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.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: We run the flight line at Al Asad, which means we loaded flight 12 with cargo and pax. (I've worked with the pilots of this flight many times on HST missions. They were always cavalier in accepting whatever crazy stuff we wanted them to lift.) Pax is an abbreviated term for "packs," as in "individual people" sent out on helo flights. Pax is also the latin term for "peace," if I am correct. ... The helo was not shot down but lost bearing in a dust storm and crashed. It hit the deck with so much force that all aboard died instantly, their bodies and (in all cases) their legs shattered by the force of the impact. Motuary Affairs Marines prepare bodies to be shipped back to the US. They arrive a the flight line to receive the incoming angels (term used to describe KIA's), then prepare the bodies and come back to ship them home. There were no body bags. They were brough back, sometimes not in one piece, stuffed in their sleeping bags. There's a lot of ritual, a lot of formal movements with the coffins. The flight line shuts down no matter what. Engines are silenced. Work ceases. The Angels are allowed to pass among us with as much honor and dignity as we can spare them. "If the Army and the Navy ever looked on Heaven's scenes, they would find the streets are guarded... by United States Marines." --Marine Hymn :D
# posted by chevas @ 3:01 PM 1 comments 
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
The World According To Damon Conveniently Paraphrased Edition ... This morning I chuckled to myself as I applied shaving cream to my scruffy face. It's my least favorite tactile sensation I experience over here (injuries notwithstanding) because it's cold here when I wake up. The shaving cream is cold, too, and darn. I hate it. But I laugh because I realize that there are so many Marines out there who are *so* lucky and they don't even know it. I mean the "real" Marines, the grunts kicking down doors, the civil affairs guys who try to build political/economic/social infrastructures... the real dudes. They're lucky they don't have my 1st sgt. This man has secured insanity for himself. The other day he was raging and yelling and shaking and wide eyed like a ... I don't know like what. It was amazing to behold. The sheer lack of control, the manifest clarity that he has been promoted beyond his ability to do anything other than detract from the exemplary work of others... he is nothing but threats and punishment and paperwork. a "paper-mache Mephistopheles," whose white-washed exterior is only a finger-poke away from revealing the dry and lifeless dirt underneath. What if he was in charge of combat troops? They'd die listenting to him. Thank God he's out here with us, interfering with our job and not theirs. The world is a safer place with his incompetence contained here. ... There is a picture on the Al-Jazeera website of a CH-53 (USMC heavy transport helicopter) approaching a Marine, who stands in the fore-ground. It is on the site illustrating the recent crash of flight S***, in which all hands were lost. The picture is actually one taken of our Marines doing an HST (helo support something-or-other), a very routine mission. The helo is on approach to an external load it's going to pick up and Sgt. S.ierra is standing there waiting to hook it up. So much for "spin." ... I hurt my back this past week. Almost as bad as I did a year ago, when I couldn't walk my spine was so kanked. I went to the surgical company here to get checked out and I happened to get the one Navy "doctor" who preached to me about how chiropractics was a myth, like a religion or something, and that there was no merit to the concept of "spinal adjustment." "look, sir, I don't mean to argue with you on a philosophical level, but I went into Terry's office hardly able to stand up and I left walking. That made me a believer." "Oh," he said, "there isn't any argument. I'm prescribing you pain medication." Really. Because I'm the sort of person who medicates pain instead of trying to see the problem healed. Cute, doc. So this past week I took my SAPI plates out of my flack jacket because even the weight of the empty jacket pinches nerves in my spine. It's a sad day, given all the people I love in the world, when I keep thinking to myself over and over again how nice it would be to be home. So I could see my chiropractor. ... The phones/computers were down this past week as a heightened security prior to the elections, which so far as I know have gone without anywhere near as many casualties as expected. I ran into a Marine last night who came in from Al Hit (pronounced "heat," very appropriate) with a superficial wound. I guess indirect fire had struck a house next door to a polling station and he was the "lucky" one who took a small piece of it with him. Grace, mercy applenty. He said there were thousands of 7.62 AK-47 rounds flying at them all day and no one was hit. ... out of time Maybe it's the real test, to see how better-than-human we can stay when we're in constant pain. :D
