enemy alive and in the flesh puts a different perception to him.  It humanizes what you don't wish to see as human.  Yet, in the end of this thing despite ideology, despite religion, despite the banner under which you pledge your allegiance the blood in all our veins flows red (don't get me wrong here people, this is a war.  If it was me or him out there in the "red zone" I would drop him where he stood then forget about him before he was cold.  But seeing them there like that, I wouldn't say it was pity, but it was just "something").  As the detainees were sitting there awaiting what came next a medic was giving them water, it was fresh and cold and many of them seemed surprised by it.  Others still seemed surprised to be alive, how could these Godless infidels understand compassion.  I was looking at one of them and he was looking right back at me, it was no more than 15 seconds, before he was moved in for processing, but as he stood there was an explosion.  It was no more than 300 feet away outside the FOB wall, but all of the detainees were startled by it.  some crouching as it expecting to be pelted by debris.  The veterans standing there the men of the infantry barely even turned their heads towards the sound.  A young soldier looked at the motley crew of "former" terrorists and bellowed; "What, you shoot at us and drop IEDs on the road to kill us and a little boom scares you!?"  He stormed off in disgust, his buddies laughing and chasing off after him.  It got quiet there, and I found myself alone in the parking lot, standing there in the still of one less Iraqi night. 

The temperature is dropping now, and I find that my mood is directly affected by the drop in temperature, as it gets cooler here my mood improves.  I have never been a fan of the Summer, especially here.  Soon it will be cold, and by cold I mean 60's and I can't wait.  But as with all things Army, Murphy's law will be in effect, so as it gets cold the hot water in the shower will too. 

RDC

Pray for New Orleans, donate money, clothes, time.  They are Americans and they need your help.  Despite the blame game going on (which is pathetic), rise above it and help. 

JD, thanks.
Don, much appreciated.

CHECKING IN

Hello all, thank you for the emails and for your concern.  I am alive and I am well.  recent events have left me with no words to describe them, and no desire to.  A step back from my own mind, a vacation from recollection.  Sleep my only escape, so off to bed, not to forget things, just to take a break from them, because for 4 months, and 11 days more they will be there waiting for me the second I wake up.

RDC

IP # 192.156.52.34

IP: 192.156.52.34

Comment:

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what kind of leader are you -allowing yourself to become dehydrated!

who was leading your troops when you were up show boating on the roof

with your "cool" weapon?  no wonder you are under investigation

First, every officer is a leader, however I am not a platoon, patrol,or company leader.  I am the Assistant S2.  I was on a patrol to go to a place where I needed to look to facilitate doing my job.  As for the "cool weapon" as you put it, I am trained on distance marksmanship from prior enlisted time.  For the record, when you come upon an IED the leaders lead and everyone else follows.  You sound remotely in-tune to the military so you, I am sure can appreciate how that works.  Demon 6, was in charge on scene, I, at that point was 3rd man 3rd squad.  Yes, I am an officer, no I was not in charge, I was told to go up to observe the area and provide if need be precision fire if we came under attack.  Surely you can understand when a CPT tells a LT to do something, heels click, followed by YES SIR! 

As for dehydrated, well. It was pretty hot, and despite the 2 bottles of water I drank prior to being detoured by the insidious little IED, we did err, in not bringing up more than one bottle between us.  So, I'll give you that little victory.  As you are a small person for not leaving your name to your snide little comments, I am sure the small victory I'll allow you is more than enough for you to handle. 

As for me being under investigation, well either you are lying, or you know something I don't.  So, why don't we just call it a day, and I'll let you slither back to your hole. You made some assumptions...I'll let that linger. If you comment (especially in the negative), have to stones to leave your name.

Everyone else, I apologize for that...today was one of those days, and Mr. IP 192.156.52.34 quite frankly annoyed the hell out of me. 

RDC

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

This is an image from the Observation Post I mentioned in yesterdays post.  No, the scope isn't on a target, if it were I would not post a picture of it, that would be in poor taste.  And no I wasn't wasting time taking happy snaps.  I documented distances to known points, in case the need arrives to use this roof again as an op. 

This second photo, is a happy snap.  The all clear had been given, and I stepped down from the box I had to stand on to get a clear sight of my assigned sector.  The AC duct behind me got to hot to lie on.  I was stepping down from the box, to leave when my partner snapped the shot.  It appears after closer examination of the pic, I was not amused.  Actually we had been singing a song, a rather crude rendition of an infantry diddy.  We are infantry troopers, we're soldiers of the night, we're dirty....well it degenerates from there.  I kept stepping up on the box scanning the windows for 2 or 3 minutes (probably too long), then I'd step down (like step classes) duck beneath the wall, move around then step back up in a new location.  This was done as to not establish too much of a pattern.  Just in case there were any other men out there with scoped weapons.  The number one target of a sniper/precision marksman/ or designated marksman is another sniper/precision marksman/ or designated marksman, basically people who have scoped weapons, try to shoot other people with scoped weapons first.  It's an odd way to make a living, but to the long rifles out there in the still of the night (ours that is) gentleman, my hat is off to you.  Stay hidden, stay in the bubble, and shoot true.  I'd trade all the tanks in the world for a Brigade of snipers.  Sorry tread-heads no offense, cause I do love the felling of security we have on the road here when we are covered by your guns! 

