Recon Forever

The first impression I think back to was basic training when a 5-ton truck backed up to us and a Drill Sergeant told everyone to unload a heap of supplies.  While most of us hesitated to do it in an organized fashion, Brett Glaze grabbed as much as he could and slung metal shards over his shoulder to carry it off.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said the Drill.

He made us all feel like little bitches in that moment.  So, we naturally tried to make up for our weakness by emulating his actions, but the deed was done.  Glaze didn’t always win, but he was always the Connor McGregor we all pulled for.  When he lost, we lost.  When he won, we, his family, won.  Glaze never left his people in the dust.  He always spoke of his hometown friends in the highest regard.  Earning loyalty went a long way and his conviction in his actions mimicked the most fearless ever born.

“Damn Vance!  I didn’t like you for some reason, but you’re fucking cool, hahahaha!” followed by more shots and Loaded Coronas.

That made my day after being assigned to the Pacific Northwest along with 45 scouts from our basic training class sent to the first ever Stryker Brigade Combat Team returning from their inaugural deployment of innovation and bloodshed.  Before deploying ourselves, we went out every night, living paycheck to paycheck, drinking until we were assigned to a particular troop… and then kept living paycheck to paycheck.

A wild child and all about his country… and also Texas.  We talked so much shit about Texas vs Virginia.  If he was ever caught up in the verbiage, he’d smirk at me, give a quick, high-pitched chuckle and finish with a deep, “Motherfuckin’ Vance man!”  I can’t stop hearing that and smiling.  It was a constant spar that we both adored about each other.  He’d sing a song from “Punisher” while Lyons played guitar and Blue challenged him to more NCAA Football while comparing a fake tooth to a gold tooth.

“Vance! Vance! Vance!” He bellowed.

“Yeah, yeah, man, I’m good."

“Bro, there’s blood everywhere!”

We hit a tree in a Durango.  After limping to the barracks, we hobbled to the “Big Boy” monkey bars in the light mist during the middle of the night to regroup and laugh off the close call with Yancey.  Uncle Sam pulled us in different directions from there, but our eyes still lit up when we saw each other randomly in Iraq or back in the states.  He did stuff, I did stuff.  We never spoke about it, because we did what we signed up for and that was the end of it.  We lived through the fire and we were blessed to survive.  Then we moved on to the next chapter.

I support all my pals doing the “22 a Day” push-ups, because pals.  It’s not reality for us though.  It’s not a popular opinion.  Like OB and I talked about when we spoke of Glaze’s passing today, we don’t accept that he did it on purpose.  He loved his son, he loved life, he loved his homies.  After so many of our brothers have passed in the states, we grow tired of hearing “he was a veteran, so that’s why he did it.” 

No.

We are a very different breed.  We love our country.  We found ourselves during combat.  We miss that adrenaline.  We may never know the exact reason why he did the deed, but we do refuse to accept the stereotype.  Maybe my man had the conviction of feeling like he’d never have that feeling again that made us all feel so alive, free and above ourselves.  Maybe it was something else.  We’ll never know.  We just feel more detached in missing Glaze.  He’s an all-time great, a legend in the scout community.  I look forward to telling his son how his father was a fighter, a proud Texan, a proud American and how he would have proudly laid his life down for his brethren in Bronco Troop.  A lot of men talk of sacrifice… but we all know there’s only one Brett Glaze. 

 

Your laugh, your love of life and your dedication to your service to the United States of America… I’ll drink to that this ‘Merica Day Weekend brother.

 

Recon Forever!

Peaches!

He was loyal, but not just the kind of loyal that would jump into fire to save you.  He would jump into fire to burn WITH you, just so you knew you weren’t alone.  That’s rare and hard to find.

Since Nolan’s passing, I’ve seen my brothers come out of the woodwork in a positive way.  We’re all tired of losing each other, asking “how many more.”  I beg, “what are WE going to do about it.”

