I Wish I was There

The world spins around me as I continue to move through my life. I have woke again in self sadness that comes from the emotional high of victory. Only to find that it was a dream, that the victories were not mine at all. As the day grows cold and dark I know that I am walking in my footsteps again. That I am no longer pushing the world around but are instead moving in place. I dream the horrid dreams of war, and wish with every part of being that I was still there. For the news from the front is not what it should be, it is not filled with laughter and jokes of my friends. No, now I find it filled with sadness. I trained a platoon of forty men to be efficient and strong, and they were. The army took them away from me and sent them into harms way. And before they even loaded onto a plane and I lost a man. To call him a man might be an exaggeration at 17. Now they are in the midst of the toughest fight of their life, they have lost five to enemy fire, and have had over ten of them wounded. This time my platoon will return scar’d and changed for life, as I sit here and read about it. My dreams are tough, I have slain dragons and sieged castles, I have fought and stormed across Flanders fields, and I have wrestled Iraqis to the ground, only to wake and find that the life I have now pales in comparison to the sacrifice of those whom no longer dream of such heroics but rather live them. You ask me where I want to be today, I have only one answer “I want to be next to Verdeja, Boyd, Pulford, Watson, Salazar, and all the others that I have fought beside before, that is where I want to be.” I only hope is that one day I will be able to lie next to them forever and know that from then on I will always be with them.

Rest In Peace my friends

Dreams

The deep blue water rises up and out of the ocean reaching for the sky in white foam only to be smashed back to earth by one of the few constants in the world, gravity. This rolling thunder crashes through the barrier and into the shore in a deafening roar. The sandy beaches smooth and soft from the pounding, poke-a-doted with footprints, some two by two, others in some random dance of the playful. Broad-leafed trees pushed back from the water leaning towards the ocean and sky as if bowing in acknowledgement of their weakness in the face of such awesome power. It is no wonder that when your mind sprints from where it is at, in hopes of redemption, most people find it on some beach in a tropical paradise. Those that work and suffer at the hands of others, the feeling of no control, the constant response to the whims of others or the necessities of life, long for the imaginary freedom that must exist in some base tropic existence. The fallacy is plain to see if you are willing to look, but most aren't.

So I too have trapped myself into the belief that the carefree existence is freedom; from the past and future, from needs and wants, and from loneliness. The irony is that the dream comes in single servings. So in response to a childhood dream of adventure still yet to be tamed I have set out in the first phase of some great sailing voyage yet to be. I have pushed a Sabre 28 through the shallow surf of the Chesapeake bay, starting to learn the skills necessary for bigger and grander adventure. With hope and patience I set out on the bay with the fall of the night clouds, and all the light of a moon and stars, I will my future on the sky and the winds.

The currents pull me in every direction; with limited patience it is amazing I have had any success at all. The great adventures to be had, the stories to be written, the academics to be studied, and the painting to be created all lie gathering dust on the shelves as my life stretches onward in a not so healthy mix of procrastination and military service. It is amazing to think that all men before they are soldiers dream of the battlefield, the comradeship, and hardships that will give them the title of Soldier. Yet; the irony is complete that from day one of basic to the cold nights on the Falluja peninsula we lie awake at night dreaming of all the other things in life we would rather be doing. In those cold nights, wiping the dust from our eyes and equipment, in whispers we talk about buying sailboats and cruising across oceans, or climbing mountains with a few friends.

These stories are the real dreams so fragile that they can only be told in whispers while lying still. They are as different for each soldier as possible and are all accepted, these are the stories told after the loud posturing and machismo subsides. The older among us talk about family and make futures for their children that are explained in detail. A younger man will talk of his new bride at home in infinite detail that would make him a poet if he was able. Some, the true loners with no solid grasp of the world describe the mountain range that they will conquer, where as I chose the sea to be my great glory. Maybe that is what it is, the attempt to find some glory in the dream of our youth, as we realize that war will not bring the glory that we had anticipated forcing us to find something else. Or maybe that reality of the situation requires such an escape that we create battles that are less real and more serene. In the end I do not know, but what I fail to understand as of yet, is the overwhelming feeling of not having accomplished anything, though I have meet more and more of my goals, I still feel as if the time is slipping away and I have almost nothing to show for it. I am not alone in these feeling, more and more professional soldiers with experience feel this way as well, that heir trade is so far removed from normalcy that they have nothing to show for their time.

