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: That's it. I've had it with these junior Marines. I have explicitly told them the terms of my leadership: "behave with dignity and I'll treat you in a dignified manner." They don't. One of my lance corporals sleeps a lot during the downtime we have at the airfield. This isn't much of a problem: we only get 5-6 hours of sleep a night and even then we still stand watch for 1-2 hours therein, so I expect people to be tired. I'm tired. I sleep WHEN IT'S APPROPRIATE TO DO SO. When I hear a C130 come blasting down the ramp, I get off my groggy butt and operate machinery (safety first, anyone?). I don't even remember what I said last time I got done operating and came back to find him still in the same position. Another corporal made a smart-alleck comment about him sleeping. He said "F* you, I didn't sleep well last night." ? ?! Early shift groggyness aside, the camel's back is now broken. I swear I don't understand what they teach these kids at boot camp anymore. *** One thing I see a periodically on the flight line is "angels," aka "KIA's" We take them off the planes/helos in a very ceremonial manner. Respect for the dead. But we (I mean all of us if I can be so bold to make this generalization) wonder about this... they come in ones, twos, nothing so overwhelming. We don't know who they are, where they're going (ostensibly back the U.S.). They arrive in black body bags and leave in flag draped coffins. Some of you are going to be disturbed by this stuff. All engines are shut down on the flight line, planes, equipment or otherwise, and everyone within eyesight stands at attention until the angel has passed. We render salute. The angel departs. "if the army and the navy ever looked on heaven's scenes, they would find the streets are guarded by United States Marines." That's the last line of our hymn. For a bunch of men who go around calling themselves "devil dogs" (from the German Teufelhunden) it strikes me as a bit awkward the name "angels." These guys prefer to call their "battle buddies" by the name "guardian demon" instead of angel... whatever. But when *** rockets hit near me yesterday, I couldn't help but start thinking about a whole bunch of stuff. The tricky thing with indirect fire is you can't really do anything about it. The rocket/mortar will land where it's going to and the attacks are over almost the same instant you hear the sound of the projectiles launching. You have enough time to hit the deck whispering "jesus please save me" and hold on to your junk and ... afterwards you lay there a bit stupid, wondering if it's okay to get up or if there are more coming. Afterwards, and having nothing to do with the rockets, an angel passed by us on our flight line. I wanted to cry. It's frustrating not being able to fire back. Nevermind I'm going to wear this doggone flack jacket everywhere I go, maybe the helmet too. But when it all comes down to it, there isn't really a point in doing so. I assure you. The rocket will hit where it will. It will be lethal if it hits close enough. No body armor or cover on this earth will save a human life in that moment. I secretly refer to this haphazard lethality as the "death lotto." You're the first people to hear me refer to it as such. I only say this because from our human and innately flawed perspective, this crap really does seem random as to "who goes and who stays." We (all of us here) have heard the story (which may be complete bunk) about a man who was one day away from shipping home, talking to his wife on the phone, and was killed that very instant by mortar fire (none of this occurred at my duty station). We all secretly hope that when our replacements arrive, that means we'll be safe. "I'm off duty" we tell ourselves and somehow our guard relaxes a little bit. How much more when it's finally time to ship home? Who wouldn't call their spouse? Have a good giggly conversation about "what are you wearing tonight" or something.... why not? You're alive, right? But the next minute that's changed. No safety in thinking your work is done, is there? The mortar begs to differ. The bottom line is, the 747 could wreck itself on its way home. Or maybe Mr. X could exit his plane and meet his girl and get whacked by the bus as he steps out of ther airport terminal. I think Isaiah has something to say. "I delight in my inheritance." To which Job would add "only the Lord numbers the days of men," and King Solomon would nudge me with his elbow and whisper "these questions-- they mean nothing, you know" as his father, King David, sang "I am confident that I will see the promises of God while I am yet in the land of the living... surely goodness and mercy will follow me all of my days, and afterward... I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." I stood at attention on the flightline and wanted to cry (that is where I left off, right?). I heard the Lord whisper "The second death cannot harm you... why are you afraid?" I don't know. I really don't. love you all :D
# posted by chevas @ 7:32 PM 