# posted by chevas @ 2:42 PM 0 comments
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Family and Friends: finally had another chance to train the iraqi police recruits yesterday in basic baton techniques. The instructors had them line up in two lines and beat on a pad w/the baton for 60 seconds, just to show them how tired they could get. Even the old colonels (former military) got into the action. When the two colonels got up, some of the men, then all, started clapping in rhythm w/the baton strikes and singing. It was pretty awesome to see them come together like that behind their class leaders. At the end, W., one of the American civilian instructors, gave me a chance to add any last comments. I figured i could add at least an elementary reminder, so the translator got them all to sit around the raised wooden demonstration platform and i got to explain the basic use of legs/lower body to improve the power of a strike. "who's familiar with baseball?" i ask the interpreter. He shrugs. "no one." He doesnt' even have to ask. craaaaaaap. Throwing a good punch requires the same movement of the lower body as swinging a baseball bat: flaring the heal of the rearward leg, sinking and twisting slightly at the hips. the arm is the last part to move. Anyway, i got up there and showed them two kinds of strikes, those with just arm usage and those with the whole body behind the blow. i told them that the number of strikes was unimportant, but that technique and therefore the power of each strike, was everything. "if i swing my arms like this all day,' i said, moving only my arm, "little girls could beat me up." they chuckled as the translator related the idea. I showed them the proper technique slowly many times, moving the legs, the hips, the torso, then the arms, then everything at once. You should see the look on the faces of the younger guys-- they're only in their teens. They eat this stuff up. I guess adolescent men the world over are similar in their enthusiasm for martial prowess (it's not just us kung-fu movie-bloated Americans...). i can't wait to get out on the pistol/Ak47 range next week. hopefully i'll be able to sneak away from the flightline long enough to help where i really can (i actually am a certified range coach through the Marines). "yee-haw." ---Anybody :D
# posted by chevas @ 9:19 PM 0 comments
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: Okay. I slipped the detail in a few messages back and I don't know if it stuck out enough. I volunteered to stay another 7 months over here. Don't ask. I still have the option, for the next couple days, to rescind that raising-of-the-hand. My 1st Sgt won't let me move out of my "engineer" job, even though I'm also a school trained weapons coach and could move right over to training Iraqi Police full time. That is, if he weren't a prick about everything. His insistence on me staying in my first job here is entirely personal on his part. There are no regulations that back him up, but there's a lot more black lines on his collar, so not much I can do. It's hard to understand, yet again, why a man who works at Best Buy as a cashier back in the real world would have any problem with motivated young men half his age seeking some sort of meaningful adventure that would also be a contribution to the country we're in. Oh wait. Maybe I do understand. He can't go do anything fun so he'll be damned before any of us do, either. Here's how it's supposed to work. My commanding officer talks with the commanding officer of whatever unit wants to take me on. They chat, tell a few lame jokes they each learned in Officer Candidate School, but eventually decided Yay/Nay on whether I transfer. Notice how that equation doesn't include the senior staff, i.e. 1st Sgt, at all? Interesting how our 1sgt squashes everything we've ever tried to put together. I prayed for him a while back, thinking that if he were happier, more blessed or at the least more aware of the good things in his life, that in turn he'd be kinder to us. I find myself in the position of having led the jack-a## to water but lacking the ability to make him drink. That and I don't actually hate him enough to drown him there, either, to push the analogy way past its limits. I'm kinda sorry for him. He's one of the faces on that imaginary poster I keep in my head of "Never Let This Happen to YOU." All things being considered, I have little to no control over where I get sent. Reward for my continued volunteerism in the face of insane circus games on the part of our staff may very well land me in a similar situation with a similar staff. Remember, jerks are like hot chicks. They hang out together, never realizing what they really are. So if I get sent to one of his "buddies," shudder, cringe, and pray. I'm good at staying under the radar, but that depresses me. I'm not meant to hide. I've got good skills and a heart of service, the sorts of things these men should treasure, but don't. Working hard here and going the extra mile hasn't ever paid off, at least not in ways i'm prepared to understand. what's it's worth, :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:39 PM 0 comments