There was Hall, who Nolan looked up to, who died.  It was Enger, who dubbed the nickname “Peaches,” since Nolan was from Georgia, who also died.  Chappy and Golden gone too.  I’m a movie fanatic, so I immediately go to “Hostiles” where a cavalryman is talking to Christian Bale in the cold rain after an assailant runs off and the cavalryman states before he declares he’ll catch the S.O.B., “I don’t feel anything anymore.”  He’s found alongside the dead assailant he killed with a self-inflicted gun shot wound to the head… in the cold rain.

We can get into the possible reasons why.  Was it war?  Survivors guilt?  PTS?  Or was it being a product of your environment where each one made their own decision.  The only constant answer is that we’ll never know the answer.  Still, we want this emotional ride that’s teasing legions of war fighters to become not a numbing experience, but somehow a positive one.

We spoke not long ago.  There were ups and downs, but he was happy.  Always bragging on his woman, new job and the fight to get his daughter back.  We chatted about local lawyers and TV personalities that would clear his name while he wrote his story.  He wasn’t a perfect man, but he was one hell of a soldier and friend.  He was the only one, after so many years and empty promises by others, that showed up at the end of a 2,185-mile hike just to share a pint and go our separate ways.  He was on probation when Hall passed.  He still made it across state lines to say goodbye and make sure Hall was taken care of properly.  Phillips stood in multiple fires to be with us in our filth.  Smiling and calm to bring us peace during tough times.  So… it is our duty to take him at his word and stand beside him.

The day started with last minute preparations from a hotel room.  We’d driven to Georgia from Indiana, Louisiana and Virginia.  We coordinated with a deacon of sorts, funeral director, honor guard, VFW and his loved ones on no sleep as well as updating our families back home, sipped coffee and exchanged cigars.  We had one mission: bring peace to all in order for a proper farewell.  Due to COVID-19, we had to make multiple stops to find a place to simply smirk at one another while very briefly catching up.  We settled on Antoinette’s Café a few minutes from Flanigan’s Funeral Home.  We met Courtney’s wife as Grant joked him on his music selection while working out still being as eclectic now as it was 10 years ago.  These men were my soldiers at one point, like Nolan was, like Hall was, like Enger was, like Golden was... as well as a basic training brother.  I could not have been prouder in hearing them converse.  Nothing to my credit… it was just great to be a sheep to my own men.  I’m a follower at heart.  That’s something most fighters see as beneath them, but I remember following my packs of friends growing up, because I loved listening to them banter, something I’ve never been good at.  I led in the military because it was needed, not because I wanted it or was any good at it.  It was my time and my duty.  And to relinquish it to such accomplished men, was an honor.

At Flanigan’s, we met his family and friends.  Some were warm and some irked me.  Comments like, “I wish he would have reached out,” were followed by thoughts of, “that’s a two-way fucking street you piece of shit,” but I just nodded with a smile to keep the peace.

“You’ve got that look on your face,” Courtney said to me after they read the room and left us be. 

Grant and Courtney then reminded me of a morning where Nolan showed up late and not in our typical workout gear, not giving two shits about it.  I started laughing in the funeral parlor uncontrollably to the point of tears of joy.  Locals probably thought I was mourning… but I was in the middle of a joyous memory of our brother.

As the caravan led us to the Church for Nolan’s final resting place, I’d never seen a community that size respect a funeral procession the way it did for him.  Everyone pulled over.  EVERYONE.  It was an easy 20-minute ride.  The police protected us at every intersection with precision.  The church seemed to have extra police, but it wasn’t from our escort.  It was because there was a car accident.  That’s where we met Al. 

He was a Vietnam Veteran with a Purple Heart and Grant had planned everything with him.  Al was in the accident just outside the church where an entire engine block played footsy with the pedals.  The bridge of his nose was bloodied and his left hand was bandaged.  He was grinning ear to ear as we identified each other.  Al passed along a bag of promised flags.  No matter how much pain his 80-year-old bones were in, he was only satisfied to have accomplished the mission of honoring Nolan.  What an OG and what an honor it was to see such loyalty across generations and military branches to make sure a warrior was laid to rest properly… at all costs.