Others around us try and remind us that it is just not so, that our stories are their favorite to hear, that they are envious of us, yet it is a hard fact to believe. How many times have I wished to have had the travels and successes of my friends? How many times have they looked back at me as if I had insulted their existence by wanting to shed mine to assume theirs. Their faces only remind me that as much as I have felt inadequate I would not change the life I have lived, the places I have been, or the people that I have known.

Eulogy for Polo

I thought it would be different now; I thought it wouldn’t hurt as much. Half way around the globe men and women are pursuing our nations national interests, and implementing policy with a rifle. They are tired, worn, and most would rather be here; yet with a consistency that should make you cry, they will never leave, or quite. They are tough in ways that most will never truly understand.

Many psychologists would agree that distance and time can fix most things, as well as lessen the impact of almost any event. Last night, this abstract idea that I had held as fact, came crashing down around me. On a rooftop that overlooked most of downtown DC, two blocks from the Verizon center. I was having beers and bullshiting with the low-end political aids that scurry around the real administrators in the Old Executive Office Building, though most would just say they work at the White House. The irony was absolutely complete when my phone rang during a heated conversation of how much it would cost to build more F-22 or fund a new infantry battalion. How is anyone supposed to be prepared when the real cost is measured and paid.

My roommate called and my phone started up the annoying Gnarls Barkley song. Answering, I immediately started to tell him what the plan was for the next couple hours. When I was done speaking there was an awkward pause, nothing more, followed by “Polo is dead,” two breaths, “he was killed by an IED.”

The world stopped moving, people stopped talking, all actions and senses ceased. No more words were exchanged on the phone, just silence. The phone was still open and on when I stood up and walked away from the party on the rooftop. No one looked at me, no one noticed. The shock wears off much quicker than you want. In fact, I found myself trying to hold onto the void that shock can create; knowing that this is so much better than what comes next. My pace picks up as I move faster and faster across the roof and down a hallway of wooden fences towards a door. I do not know why I am headed this way but I need to leave. The anger builds with the pace and I am not sure why pain and anger come together but I do know that both demand that every part of my body feel the same pain in proportion to the rest. So I strike out at the wall, punching and punching. I kick in a portion of the wooden fence and slam the beer bottle that was still in my hands to the ground. Now I can feel the pain in my hand, the throb of the forming bruise, the emotional fury subsides and I regain composure now that I can feel the physical pain. As if the physical can and should overshadow the emotional screams that rushed through me.

I returned to the party, only partially aware at the stairs of confusion as I reached for ice to sooth my hand. My friend asked “what happened to your hand?” and in the only way I know how to deal with the absurdity of the situation, “It picked a fight that it couldn’t win with a brick wall, stupid eh?” As I wrapped the ice around my hand I went and found another beer, and rejoined the group, forcing myself into some pattern of normalcy before I could break away and be alone, as I wanted.

Polo, there can be no lasting tribute for you. A man, a child, a friend, an atheist Chaplin of the highest order. How do I write of a man that knew more about life than I do. How do I say some words that he would have accepted as just and honest, how do I make reconciliation with a man who was my better. There are no words, nor diction that can tell you of this boy-man. Life is meant to be tasted and enjoyed the invigoration of the living, this will be Polo’s testament, he truly drank from the well of life, where I, and most are but merely spectators of this cosmic play. The verse he added was much too short. The streets of paradise are lined with his friends, whom all remember the smile and charity of Polo.

