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.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: Yes, I am fine. For those of you who took my silence as a possible sign that something was up or wrong, please know that even *I* get tired of hearing myself talk sometimes and the boredom of semi-daily rocket dodging and forklift operation becomes too much to put to words. I have received several packages over the last week: THANK YOU ALL very much! I decided to do something exquisitely strange and save them under the corner of my bunk bed, as though they were indeed christmas presents. This way I can re-create the torture of having to wait and see what people sent me. Some day soon my willpower will break and I will open them all in one moment of weakness, rest assured! ... The funniest thing about our rocket/mortar tossing neighbors: they're fair-weather operatives. If it's cloudy, cold, or heaven forbid, drizzling the little bit, you can be sure there's nothing inbound on your position. I guess even Hadji conviction runs only so deep. I hear the same is true out in Husayboah (do I ever spell that right?), pronounced "You-say-bo." That's the Mos-Eisely of Iraq, apparently, where all the Syrian/Bathist scum make their sleazy way accross the border to rape and execute their political opponents and plant IED's. Recently they got ambitious in that little town: they replaced a street corner sidewalk, the whole pavement and everything, laying a new corner down with about FIVE 120mm shells underneath. I guess when that ho went off it actually lifted an Abrams tank up on its side. The Abrams weighs about 71 tons and has a wide track base. Interesting work these guys are doing. They must have clubs where they talk this stuff over while enjoying a hookah. [i have no idea whether the tank crew was wounded/killed or not. Real intel like that doesn't get passed around, and for good reason. Lord knows we don't want to encourage the insurgents/parking lot layers to get any bigger ideas...] ... Again, thank you for your prayers. Every one of them counts over here. :D
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Saturday, December 18, 2004
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: This message may take more than one sitting to finish. I'll try to make my point and in so doing probably rob this moment of the depth it deserves. Oh well. Could be worse. Somone could come and steal my coffee horde. Right after they shoot my dog. Nah. They wouldn't do that! ... Seriously, now. ... The Promise. There are things I hope in so sincerely that I practically believe they're part of my 'some day' destiny. These are things that are so good that they couldn't possibly be false, such that the very mention of them invigorates and inspires me to Seek Them Out. In our dreams, when Christ whispers *his* dreams to our hearts: "the somehow future me with the somehow miraculous heart I would need to be the one *he's* always dreamed I would be." People listen to me talk about the military and they arch an eyebrow, scoff once or twice and ask, with the appropriate level of incredulity, "What *were* you thinking when you signed up and swore that oath?" That's because they hear all the BS about horrible leaders, lame conditions up to but not entirely encompassed by the prospect of a horribly violent death, etc. They think: why on earth does anyone want that? No one wants that. It's just that some of us are willing to put up with it in order to get something that's worth far, far more. I wanted to find a group of men who loved integrity as much as I did. I wanted the honor of serving with them. It's been said that it's better to serve in adversity with good people than live in fruitfulness with horrible people. I believe this is true because I have had the fortune to try on those boots and march a few (metaphorical) miles in them. I've had some huge (literal) blisters, too. The sad thing about promises from God is that they're easy to miss. We're not wise enough, not patient enough, not unselfish enough to see what exactly it is that he's dumped in our lap. 1st Sgt, the CO, my Staff Sgt. Dear God Deliver Us From Evil. Stanley. Tate. Kauffman. Walker. Malloy. Johnson. Gilbert. Rickter. Haulman. Rattray. Miller. Even Charlie. Dear Lord, Thank you. I was sitting on a manhole cover between the barracks and the mosque the other day, listening to one of my three cd's... there's this song called "Rescue" that doesn't bother with a lot of flare or colorful words. I need you, Jesus. Come to my rescue. I don't have wings enough to fly above the BS as it piles deep, deep deeper out here. I miss my family, my friends, my church, and even all the non essential comfort items I spent too much time arranging in my rather low-budget life. On top of that, I see this whole jaunt out here as an opportunity to find focus and development of the heart. Yes, I could spend every day of my life wishing it were the last day I had to spend here, that my bosses would just SHUT UP, that all sorts of things would be better than they are. In the midst of that discomfort it's easy to miss something very important. "do you remember?" He whispered to me as the song played. I don't even have to ask what. He's too excited not to blurt it out. "The men-- the friends you always hoped you'd serve with. They're here. The men of honor." Even on that list of friends there's only a small handful I would say really live their lives with integrity. But let's be honest. The integrity of others wouldn't fulfill any dream of mine if I was a liar and a cheat myself. That's where my pro/con marks come in. [proficiency/conduct marks are the ratings given to Marines to evaluate performance. My most recent are 4.6/4.6 out of a possible 5. 4.3 is considered average. Inflated grades anyone?] There's a section for comments on the back of the evaluation sheet. I've never actually had leaders that bothered to write anything down. They just give you the score and stuff it down your throat because, and I think I can fairly say this, they didn't care enough to write anything about anyone, or take the time... I look at the sheet. "Cpl Robertson is a Marine with impeccable integrity..." They used the word "integrity" three times in four sentences. So what if I'm not the fastest or strongest. So what if I don't yell (ergo ala USMC, "lead"). I took some time later that day, sitting in the cab of my forklift (the only thing close to privacy I can find here, even with the cb radio...). I cried and thanked God that He still shone through all my fatigue, disgruntlement and general unhappiness with myself; all these things seem to cloud over what's really going on, what He's been doing. Giving me what I always wanted. ... :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:33 PM 0 comments