In death, we are to watch over his most beloved.  Fiancée, friends, family.  Above all, her.  When I presented the flag to his daughter, all I saw was him.  Her pink, fly Chuck T’s and chunky cheeks.  At that moment, I choked.  I’d done this before for Hall’s son flawlessly.  But as a father of two daughters, when I looked at her and saw him, I forgot where I was and what I was supposed to do.  I forgot to salute.  I just said things that will always be between the two of us and those within ear shot.  And then I just left her as the 21-gun salute rang crisp and perfectly in the thick summer air followed by Taps.  She’s just an innocent kid… with no biological parent, but a whole lot of uncles that would wipe out bloodlines to keep her safe… because he would do the same.

When your bones tell you the fight is over, your time as a warfighter is done, but what’s never over is your responsibility to your brother’s kin.  No one asks for it.  Nobody expects it.  You’re never actually able to be there around the clock.  But you still keep in touch and keep a keen sense of, “are they where their father would want them to be.”

I joined Grant and Courtney as folks left.  The grounds crew prepared to lower his body as the tent was disassembled.  We gave our final salute to his coffin before sharing a shot of whiskey and a pint in his honor with his fiancée and her mother.  We didn’t want to see our brother like that.  We miss him.  Memories of his tales brought tears of uncontrollable laughter and joy.  We’ll hold onto that and we hope his daughter comes looking for answers one day.  We’ll be here to share those stories with her… and they’ll fill the night with bellows of laugher!

FREEDOM SLAP

       Angel and I made the final turn and saw 2 columns of American flags that led us to the finish.  A wounded Boston Marathon bombing survivor with a white-ish cowboy hat and red sweatshirt that had the name “Carlos” embroidered on it was greeting everyone with a brilliant smile.  Complete strangers continued to cheer us on just like they had been doing all day for other complete strangers.  We turned around to walk backwards across the finish as I made a “thumbs up” signal with both hands and used my thumbs to point to my back side, frantically pumping my arms.  Ribbons with the names of fallen heroes were on our packs, or rucks.  That day was for the fallen and those in need so we thought it was most appropriate for all the media photographers to snap pictures of our ribbons instead of two participants.

            As we grabbed a beer and sat down to rest to take the moment in, I did what I do best… I people watched.  I saw a woman on her knees.  She was looking at the ribbons on the back of her pack, which was laying on the ground in front of her.  She had a solemn look on her face, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and appeared to be deep in thought.  She then slumped over the pack and embraced it as if the ribbons were a loved one standing in front of her whom she hadn’t seen in a long, long time.  Tears rolled down her sun-beaten face as she squeezed her pack more.  I had to lower my shades to cover my own eyes.  I realized what those ribbons meant to her.  She lost someone close.  She knew the names on her pack.  I could see that her heart was broken, but certainly not defeated.  It could never be defeated.  She just marched 26.2 miles with weight on her back.  She didn’t do it for attention.  She didn’t do it with ease.  There was pain involved.  When she felt like quitting, she thought of those ribbons.  She rucked because those names couldn’t and she will forever use them to push her forward when life seems to weigh her down.  That way the names on those ribbons, who sacrificed all, will never be forgotten and will forever be used to motivate, to inspire, to push us to do good for our communities... our people… our way of life.