RDC

SIMPLE WORDS AND POWER

Shukran…

 

Words are power, more powerful than steel, more powerful than war. Words, define us, words travel with us each and every day.

 

Yesterday I finally came face to face with an IED. The soldiers…no men of Delta Company 1-184, and Rogue platoon recognized the threat. As we passed by the device, the driver became hyper aware, he saw what most of us did not, a glint of metal amongst the trash strewn road. As we passed by it, it lay there barely visible, yet it was the only thing I could see, it became what could have been our end. Life does not flash before your eyes when you come face to face with mortality, but a resignation that this could be the last moment, then sadness. Yet oddly, it didn’t take us. We cordoned off the area and kept the civilians away, spectators began to gather, and the danger became three dimensional. Moments before we passed our IED, another of our patrols was struck by an IED of similar design, there were no injuries, within moments of that report we seemed years away surrounded by onlookers, and trapped within our own cordon. The walls we had built to keep people away had also trapped us within.

 

I felt as if we were on a stage, and everyone from everywhere was looking at us. Demon 6, the on scene commander called up the report and help was on the way. Until then we were to wait literally on top of the weapon. Uncertain if the man who was to detonate it was amongst the on lookers, uncertain if an attack was to come at us. As the temperature rose so did the tension. Everyone was visibly on edge. We were each assigned sectors to scan for threats, yet the uneasy feeling that you were in someone’s sights was never far from our thoughts. It is that uneasy feeling you get when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and your spine tingles because you know you are not alone. The urge leave had to be overcome; each man there knew his duty and his job. Yet, each and every one of us knew that innocent lives were on the line, it sounds cliché but as we looked at the crowds gathering, the people getting out of their cars, we knew that the real danger didn’t lie with the IED itself, the real danger was us… We were the bait, if we were blown up, the crowds could easily swell to hundreds of onlookers. There is an old Arab saying; “It is foolish to hunt a tiger when there are plenty of sheep to be had.” If we were blown up, our enemies know that the civilians would converge upon the scene providing a much more lucrative target.

Our enemies know that we cannot be beaten, so they opt for the easy kill. Civilians… As LTC F said be polite, be professional, be prepared to kill. As I mentioned the threat was three-dimensional. Civilians and curiosity go hand in hand here, the Iraqi Police came to assist us, but our first thoughts were of cautious skepticism, were these true Iraqi police, or were they the proverbial wolves in sheep’s clothing. Demon 6, is a professional soldier, his men, seasoned and crisp, like a symphony the men moved with precision to their assigned positions, I on a rooftop observation post, with an SPR, (Special Purpose Rifle). This weapon has a scope on its upper receiver enabling the shooter to accurately engage targets (threats) up to (in this case) 500 yards away. As were in an urban area, we were limited in what we would shoot at given no discernable threats. I ranged each open window, alleyway, doorframe, parked car and other visible points of reference. I drew a hasty range card, and set up my position. Then like everything else in the military, I waited. Moreover, as the minutes passed the heat rose. The thermometer read 126 (it was in the shade), eyestrain and muscle cramps from dehydration began to set in, and the weapon became hot on my cheek. The mirage downrange also increased, I had to re-verify my distances to known points, as I did this doubt set in. Was my windage correct, had I adjusted for my elevation, how hot was the bullet in the chamber. As people started to move in the distance, sweat began to fall into my eyes, my heartbeat became erratic, and the armor started digging in to my sides. It felt like I was having an anxiety attack, and I was losing my poker face. At that moment, I thought I saw a rifle in a window about 290 yards from my position, I could not see into the room from my vantage point, only a shadow on a wall in the room. Still, I wasn’t’ sure if I actually saw a weapon.

 
     I was trying to control my breathing; I could not calm myself to get a steady picture in the scope. I cursed myself and bit hard into my lip, I needed to focus on anything other then the burning in my eyes, and the pain from cramps. I bit harder, drawing blood. I was certain I had seen a weapon in the window; I clicked off safe and prepared to engage the threat. Blinking rapidly I got the sweat from my eye, and the stinging stopped, just as I was exhaling I got a clear picture of the room it was a woman nursing a child looking out to see what we were doing. I put the weapon back on safe, and stepped off the gun. I slumped in a corner of the rooftop telling my partner to cover my sector, I needed a break; two minutes later, the break was over. I was drenched in sweat, and shaking from cramps. Our water bottles empty, and Power Bars gone, we resigned ourselves to our stupidity, laughed it off and got back into position. 35 minutes had elapsed since we got on the roof.