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear y'All: When Implications Run Amock: In this computer center there is a finely crafted nativity scene made of stained glass. A very impressionist work, there is no detail on faces and each pain is monochromatic. All the same it's very peaceful. Mostly white and a few pastelles. Next to it, an enterprising elementary school student from back home has provided a sign, very jaunty this boy's humor, that reads: "The Beatings Will Continue Until Moralle Improves." ... Pick Jesus, or pick the Corps. Either way you're going to do your job. I giggled. Don't know if anyone else sees it that way or not. Maybe someone was reminded that in the whole of history there was at least one severe case of police brutality that ended better for everyone. Ciaphus, the high priest whose logic helped the Sanhedrin agree to mob Jesus, said "is it not better that one man die..." and he meant to save Jerusalem. His fear, loathing, selfishness and self-aggrandizing hatred played right into God's hands. Silly priest. ... The "real Iraq" is still on back order. As far as I know I'm going to be in this brown, sun-blasted moonscape forever. The anguish and bombs and bullets and "inevitable insurgent victory" touted in the news is still delayed today, and possibly a short while to come. Mail must get through, and their old motto, the handy rain/sleet/hell/highwater jingle should maybe take on a new twist. "Warzones Now Included, special rebates apply. Inquire at your local recruiting office for more details..." ... oh. out of time. so much for so little, :D
# posted by chevas @ 12:01 AM 0 comments
Friday, January 14, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: If Al Asad should perish, and please I don't mean "really," just in that student of history sort of way, like Pompeii or Atlantis future archeologists would no doubt make a dramatic discovery somewhere on the old grounds of the airbase: an entire warehouse full of undelivered mail. Literally hundreds of tons of mail (I offload some 30+ tons a day: I AM Fed ex!) and so little of it reaches its recipients in a timely manner. Just yesterday I took a pallet off a plane and through the plastic wrap I could see Christmas paper. Either sent late or sorted late coming from Kuwait. I know if the dudes here had anything to do with it (how have I described them before... the pasty-eyed, drooling postal Marines, was it?) the mail would never get there. I've got a couple friends that sent Christmas packages that I've given up to the ether. Never getting here. It's wierd, too, that packets of letters aren't here yet, that all sorts of things have gotten lost. It's almost like they have a pile of christmas stuff that they sort, "when they have time," independent of mail sent before Nov 15 and after Dec 25. so back to our future archeological dig. scientists uncover the factory, learn all sorts of things about us, assuming from the amount of candy and chocolates they find in the mail that we are creatures adapted to eating only carbs and fat. The profuse amount of cleaning aids (toothpaste, shaving cream, soap, etc.) leads them to believe (this time more correctly) that we are filthy slobs and that staying clean over here requires immense diligence. someone writes a book, they make their tenureship, and the Intergallactic College of Pyramid Founders is edified. ... story boring ... Supposedly there's a chamber burried beneath the Sphinx's left paw. I mean the Sphinx of Egypt fame, the one near the Great Pyramids at Giza. It is reported, via legend or other such hoax-sensitive media, to contain the entire written history of mankind since creation. Lofty claim. As far as I know, no one's dug that deep or bothered to get the permits (or more likely all intended diggers have run aground with aging professors who wrote books that would be debunked if said library were found... and said professors are now sitting on budgetary commitees...). I theorize that no one will find the written history of mankind. I believe that the lost chamber is full of undelivered mail. Lots and lots of mail, all stamped with "To Atlantis, with Love