           

            Now flash back to the beginning.  The starting line was a buzz as the sun came up.  Our team leader, a Marine from 2-8 named Dave Pierce, was passing out t-shirts and hoodies with “Team Wounded Walk” on them. We all had different weight to carry in our packs.  Dave carried the most, 61 lbs, because he is what I like to call, a man.  I was duct taping the known hotspots on my feet while Angel was securing the Army flag Dave gave him on his ruck sack.  There were 600 people moving around.  Some nervous, some scared, some excited and then there were types like us.  We were calm and friendly in welcoming each other.  We knew the day was going to bring some pain and of course we joked about it, but we didn’t care.  We just wanted to have the honor of carrying the ribbons for the world to see what people have sacrificed for the growth and protection of their communities and their country.  There was a moment of silence, a beautifully sang National Anthem and a proper send off from organizers.  We began the course which kept us between Concord and Lexington, Massachusetts… the very grounds where the Revolution was sparked by the “shot heard ‘round the world.”

            Immediately from the start we crossed over a bridge with Minute Men reenactors standing at attention with their muskets held in front of them as we passed between.  A Minute Man monument looked down at us and it looked like a local JROTC high school group was high crawling through some muck on a hill.  I have no idea why except maybe to participate in the event in another manner since it was sold out.  We made our way into the quaint town of Concord, enjoyed the buildings and chatted up police officers stopping traffic for us.

“They can wait all damn day for you guys!” one officer bellowed.

            That put a smile on our faces as we thanked him and shook his hand.  There were a lot of officers along the way… protecting us.  After a mile and a half, we ventured off road to the grated trail, Battle Road.  It was the trail Paul Revere rode and was captured.  We saw many monuments.  There were stones with British flags spiked in the ground beside them and the stones themselves were engraved with words stating that British troops were buried nearby… because ‘MERICA.  We passed structures where people watched the British march to confront colonials in April, 1775.  The further into Minute Man National Park we went, the more people we saw on both sides of the trail supporting us with cheers, food, fluids, high fives, “thank you’s!” and more smiles. 

            As time went on we saw an increasing number of red coats!  Then we saw colonials loading canons!  Apparently there was a reenactment that day and we would be moving right in the middle of it.  I laughed as the canons boomed.  I thought, “I wonder if a bunch of colonials just got attacked by modern day war veterans that don’t react well to explosions.”  No worries though as peace was kept between the 18^th century bad-asses and the modern day bad-asses.  Angel would turn down the Bluetooth speaker of his that I packed when passing reenactments, because we agreed hearing Wu-Tang Clan or Three Days Grace would have been traumatic for people with an 18^th century mindset.

            We randomly passed members of our team and we encouraged each other.  The sky was clear and an occasional breeze was welcomed.  The American flag Dave gave me the honor of carrying got caught up in quite a few trees, but she held strong as always.  We stopped at port-o-potties and cursed ourselves for not bringing wet-wipes in times of need.  Holy chaffing.  We taped toenails that were in danger of falling off.  We made sure everyone was doing ok that looked like they needed a hand.

            Boy scouts and girl scouts came out to see us.  Old folks would give a stoic head nod.  Families came out just to hand us random things, like those red, white and blue popsicles. 

“I don’t care what it looks like, it’s cold and I’m taking it,” Angel said.

“Hell yeah, it’s a freedom ‘sicle!” I laughed back.

            A little while later…

“I can’t eat this,” as he tossed the rest in a volunteer’s trash bag.

“Who’s passing out popsicles?” the woman asked.

“They’re freedom ‘sicles!” I hollered as we kept moving. “I don’t think she appreciated my joke,” I quietly said to Angel as he laughed at me.

            Time seemed to slow down and miles seemed to get longer.  We made a goal to finish in under 9 hours as we approached a spot we had planned to take a rest at after skipping the last resting point.  We were uncertain when the clock officially started and we had a worst case scenario time where we had to keep going in order to complete the mission.  We agreed to “charlie mike” and laugh the rest of the way to keep our minds straight.

“Remember when that person walked by with the American flag and it hit you right in the head?” I asked Angel.

“Yeah?”

“Freedom slap!”