The demolition team arrived and prepared for their mission, to clear the IED from its location. They decided to blow it in place. Soldiers began to scream for civilians to back off the area, and in Arabic, the police shouted commands to the locals with about as much urgency in their voice as the metallic voice coming over the PA in at most US airports. After some “unique” prodding, the civilians withdrew. My partner (a soldier of average height, and a slight drawl to his voice) told me the “6” (military term for a commander) told us to clear the roof and get below. From our position, the IED was about 130 feet behind us. As we clambered down the stairs with our kit, I was reminded of the pictures of Leathernecks from WWII, climbing down cargo nets into Higgins boats, we had little of their grace in walking down the stairs. Chewing bubble gum and walking at this point proved to difficult, so against the advice of my mother from decades past, I swallowed my gum. As my throat was dry from lack of water, it nearly choked me. Odd, I thought how embarrassing would this be to be evacuated because I choked on a piece of double bubble?

 

     When the signal came; “FIRE IN THE HOLE, FIRE IN THE HOLE, FIRE IN THE HOLE!!!” The explosion was far louder than I anticipated, thunderous is not an accurate enough word, it was louder than anything I have heard since I have been in Iraq.

  We were less than a football field away from it, and windows broke, dishes fell, and a child that was in the house that I was not aware of began to cry. Slowly I picked myself up from the floor and again we went to the roof. The silence there was surpassed only by the ringing in my ears, as we got back into position slowly the people began to reemerge from around corners, from behind cars, and from locked doors. As the moments passed us by, it became evident that we would not be attacked; our mood became no less tense. Finally after being there for several hours, we were given the all clear, and we once again descended the stairs of the Iraqi home. As we came down, I was struck at just how ordinary the home was. Pictures on the walls, fine china (albeit cracked and dusty) was stacked on shelves. Coffee cups on the kitchen counter. A throw, hung on the back of a couch. The smell of cooking clung in the air, and the people in the home who let us in, looked ordinary, scared but ordinary nonetheless.

 

The man in the house was holding his daughter Mina, a beautiful little girl who for some reason smiled at the two soldiers standing before her. I took off my helmet and goggles, and smiled back at her. Again, I was reminded why I am here. And again that reminder came in the form of a smile from a child. We exchanged thanks back and forth, and shook hands, the women in the house (his mother and wife) smiled at us the man of the house said “Assalamu alaikum.” As we put our kit back on I clasped hands with him and patted him on the shoulder “Walaikum assalam.” (Peace be upon you too) I patted my partner in the helmet, and staggered we moved to the gate. “Friendly coming out!” We shouted, and rejoined our patrol. As we rolled out, I was looking at the spot where the IED had been. The metal, contorted and charred a shadow of what it once had been, a reminder to me to what could have been. Shaking it off, I drank cold water, and drank and drank and drank.

 

They thanked us…

The power of words…

My friends you are very welcome…

 

SGT Monkey, as always thanks for having my back.

 

RDC

Gimme a Break

OK, GAB, to be fair, the Green (international) Zone takes a beating like the rest of the greater B'dad area, no doubt; mortars fall there, IEDs detonate taking life just like everywhere else in Iraq.  Gunshots are heard throughout, night and day.  Arhabi, live, work, and kill their.  They murder innocents and target them because they are easy prey.  They target Marines, Soldiers, Sailors and Airman alike.  They do not discriminate.  They hate us whether we live in the "worlds largest gated community" or in various FOBs in the greater B'dad area. 

Yet, if  words (mine or anyone elses) make you feel like any less of a soldier.  The problem rests with you not with me.  I stand here with nearly 150,000 other men and women in this uniform taking what ever beatings come.  From inside the wire or out.  I damn sure know who and what I am.  I stand with the men of my battalion whether we are embarrassing to you or not.  They are my family here.  I count on the fact that no matter how many articles are written about what has been done, I know that tomorrow they will go back to work and ride this storm out.  If I may;

"Why dont you take your self praising, Im doing such wonderful things on home for your campaign, because your BN has embarrassed itself enough already."

   Well, GAB I dare say there isn't a calender on this FOB  that isn't marking the days, hours, minutes and seconds away (that is a tradition of service men and women longer than you or I have been alive).  Active, Reserve or Guard.  But, if I have made you feel like less of a Soldier, then I am sorry.  As it has been said to me, Soldier on...

With Your Shield or Upon it...
RDC

As only an AmeriCAN!

Two words... Luke Stricklin. 

He is a Soldier, a patriot and his service in Iraq got him this far.  God's speed Luke.  Good luck brother!

He gave a year, support him.

RDC