in this Time of Terrestrial Upheaval." When this is proven I will write a heart-felt account of the plight of glossy-eyed, drooling mail sorters who lived under the cruel rulership of the Pharoahs. I will be a celebrated lunatic (tenured professor). [joke, Disco, joke joke joke] ... Perhaps some of you are wondering why I don't write more about Iraq. You get more Iraq on the news, you say, than from your Marine friend who's there. Remember, I'm a P.O.G. (person other than grunt) and never get to leave the base. I work 7 days, 14 hours or so each, and offload other 'real' Marine's bags and mail. Emails like this, ridiculous in extreme, are a reflection of my intense desire to find some light or humor in my drudgery. That and I've been reading some very compelling "conspiracy theory" type books about the work of ancient men, specifically the pyramids. Fun stuff. Believe me, when i finally get to shoot bad people in a tactical situation, you'll hear about that, too. You're fanship will not be thwarted.... :] until next insanity build-up, :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:01 AM 0 comments
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: Brief Essay: The Error of Historically-Applied Atheism I've been reading up on Mesopotamian history as a part of a study of pyramids/ziggurats (sp?) and I'm sure most of you know that even though these sorts of structures exist all over the world, from meso-America to just 80 miles south of myself (ancient Babylon herself). Different cultures at different times decided it was a great idea to make these huge stone/earthworks projects... you'll even find manmade hills/mounds/mountains in Ireland and Britain. It was the thing to do, of course only after the novelty of stone circles had past away. There's a begged question: Why in the Name of God would you haul all that stuff together and stack it up like it was cool? Mostly religious reasons. Pyramids are assumed to be tombs. *Assumed*. No bodies were ever found in them, no inscriptions, etc., that are commonplace in real tombs like those found in the valley of kings. Mesopotamian and American step-pyramids (ziggurats) were used primarily, it is believed, as a means of communication with the gods. The tower of babel, of Biblical fame, is reputedly the result of man's quest to build himself a stairway to heaven. Babylon, specifically: Marduk was the prime deity of the city. His ziggurat, the tower of babel, called "Etanumenaki" or something funky like that, was one of the largest (if not the largest) ever created. The temple courts surrounding his step-pyramid were huge, covering vast acreage in the city, while next door Marduk had his own palace. His own palace? Wha...? Herein lies the fallacy of historical research, succinctly, if not sloppily, laid out: we read all sorts of accounts about daily life and assume that they are correct. Crops were harvested in such a way, so and so owed some other dude a tooth and Hammurabi yanked it out to make amends, some rich dude married some hot chick from three wadis over, you name it. All Veritical Truth. At least we take it that way. Consider the pyramids. There's some funky math at work in these piles of multi-ton brick. I don't remember exactly, but the height of the pyramid is something heinous like 4380 ft (that's real high so I'm not sure I have the exact number right; we're referring to the Great Pyramid of Giza). Random number, right? Not so much. It's the exact number of years it takes the earth to complete one rotation in an ongoing sequence of planetary conjunctions. Or something. But that's a real big coincidence. It's just a tomb, though. Right. Let's get back to babylon. Marduk's ziggurat was created because he was said to actually come visit babylon. For real. The steps of his pyramid weren't laid to let people *up*. They're there to allow him a way down among the people, and a short walk leads him to his very own palace, which was larger than Nebuchadnezzar's, by the way. Yet we assume that this religion, this "hocus pocus" of a superstitious and backwards people, is just a nice story. Used to keep the masses in line by making them work hard, a welfare project, etc. We give it any name to give it any designation other than "it might have some truth to it." Why on earth do I bring this up... it's a fun "what if.." No, I'm not suggesting any belief of mine that space aliens or angelic beings actually visited the pyramids, but let's be honest. Calling these things merely extensions of human pride and superstition, given what it took to put them up in the first place, seems a bit insulting. These same people are known to have performed surguries within the human skull, for crying out loud. Some of them, and maybe not a whole lot, but a crucial few really knew what was up. ... Once we go to