May you rest in peace, we are coming, please wait for us, we will be along shortly, my friend.

The Class Room

Yesterday I sat in class and watched my hand start to shake… it has been almost a year since the last time I displayed any visible signs...

Had Dr. Hanle known that I might have issues with the class, he probably would have warned me of the content. Yet as strange as it was, I listened to the start of the class discussion and I could see where we were going, yet it was still the same as a surprise on my system when the nature of killing was being discussed in a room of people that had never done it.

“Men like to kill, violence is gratifying and empowering, murderers intoxicated by their deeds…”

Slides go by on the wall, a PowerPoint gallery of children and terrorists. The depiction of change that would bring a pee-wee soccer kid into the ranks of suicide bombers. Others in the class raise their hands and through out comments that I do not hear. The discussion is not wrong, it is merely academic, and the Doctors points are sound psychology. All I can do is hide my hand under my desk so that others wont notice, or more accurately so that I don’t have to notice. I do not have issues with what I have done. I have put to rest any of my concerns and regrets about situations that have occurred in my life. And the class moves on.

“As men draw… near it becomes extremely difficult to deny their humanity. Looking into a man’s face, seeing his eyes and his fear, eliminate denial. At this range the interpersonal nature of the killing has shifted. Instead of shooting at a uniform and killing a generalized enemy, now the killer must shoot at a person and kill a specific individual. Most simply cannot or will not do it.”

The visions and the memories come back to me. Oh the irony of the last sentence on this slide. The look of disgust on a Marine officers face when she hears the statistics of soldiers willing to fire their weapons at an enemy. Then the failure to understand the very nature of the training that has managed to raise those statistics from WWII levels of less than half to today at near 90%. The Air Force logisticians scoffing comments when he asks why wont they kill an enemy that they know is trying to kill you. I have never wanted to raise my voice more in my life and ask, had they ever looked into the eyes of a dying man… if the answer is no then sit down.

“With very few exceptions, everyone associated with killing in combat reaps a bitter harvest of guilt.”

Now this slide brings many more questions than I would have thought possible. My hand is shaking in the perfect understanding of what this slide means, and others are questioning the validity of the very statement. Anger rises to the surface and the only noticeable sign of my displeasure is that my hand has stopped shaking completely. Anger to calm the nerves, followed by some notes hastily scribbled on the handouts. Notes about my reaction to the statements on each slide, within minutes blacked out with marker, for fear that some other might read them and judge me.

I guess it is the judgment of others that keeps us quiet. Or is it the judgment that we have already passed on ourselves. You know that the actions that you have done in your life are wrong. And that their acceptability is based on circumstances alone. Years of second-guessing and reworking an incident until you can put it to rest. The real fear is that someone else might have a different assessment than the one you have chosen to live with.

Without measurement (January 2005)

I thought that I was tough. I knew that I was strong. There was nothing that could stop me, yet now I sit here in full kit with loaded weapon writing these words knowing that at any moment tears will come to my eyes, if only for a second, but I know that they are there. Every day passes I wait for the point in the day that someone will let me know that another friend, comrade in arms, brother will have died. I will see the death in my mind a thousand times before it becomes my death, then and only then do I become weak. So, the strength of the individual is a perpetual test of courage and resiliency that has no measurement. I do not know how this reaction is reflected to my peers and brothers. They say that I have changed the least. Well I can tell them that I have changed more than they will ever know, yet that can only mean that they too are experiencing the pain that floats through the air waiting for you to breath it in, hell some choke on it. We have sent people home now for suicide attempts, is that the loosing side, are those the weak ones. Where do I fall on this scale that cannot be measured. I read a story today about my hero, not Patton nor Eisenhower, rather Jimmy Buffet and his adventures. There is a man in pure paradise I would like to learn that it is not true and that it is only a myth because I have missed the boat. I am twenty-four and I have yet to taste the true love of another held in my arms, yet I have, only to watch him die from loss of blood. It is true, there are great tests for all men but being great is not something that is limited to a few. I have found now that plenty are great, plenty are strong, plenty are heroes, but it is the moment and the circumstances that will give them their greatness. I am a rich man, a hero, a leader, and great warrior, yet at the same time you must say that I am dead. For every time that I take myself outside the wire I am killing another part of myself. I am living on borrowed time. Roll the dice and find out today weather it is you or your friend. Well if the wheel was fixed I think I would still take the chance, if you are treading on thin ice I know that I have danced.