            Laughing got us through the last part of the course on the hard ball surface.  Then we saw Dave, who carried more weight than anyone and finished over an hour before us, walking the trail backwards to check on the rest of his team.  Damnit Dave, you’re our team’s hero today!  We crossed the same bridge with the Minute Man statue as Dave kept going back for our team mates.  I people watched and enjoyed great company at the finish.  A man I went to basic with and deployed twice with, Patrick O’Brien, drove over an hour to meet me.  We drove to an Irish pub, Waxy O’Connor’s.  On the way, the last thing I saw was Dave, taking a pack from one of hour team mates and he carried it for her as they finished together.  I was proud to be a part of this team with these exact people.  O’Brien bought Angel and I a shot of Jameson as we caught up on the past 6 years we hadn’t seen each other.  I hadn’t seen Angel in about 10 years.  We all picked up conversation like we’d been together the whole time.

            Before missions overseas, where you had to reject the fear of death in order to protect your men, I would jokingly shout, “It’s good day to die!” and men would rally behind each other.  Now I look around at how lucky I am to be here when so many others aren’t.  Now I say, “It’s a great day to be alive.”  Every day I do.  Now I must live. I must live to honor every name on those ribbons.  Some people look at all the ribbons and talk about sadness.  If you knew those names, then you very well are sad at times.  Marine General, George Flynn, told me after I lost someone close at a young age that, “It’s like a hole in your heart that can never be filled.”  He’s right, but I choose to look at the names on those ribbons a little differently.  I see pride in my generation and we’re not done yet.  I hope the next generation will be so brave.  Our generation has been dealt a great deal and so many were willing to give it all for the rest of us.  The entire day of the Tough Ruck for Team Wounded Walk and my thoughts surrounding that day… it just doesn’t get more ‘MERICA than that.  Charlie Mike!

The Funny Side of War... For the Sick and Demented

Thanks for all your support on the blog and I now present you with the book! It's currently on amazon and soon it will be available on kindle. I'll keep you posted on that. If the link below doesn't work you can go straight to amazon and search for the title, "The Funny Side of War." I hope you all have a laugh! Many, many thanks ~ Mat


http://www.amazon.com/Funny-Side-War-Sick-Demented/dp/1478755709/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434357622&sr=8-1&keywords=the+funny+side+of+war&pebp=1434357642100&perid=5D9F8DE6B67C4D489DA1

Evil Ginger Beard

New excerpts from the latest adventure in life! Cheers!

http://evilgingerbeard.blogspot.com

The Nextest Move

Folks!

As the goofball military stories you're used to on this blog sloooooowly move towards publication in the form of "The Funny Side of War: For the Sick and Demented," I am transitioning from funny war stories to funny stories from my latest adventure in life... completing the entire Appalachian Trail in 3 months 18 days in a southbound direction in the name of charity. If you're unfamiliar, it's a footpath from Maine to Georgia spanning 2,186 miles. I just completed the journey and have much to laugh about with YOU!!!  I will begin writing in mid-December and posting excerpts before the new year.

Lets have fun with this and start spreading the word so as many people as possible can take a break from work and laugh at my.... goofball actions? Stupidity? Humiliation? All of the above?

Along the way I will keep you updated on the progress of "The Funny Side," post excerpts on the new book, "Tails from the Trail" and answer any questions you all may have about the A.T. As before, all stories will be completely factual... and embarrassing.

Lets have a good damn time!
Mat Vance
"Charlie Mike!!!!"

Operation Charlie Mike

http://www.operationcharliemike.com

It hath begun!!! (Well on Monday it does) If you know anyone affected by war or cancer and want to get involved to help them out, track me and challenge me online!!!!

Welcome Mat

“Put that away,” ordered the C-130 crewman as I exited the plane at a Baghdad runway.

“Oh it’s not even turned on,” I lied about the camera being used to document my war adventures.

“OK, cool.”

Dumbass.

