Memoirs written in prose of Sergeant Robertson, Damon M. USMC while in Iraq | ...with frequent appearances of King Hammurabi.
If you are new to this journal, make sure to start reading in chronological order by scrolling down to the bottom of the oldest post in October 2004. Damon's letters from August 20th, 2004 - October 23rd, 2004 were all added to this blog on Oct. 23rd, 2004. All subsequent letters are posted in real time.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Dear Family and Friends: First of all, thank you Sam and Rachael, for your words. Continuing on, When we first arrived here, our First Sergeant told us to write home that everything is fine, that nothing is wrong, that we're bored and not in any real danger at all. HOKAYYY For those of you who know me, I have this problem with concealing the truth. I'm not good at it. What's the point, right? Anyway, what on earth is going to interest you people more, the real story, or something like "In hopeful anticipation of Kerry's election the Iraqi terrorists have decided to pre-empt his "sensitive war" strategy and adopt a tactic of "compassionate terrorism" whereby they only kill us while thinking high-mindedly or at least while not yelling "die infidels" or any such potentially offensive rhetoric." ... The script "Kill the infidels" was written on one of the rockets. One funny thing about Arabic script: I've noticed it's all in the same font. Every doggone example. NO variation whatsoever. These people are in desperate need of Macintosh. (Sam, see what you can do) [Sam works at the Apple Store in SF, for those of you who hate not understanding my vague references and people who put inside jokes on their license plates] ... Alright. So where was I? Here's the deal, and I mean this sincerely. If any of you, for any reason, want to have your emails removed from my irregular updates, just let me know and I'll take you off the list, no questions asked. If you're wondering why i'm bothering to say this, the question was raised as to whether or not it is appropriate for me to mention rocket attacks and other such perils to my mother, who is of course on this list. My mother is the sort of woman who would rather know the truth than have to speculate or sift through vague (if not completely false) reports of our continued "health and well-being." ... Our first sergeant. dear GOD There are people in this world who think that they aren't leading you unless they constantly critique something about you; also, they aren't leading unless they're constantly devising new things for you to do or so hopelessly changing the old systems (which work *fine*, thank you very much) such that nothing works like it used to. Of course, 1s will come back and change the same thing two days later, or just get so hard-buttocked about the same issue you'd swear he's going to blow a vein in his neck. [remember this is the same dupe who thinks HE can make OUR lives miserable. I mean, what's he really going to do? Send me to Iraq? Make me eat in the chow hall where trained terrorist sleepers are indeed watching our every move? Oh, wait, maybe he'd make me operate gear that's so run-down by the unit that passed it off to us that we don't know whether or not the "O" ring is going to blow on the leaky tire the next time we try to fill it up... in case you don't know, that's fatal, very, very, very fatal.] Neverspeaks opens his mouth again: "I'm sorry 1s, what were you saying? I was concentrating on your neck... your about to blow a line..." But intelligible speech is beyond 1s at the moment. He is become Butt-Hurt (a barbaric name in the two-syllable tradition of "He Man"), the destroyer of moralle. His neck bursts. We are Shocked, yet somehow not quite Awed, to see hydraulic fluid spewing out of his veins. "Oh, holy mother ... 1s, hold on," I say, dismayed greatly in my heart as the light weight oil spews all over my clean set of cammies. "Let me go to one of the forklifts and get you one of the hydraulic tubes there... I guess we can operate with one set of forks down..." but i am lying. we can't. I retrieve the tube regardless and patch up his neck, but the problem persists. You see, all the hoses on our gear leak already anyway. Oh well. You can't blame a corporal for trying. ... Later that same day, 1s/Butt-Hurt drops by our little hooch on the flight line. He has this standing order that we are *never* to be cought wearing anything less than our full cammies (even when it's 115 degrees out here on the tarmac). Old Man Tate is inside the hooch. He has removed his blouse for the purpose of tucking in his shirt. When we work all day, and hard, sometimes shirts come untucked. We all know it's easier to remove the blouse, tuck in the shirt, and re-don the blouse rather than tuck the shirt in w/out the removal. Yes. Butt-Hurt walks in the door just as Old Man Tate is reaching for his blouse: A NEW PROCLAMATION ISSUETH FORTH: "The Next time I catch one of you MFers without his blouse on, you'll be wearing your flack jackets and kevlars ALL DAY at the flight line." ... Later, not having been present as the royal word was passed, I am informed of the newest threat on the matrix. "Big deal," I drawl out sarcastically. "I operate gear all day with my helmet and vest on anyway. Yeah. Don't throw Brare Rabbit in the briar patch. Dear God. No...." ... And as I sat down to journal last night I couldn't help but think of how fun it would be to soak up two pages of ink by lampooning 1s/BH and Toothless... they're really the same man, it's just that Toothless is illiterate and 1s/BH can read, he just doesn't read anything other than UCMJ Articles and Regulations. But what's the point? It's not like I need to convince myself that they're idiots. It's also not too well-concealed a fact that they aren't so much idiots as they are legalists and the way that just comes accross to us is they don't seem to be able to adapt and apply anything they learn... I get to thinking (danger, danger) and I wonder briefly whether or not these men have any grace and mercy saved up in their own hearts even for themselves. Probably not. I look at Toothless, who is two promotions below 1s. If I had to sum up what this man's problems are, it's a lack of applied education, and beyond that, an accute sense of self-awareness such that he understands, whether consciously or otherwise, that he actually doesn't have his poop wired tight, that he actually doesn't really know how to do his job, and that, ultimately, he may very well have been promoted past his ability to effectively funtion as a Marine. He's not going to hell for that. I'm not condemning him. I'm saying he needs to get help. I understand how horrible it is to go home at night and wonder whether or not I really have what it takes to do what I need to do. Nevermind he might not even wonder... he could just be convinced that he has no real control of the situations that confront us every day. What's he do? The human thing. He clamps down harder on all the things he thinks he can control. Us. The rules. The way we do things. [this is the man, the very man, who lectures us NCO's on how we're supposedly disrespecting our Commanding Officer, a man we greatly respect in fact, and then proceeds to fall to sleep while Major P. is giving his informative and concise talk. This is the man (verily, the man I didst behold) who used to get up in front of us and talk about how savage and hard our "convoy duties" would be over here and how we needed to rise up to the occasion and accept leadership from the senior staff (himself included) because they were all busting their butts to make sure we come home alive. Laugh now. Okay. Toothless was the first one to jettison the "hard talk" as soon as we got in country. Now he labors with the "soft walk" portion of his command. He will never get anywhere near a convoy, muttering all the while that it is his "mission" to work the flightline.] 1s is the same way. No small wonder Toothless is the way he is. Who does he really have to learn from? He gets all his stress from 1s, all his ideas, tasks, etc. ... All of these things occur to me in a few minutes last night as I'm in my bed. I realize even then that I spend way more time raising my eyebrows at these guys than I do thinking about what's really the problem. The way they treat themselves, and to a lesser extent, how they treat eachother. So instead of record the vitriol I did above in my journal (reproduced here for your entertainment) I took some time to pray. "Father, fill their hearts with mercy and grace for themselves." It's hard to be a jerk. I know. You're always the worst to yourself. take care of eachother. I love your hearts. :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:34 PM 