Arlington

Oh how fate plays tricks on even the most reverent of us all. Without warning, a day that should have had the sharp crisp feel of winter to it suddenly warmed up, yet graying the sky in such a way as to leave you with the impression that neither day nor night was fast approaching. I have driven fifteen minutes to visit my friend. I have not seen him in some time and felt the need today. I stopped by the convenient mart and grabbed a small gift for him. In this overcast warming day snow tried to flee as fast as possible, laying bare rows and rows of white stones. It is a short walk from where I parked over a single rise and part way down a slope. The first time I came here, I memorized how many stones past a certain tree laid my friend. But now, it is almost on instinct that I look for a small Government Issue stone. Short and white I kneel before it. For the most part I am alone today and those others moving through the thin layer of snow and ice are being quiet. They do not seem to have the purpose that I have in my walk. Pulling from my bag a small flower that I hastily bought from the store and pull a bottle of Canadian Club that I brought from home. Laying the flower down I sipped my whiskey and as the sharp painful taste bit me the memories came flooding back. Images etched in time forever engraved on me. Trying as hard as I could to control my emotions with the waves of images; I close my eyes and clench my fist around the neck of the bottle. Another drink. This time the emotions surged through my body though no tears would come. None had come for years. Something much worse than tears, the reworking of the days events, looking for changes that could have been made, differences that should have happened. Each critical moment that could have changed the outcome of that days tragic events rolls through my mind. Painful and sharp the bitter taste in my mouth as I recognize all of the things that could have been done differently. What was I supposed to do, I was helpless. How was I supposed to change it, how was I supposed to make It different? Would it be better to have it been someone else or would it have been better if it was me? Another helping of whisky, and another; distant whisperings float down to where I am, others are starting to stair. They know why I am here and give me room. I push aside the memories, I am being too hard on myself or not hard enough. Either way it does not mater. The events took place so long ago that the world has moved on as I have. Except on those frost bitten days that I think back to the smiles and laughter that my friend and I shared for some lonely months in a desolate land.

Legion Lost

I am just another of the Legion Lost, my future sealed in the stones of the Fates, cast in their indifference to my pleasure. I smile at the thought of such haphazardness in which I feel my life has taken, knowing that the choices have all been mine. Knowing that if I did not tire of the things that are, and stopped the wanting of the strange and new. Then the world would be exactly as I design. Yet I do not fit in, and I cannot stay still. The ocean calls, the mountains beckon, and the skies scream their welcome. I must go, I must continue on. With a more and more frantic pace I reach forward as youth leaves me behind. Oh, how life has been a good joke on me. Oh; I am, one of the Legion Lost.

I am just another of the Legion Lost, my course is set and the fates have cast their stones. The glory of battle will be the last of my dreams as i dream no more. At war with more than my nations enemies i have killed in the name of countries and faiths. I have been the profits own sword from which he has wielded me forth in a fiery vengeance; not seen since the days of David. Well let it be known that the uncrowned king is still at large. His ego and dominance still in shrined in the ideals of Charlemagne and Caesar. Come hear my tales of camp, and i will fill your cup with blood and rage. The great tribes of the past chant out their eerie beats accompanied by their ghostly wails. Only the dead have seen the end of war and strife and only the living desire to see it.