We walked off the long runway and set our gear down at a smaller tarmac to await the “shithooks,” or Chinooks to take us to FOB Falcon off route Irish, or Jackson.  It was 115 degrees in the sun, which was nice compared to the 125 in Kuwait.  Still sweaty with some stank though.  As we sat on top of our gear baking in the sun, a VBIED (Vehicle Born IED), or car bomb, blew up at one of the entrances to the airport.

“Congratulations, ya’ll just earned a combat action badge,” Bendel muttered.

            We all laughed, knowing the award had lost its bravado and some POG’s literally would have tried to claim one on the that explosion about a mile away.  Sirens went off as ambulances raced to the scene.

“Oh look, there goes the secondary bombs,” joked another NCO.

            We laughed again, only this time after a short chuckle I realized I wasn’t yet numb to the danger around me like the veterans were.  I still wondered how to tactically avoid a fucking car bomb, much less a secondary or even a tertiary.  A silence blanketed us once again as this realization sunk in for everyone.

            The shithooks came in as night fell and we all ran up the ramp piling on top of each other.  I was the last man on and sat next to the ramp with the gunner who was sporting a 240B machine gun.  All the lights on the bird were out as the pilots used NODS to see and up we went over Baghdad.  I was in awe and enjoying the view.  Then shit got real.

            The ramp never went all the way up so the gunner could shoot to protect the bird.  Imagine a 15ft x 10ft open space with wind swirling all around and that’s what was only a few feet away from me as I noticed the gunner holding his headset and screaming into his mic to communicate with the pilots about something.  All of a sudden I saw tracer rounds coming from the city only a few hundred feet below and the shithook released flares, which were quite a surprise to the fresh faced guy sitting next to the gunner.  Not sure if they were counter measures or if the gunner needed to see below, but they made me jump real high in the seat.

            The gunner took aim at something, but never fired as the bird went ass down and I was staring very vertically at the city.  I used a kung fu ninja grip on the cargo netting to keep from falling.  I guess it was a defensive maneuver.  I kept eyes on the gunner incase he fell out of the bird as I was going to take the gun next.  Thankfully he was attached to a safety cord at his waist to hold him in.  The shithook leveled out after gaining some altitude then took us for a nosedive just minutes later.

“Really wish I knew what the fuck was going on outside this deathtrap!” I yelled to the man next to me, who of course couldn’t hear a damn thing.

            The nosedive took us right into Falcon.  We were told to run off the birds and get to cover.  So what did we do?  We ran right past concrete bunkers and into tents.  Tents.  I say again, tents.  You know what those tents had for protection?  Cots.  We bunked up with some of our guys from White platoon that arrived a little earlier to get the Strykers ready for combat.

“Well, how was your day?” I asked Golden.

“We were working on the trucks and started taking small arms fire from I don’t know where,” he replied.

“Everyone OK?”
“Yeah, we just dove behind some tires ‘til it ended and went back to work.”

            I didn’t even have a map of the AO and we were already getting attacked in southern Baghdad.  I found a cot, shoved my gear underneath and shut my eyes.  About ten minutes later I heard a strange whistling noise.  I opened my eyes in the dark tent and frowned at the ceiling.  Then an explosion close by.  I sat up and looked around as more whistles came.  A mortar attack, or indirect fire, had commenced from the city across the street.  Boom, Boom, BOOM, BOOM as dirt and debris rained over the tent.  I looked around the tent as all eyes were open, but nobody was running.

“Should we be moving to a bunker?” I asked.

“Hahahaha!” went the veterans.

“What?”

“Welcome to Iraq,” our platoon sergeant, Pons, confidently replied.

            The next night we were scheduled to roll out into sector with the unit that had been there for the past year.  They had a different demeanor than we did and I only assumed it was because they had been in combat so long.  Soon I would find out it was quite the opposite.

“Vance, you’ll be on the ground with me once we get into the city,” Shmiddie said.

“Roger,” I returned with a smile.  Scouts love exploring on foot.