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: [nothing poetic today]. sighs of disappointment will be accepted upon my return to the US. Whenever. I haven't written in a while because there's pretty much nothing to tell. At least I see it that way. But perhaps I can indulge you with something I see as commonplace, that you might think interesting. We don't really run and hide when rockets hit anymore. Understand it's not like the movies where artillery barrages pound until the 'plot device' of the attack wears itself out and the necessary characters are lying about bloodied and maimed. Nah. Not so much. Of all the attacks Al Asad has been under, I've only heard one set incoming, the first set, and all the rest have landed in rapid, almost instant succession. Boom, boom, boom bom booooom oh who cares. Look at the pretty little mushroom clouds of dirt. scaaaaaaary. We laugh, actually, watching these poor civilian contractor saps running like scared children. We are all scared children, so don't think I'm going "rickie recon hard" on you. It's just that we don't care. Every day we're treated like little children. Belittled, administered to death under the nano-managing hand of our leadership (who, by the way, seemed cool back in Seattle but have contracted a serious case of Whimpy-itus here and pretty much just get on our nerves and interfere with the smoothness of daily operations); we just don't care anymore one way or the other. Oppression does that to people. So rockets hit. Civilians scatter toward the concrete bunkers like .... oh well. time is up. sorry for that. anyway, we get yelled at for not having ourselves in mode to prevent the inevitable and unavoidable rocket that some day may or may not hit us, dependent largely I believe on the prayers of my friends/family and the protection of God. let the rockets fall. blah blah blah. :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:53 AM 0 comments
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: ["howdy" to the new additions, and "I repent for my oversight" to those who should have been included before now, but weren't] ... Special Agent Charlie has moved on to another assignment. ... Hammurabi has a new dog. This puzzles me. In the ramshackle world that is my imagination I now have Babylon's most renowned ruler and, yes, the mutt Charlie. "Isn't there a time delay on these sorts of things?" I ask. "Whaddya mean?" Hammurabi asks in return. Charlie, the infamous plunderer of errant boots, loose-held hands, unguarded crotches, and hump-able legs, sits obediently in front of the former king. "You're thousands of years old, I mean, dead," I explain. "You've been dust long enough that most people who know your name have no idea what you actually did in life. Myself included." "Yeah, so?" "That works to your advantage," I continue. "I mean, let's face it. Being a king back then... there were all sorts of things you could get away with that no one could do now, thanks to the power of modern media." "Oh," he says. He scratches Charlie behind the ears. I am at a loss. I look at the dog as if to say "you were never this docile with me," and he cocks his head, looking back, as if saying "I was never in idealized figment of your imagination before, either." Fair enough. Hammurabi chews on his Big Red gum, rolling his jaws back and forth, reminding me first of a giraffe, then trailer trash, then... oh nevermind. It isn't important. He's talking again: "What you mean to say is that I wasn't accountable to the people via an 'objective' news media that would report, say, my putting a city to the sack. Rape. Plunder. Harsh laws. Unfair judgements. Politically adjendized behavior. All that." "Sure," I respond. "That's exactly what i mean." "Well, first off, by way of a response, which I assume you want since you've gone digging around in the first place...?" I nod. "Let's not be histrionic and judge the past according to modern standards of "civilization." I think we've already established that I did what I thought I needed to do, end of story, and history speaks for itself..." "Or does it?" I think I know where he's going. "You think you know where I'm going, don't you? Anyway, look at what you know about the world you live in. There are civil wars in Africa, Southeast Asia, South America. Everywhere. No one really talks about those so much on CNN." "Americans aren't dying there like they are here. Large numbers of indiginous peoples aren't being blown up there like they are here..." and I stop myself. I know that a lot of Iraqi Police die here in car bombings and ambushes. "The same thing happens other places, my friend," he says. "It's just not expedient to tell you that, or at least not as expedient as telling you something else. I mean, really. Look at the news. Is there a shortage of bloody and discouraging things they can dig up on any given day? No. But they will tell you about the bloody and discouraging things they think you shouldn't miss. Who cares if there's genocide in Rwanda or Sudan. Where *are* those places on a map anyway? And while we're at it, who's gonna care what goes on in a country that doesn't export oil or diamonds or all the things Iraq exports... besides dead Americans." Right. I get it. "So to finally answer your question," he offers, "no, there is no time delay. Charlie can be here as well as I can because you're willing to overlook his mass-humpings and crotch sniffings in order to include him in your story to accomplish a certain effect on your audience. Get real. If you'd met me, knowing what you think you know, you wouldn't have liked me, either. But you put that on the shelf, make me this commic 'former somebody' with the wrong accent and viola-- you have your story and your audience: they see what you want them to see." I chew my own gum. "Same with the news," he says, chewing noisily. Charlie cocks his head to one side. A plastic bag has blown onto the flight line. He growls. He barks. He chases the bag, and will not get close enough to it to bite it unless I go with him, which I do not. He's afraid of the bags and will chase them all the way accross the tarmac at a safe distance, but will never attack unless his friend is there with him. "Good times," I whisper. ... :D
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