Sunset (July 2005)

What the hell is a BLOG, and who the hell am I writing it for. I have no one that actually reads this crap and in all honesty that is what this is going to be, crap. I am writing for my own amusement, on to a computer web page done out of complete boredom. Hey who knows, as my friend commented, it might get me laid. Hahah, anyways so, this is my first BLOG and I want to talk about the ocean because it is the farthest thing from life here in Iraq. I would give anything to see the ocean rise and fall with the crash of the tide. Feel the rhythmic power of the surf and feel the wind sweep across the waves, leaving behind the tell tail sparkles of a gust gone by. Feel the surge of the boat under you as the wind fills the sails with a sharp crack, lifting the hull from the water, and plaining across the bright blue liquid glass. The sharp taste of sea spray slapping you in the face, as you hike out on the rail trying to maintain control of the wind and the boat, steering toward some predetermined point in front of you. Feeling the sudden shift in the winds, making the corrections to the sails with the skill and efficiency of a professional, almost feeling the whims of the water and the wind driving your boat faster and faster along the line. Oh what I would give to be there now! Barefoot walking the beach, with a drink in hand, with friends, waiting for the steel drums to start playing for the nightly Sunset Festival, the party that is special every night. Oh to see the stars dance above the ocean again, putting your self to bed with the warmth of Rum. Waking in the arms of a beautiful girl, with the brightest smile that will wake you with warmth that no amount of coffee could compete with. So maybe it is a fantasy, well its my fantasy and when I get back from this desolate place that has taken friends from me with out reason, I will forget an entire year, in a bottle of rum on the beach starring out at the moon and stars.

Peace at last, drained (July 2005)

The big move is at hand; a full year spent in a god-forsaken stretch of land beside the Euphrates River is at an end. I can see every street and house, corner and shop, school and mosque in my mind from Fallluja to Ramadi. I can picture with the clarity of reality the men moving with their heads down against the rising sand and the women in groups moving down the streets in a hurried motion that in the untied states would show a purpose but here it is in subjugation. There is no life left on the streets where I have walked. Each family living day-to-day listening to the tanks and soldiers racing back and forth across their lands. Business as usual until the first roadside bomb, leaving wounded locals and hurt soldiers, followed by the main tank rounds impacting on structures to week from the wind and the sand to support themselves, collapsing on the street. Every face in the street knows what evil lies in wait at the bend of the road, every man knows where the attack will come from but they are dead. There is no life left so no will to fight, or to help. They are just existing in the loosest sense of the word. My friends and I have walked each street looking for the face of someone that still breaths the air of life. We have found such precious jewels in the beige sand blown backdrop. That is what they are jewels, precious children of war. They are the ones that you fight for everyday; they are the ones that in one smile will make you forget the bombs, RPG’s, and the assholes shooting at you. There have only been two types of dreams I have had about this place, the ones the revolve around the future of bright children who will grow up in the darkness of this world, with out education, without freedom. With only the will to live each day. This strip of land will have American boots leaving prints in the mud for years to come, but alas they will no longer be my concern, I am going back to the world of the living, where everyone is breathing deep the joys of this earth. For the United States is clearly blessed and I want to drink my fill.

Soon, but not yet.... (September 2005)

So the song another one bites the dust comes to mind even though it is so not fair to anyone. I have lost another friend, another brother, another lost soul, another kid trying to earn himself a place in a world that doesn’t deal kindly with the undereducated. The soldiers of today are the smartest of the uneducated and they are also the ones that are dying the fastest. How was I supposed to know, how was I supposed to care and live. You cant, you lose focus and you lose perspective and you leave each day with each night and wake to find the new light just as bright and strong. Or you let the day own the night and the sun will eventually stop moving around and the moons and stars will abandon you to your self-desolation. Where will it end? Were does it begin? These I am sure are questions asked a hundred times in as many languages, many days wasted in the hot sun that beats its tireless hammer against all who dare cross this cursed country. The beauty is there in its own quiet way yet always slowed and hunted by the relentless power of the sun. So where are the answers to these questions, Virgil never found them and neither did Homer. They just tried to relay to us the immortality that others try to grasp when they are given these situations. There is no fitting tribute or memorial other than the words, ‘he is my friend.’ There is no greater glory or greatness reserved for his soul except for the shallow phrase, ‘we shall endure and continue.’ There is only the absolute truth that comes with the absolute end. My friend has found peace, and is finally at rest, for his great verse that he has added to the cosmic song is finally at an end.