            We loaded up into the Strykers and followed the little hmmwv’s into Abu Disheer.  I was on the inside of the Stryker peeking thru one of the hatches above.  Dust clouds poured in as I caught glimpses of the tops of buildings and palm trees lit up by a few remaining streetlights.  I felt the vehicle stop.

“Driver, drop the ramp. Vance! You’re up! Possible IR laser in front of us to detonate an IED! Dismount and check it out!” Shmiddie yelled from above.

“Roger!” I yelled all fired up for action.

Wait… IR? As in infrared? The streetlights blurred out my NODs so all I could use was the naked eye and the naked eye can’t see infrared.  Can we talk about this?  Fuck it.  By the time I finished that thought process I was jumping off the ramp to “save the day.”  I was such an idiot.

“Vance, don’t go too far away from me,” Shmiddie whimpered.

“Sergeant, if you step on something that goes ‘boom’ I don’t want to be anywhere near you,” I recommended.

“That’s fucked up.”

“You want to be near me when I trip this IR shit?”

“Good point.”

            Now as we’re checking out the road ahead I notice my view from the inside of the Stryker with “palm trees” was skewed.  Trash.  That’s all I saw and smelled when I jumped off the truck.  Some piles were on fire and the smell was awful.  Animal carcasses were mixed in and it stained everything we wore.  It probably wasn’t too healthy to inhale either.  That being said, I couldn’t wait to light up a Newport.  There were no lights on in any of the buildings and guess what surrounded those buildings… trash. 

Veterans back at Fort Lewis told us that anything could be used as an IED, so don’t go around touching things that you don’t need to.  Well, what else do I see when we’re walking down the street?  A veteran, Woodrow, walk over and kick the living shit out of a styrofoam box the size of a 32 inch tube TV.  A space an IED could easily fit into and was actually used often.  It was no love tap either.  Woodrow’s foot, attached to his 6’5” frame, went above his head as he followed thru as perfectly as a field goal kicker.

            We cleared the street and loaded back up.  As we’re riding along I eaves drop on the conversation between Shmiddie and his counterpart from the other unit.  Shmiddie gets info on all the routes and then asks about contact.

“Our first week here we lost two chaplains and seven men so we made a deal with J.A.M. (Jaysh al-Mahdi Militia) to leave us alone as long as we left them alone,” the NCO said.

            Shmiddie just looked at him and replied, “Oh.”  An American unit made a deal with the very people that were killing us.  Cowards.  We would turn that part of Baghdad upside down for the next 9 months, but damn we were off to a rough start in the first 48 hours.  We were in a world that made no sense and that fact was the only thing that made sense.  I just thought back to the tent that was to be our “cover” for the first week and there was a comment that summed everything up, which would go on to keep me sane in a very sick and demented way.

“Welcome to Iraq.”

Where ever we showed up, people generally wanted to do this since they knew by our  indian head patch that there was going to be a fight... CRAZYHORSE!!!

The FOBbit: An Expected Journey

“HEY!” I heard a man’s voice yell in the night. I keep walking. “HEY!” Now I’m looking around, as it sounds closer.  I see a tall E-6 with a crisp uniform walking my way, but as I turn to scowl at his tone, he stops. “Man, get yo hands out yo pockets,” he ordered.

Why was his uniform so clean and why did he smell so good?  It was the late fall of 2006 in Baghdad during the height of the Iraq war.  Without immediately responding I look around.  It was a bad day on multiple missions.  It was bitter cold and windy.  My entire body was crusted in sand and sweat with salt stains on my uniform.  All I wanted to do was call home and talk about anything except war, but I couldn’t.  A few men residing at F.O.B. Falcon were killed and all communication was cut until the families were notified.  Now I just wanted to get under some shelter and be left alone.

“EH! YOU HEAR ME?” he screamed again, only his voice cracking this time.

“Are you done?” I asked with my hands still in my pockets.

“Who you talkin’ to?”

“I’m talking to a FOBbit that has no idea what goes on outside those walls and definitely has no idea who he’s talking to, but if you’d like to find out, come on back and meet my platoon getting ready for their third mission today. So… ARE YOU DONE?”

“Yeeee, we done.”

“And no.”

“No?”

I walked off and muttered under my breath to prevent this from getting out of hand “No… I didn’t hear you. My selective hearing doesn’t pick up the whining of a fucking FOBbit.”

            That was a fueler NCO that didn’t get out much.  Back in the states, or “garrison,” we weren’t permitted to put our hands in our pockets even during extreme weather.  I agree it can look unprofessional, but in the middle of a war zone?  Get the fuck out of here!  A FOBbit is someone that is in the military and deploys overseas, but is rarely in any danger as they stay on the FOB.  You’ll hear a lot of FOBbit’s tell war stories and talk about their “PTSD.”  They’re easy to spot.  Just look for someone who’s really proud, but you can’t figure out why.

            Most FOBbits know they aren’t doing anything exciting and keep to themselves.  Other FOBbits just get the short end of the stick.  People in combat arms are randomly selected to work in “The Talk” where someone is needed to work the radios for platoons on missions.  I feel for those guys.  They sign up for combat arms and then they’re stuck answering radios and making coffee.  I’m lucky to have been on the line my entire time deployed.

"Tell me the pleasantries of your hometown."

           I always got a kick out of hearing stories from my guys about their hometowns.  Even Mango’s imaginary friend Gunner Nelson and Lover’s girlfriend stories made me laugh a few times.  Then again, maybe it was just their thick accents talking about it.  If you’re going to make it a long period of time with the same group of people in small quarters, you better understand where they come from or you’re going to end up killing each other.

            Espinal, or Easy E as we called him, was from Queens and when he told me about growing up in his neighborhood I always convulsed with laughter.  If we ever had a bad day we would sit on the ramp of a Stryker between missions, light a cigarette and ask him to tell us about “Crazy Ivan.”  His story goes like this… oh and keep in mind he has a New York City accent while telling this tale… so again, it goes like this…

“Ok, growing up in Queens was a good time with all my crazy Irish friends that corrupted me and taught me how to play street hockey.  Everyday after school we would play street hockey or tag football.  After the games we would hang out on my friend Pat Parsley’s front stoop and chill, get drinks, etcetera.  Well everyday of the week this crazy old junky named Ivan would pass by and harass us and tell us to, ‘Get the fuck out of the way,’ or, ‘Move your fuckin’ hockey equipment you shmucks!’ 

“Wait. Shmucks? People actually use that word?” I interrupted.

“Hell yeah, man. I mean, We called him ‘Crazy Ivan’ for a reason.”

“Touché.”

“So we got fed up with this crazy old bum.  We noticed that on some days he would

walk home with his mom and she would complain about him not having a job.  We used this against him on days he would pass by talking shit and complaining to us.

‘Hey Ivan, go get a fuckin’ job you bum! Quit spending your mom’s money on crack! Crack is wack!’ we’d yell and mind you this guy was in his 40’s.

‘Fuck you, you little shits! I have a job! It’s to fuck your mothers you little spic, mic bastards! ALL OF YA! I have a job! I don’t smoke crack! I smoke your moms pussy!’ Crazy Ivan would reply, spilling his beer out of his 40 oz bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.

Ahhh, the good ole days.”

“Hahahawwww ‘crack is wack?’ Really dude?” I’d ask. “Spic, mic bastards? That’s not even offensive coming from a crack head!”

E’s hometown story never got old.  There’s just something about teasing a crazy bum with a potty mouth that makes my day and it sure cheered the entire platoon up.  From time to time, all E would have to do is yell, “I fawked ya mothers ya shmucks!” and an eruption of laughter followed. 

This is how we looked before missions. That's D.J. with a cig and the paper chillin.