I am coming, don’t wait for me, for I will be along shortly, my friend, my brother……

Shakespearian Tragedy (October 2005)

The hardest day of my life.

I was standing still next to a small set of bleachers with my hands behind my back, watching a crowd of people, in the cool clear Colorado morning, approach in anguish, stone slabs that are engraved with simple names.

Through the crowd, a grief stricken mother doing everything in her power to maintain her composure just until she can be alone again, pushed her small daughter forward. The little girl slightly confused about what is going on, having just a limited understanding of the of the elaborate ceremony and its importance, yet even in the small child’s eyes there is the glimmer of understanding that this is solemn occasion. She is basking in the glow of the attention given by all that see her, for they see the star in the greatest tragedy they know. Playing with the golden curls of hair that her mother had spent hours working on in the morning, she smiles and wonders why every one else is smiling with just their mouths and not their eyes. With her mother’s hand on her back and a yellow rose in her right hand she breaks free of the crowd and stares at a rock slab jutting out the grass, she knows this is not natural and that someone must have placed it there. Then seeing the names on the polished stone she attempts to read what is written, however the sounds do not make sense and the abbreviations that are laid out in front of the confusing sounds are unreadable at best. In a confused look back at her mother, who is remaining strong and impassive, she is told to lay the rose at the base of the stone. When she turns back to the slab and bends over to put the rose down as only a child can do, by bending the knees, squatting and looking up all at once, she notices one word that she can read. Her name. Right there with all the other confusing words close to the bottom is her name. Then terror comes across her face as the rising storm of grief washes over her, she knows that it is not her name but the name of her Dad that someone has etched into the slab of rock before her. Breaking the rose, she spins back to her mother screaming. Even to this child with no more than five years behind her she knows that she is looking at the lasting tribute to her dead father. And the understanding that he is never coming home sinks in for the second time in her young life. With barely shedding a tear and sucking in a deep breath she forces her daughter to complete the task and lay the rose at the base of the stone with everyone else’s.

Standing next to the mother is a smartly dressed Lieutenant. Barely 25 years old and only a child in the eyes of the woman that he is escorting. His tears shed months ago for the loss of his comrade, his Platoon Sergeant, his mentor and friend, and none are coming today because he must be strong for the wife and child of his fallen brother. His composure is solid as he stands there in his uniform. He helps get the mother daughter combination through the crowd, with some anticipation he too wants to see the slab and ensure that his friend’s life is marked on the rock for all to see and know. Being strong and compassionate is easy in uniform, the shiny buttons and tabs and badges give you a false sense of security and an added strength. It is not until he watched the little girls face light up with final understanding of what the meaning and reason of this whole elaborate game she had been playing all day was. At the moment the girl spun he could see the look in her eyes and it brought him to his knee and unleashed emotions that had been buried for over ten months.

I stood no more than ten feet away from this Shakespearean tragedy, watching the final tribute of a family that I did not know except from stories and smiles, and the tinny pictures that my friend loved to show to all of us that were so new to life and love. I watched as my friend had to endure the pain of escorting the family to the monument, as well as watch the crowd of people grief stricken and sad. All I felt was complete sorrow toped with a not so health proportion of anger. The contemplation of the sacrifice made by men for other men, is too much for anyone to truly appreciate until they have seen it in person. That man whose name is forever etched as a hero in the a marble slab on the west entrance to Fort Carson Colorado, would probably tell you he would do it all over again knowing the outcome.

“Greater love hath no man that this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13