mars and if/when we find anything of archeological value there, then I'll start talking about pyramids and aliens and "precourser races" and all that fun science fiction Geek stuff. Yes, if you're wondering what it takes to keep me occupied in my forklift for days and hours on end when I'm not getting tossed around by 110 lb. Hadjis, this is it. Or at least part of it. And Britta says I'm not a Geek. What does she know? I'm proud of my Geekness. I embrace it. Like "Yankee Doodle Dandy" from the revolutionary war. One mans' derision is my badge of honor. Long Live the Geeks! And all God's people said, ENOUGH ALREADY!!! So be it... :] :D ------- Written on Jan 10th, Failed to post on Jan 13th------------- Dear Family and Friends: My Geekness is in dispute. Like any man of honor I must rise to the occasion in defense of my character. There are three main kinds of social rejects commonly grouped together and interchangeably referred to as Geeks, Nerds, and Dorks. All share a similar quality, that is they excelled primarily in studies and things of an intellectual nature and tended to suffer in areas of sports and social activities. Succinctly put, we're smart but we're whimps who never heard "yes" when we asked a member of the opposite sex out on a date. Geeks are more emotively motivated than their counterparts. While they share common interests such as star wars movies and light sabres with the others, a Geek is more likely to attach to the emotional thread of the story line, to identify with the seething anger and pain in the heart of Darth Vader while simultaneously yearning to share in the pure heart of his innocent and brave son, Luke. Nerds are more calculated; mathematically inclined, if you will. They would concern themselves more with computer programming, arguing over exactly why a light sabre is impossible/possible to make work, or how the special effects look cheasy in certain scenes. Nerds have wonderful hearts, too. Don't get me wrong. They're just more likely to work in at Nektar Therapeutics than seek employment as a penniless sitar player/sensitive poet goat-herd. Dorks are the true Masters of all previously stated traits. They are the best and worst of both worlds, typically such that they magnify the faults of either class in order to excell at any intellectual or creative feats to be had. Generally, while a Geek or a Nerd may break out of their social castigation in young adulthood, Dorks are in it for good. I mean, I'm a Geek and I've knocked people out and broken bones with my bare hands. Things have changed *slightly* in the past few years. I actually have gone on a date or two in the better part of the last decade as well. Some things improve slower than others. Oh well. Let it be writ that the computer guys are time nazis and don't know who's been in and out of here at all. I'm the last to enter, the second to leave. Justice, where art thou? :D
# posted by chevas @ 1:25 AM 0 comments
Sunday, January 09, 2005
For Monday
Dear Family and Friends: Sometimes I catch myself thinking that the best sort of optimism is the kind that looks towards the future, to an anticipated achievement or time of rest. It means holding on to what you want in a heart sense. Keeping the desire alive even though every day you live before you finish your proverbial race is another one where you'll feel the acute absence of what you want the most. You can forget "light and momentary" troubles, even ones that aren't so light or short in span, knowing that rest is not so far off a promise. This truth has been manipulated in the past by people who preached that we should endure all of life's hardships, every day of our lives in back-breaking work, so that someday, if we'd lived our lives well enough, we'd get paradise. This is one of the reasons I think Karl Marx labled Christianity, and religion as a whole, as an opiate of the masses. The teaching from the pulpit, that behavior and servitude pave the path to heaven, turned from whatever merit he would admit could be found in the story of Christ. "Forget the pain-- forget your selfish desire for happiness. There is only your work to do, and that God has portioned for you." People of all kinds grew sick of this, rejected religion and threw true life-changing faith out with it. Of course, not having their opiate, and still in the regrettable position of being alive, in this world, where hardships *will* come, the people turned to other medications. There are plenty out there, more today than ever, but one popular trend in society is to replace our longing for the divine with the veneration of "that special someone." Even sexuality, long considered a baser instinct best tempered with reason, is now considered an ends in and of itself. "Flock to your bars, your watering holes. Live inside and through the bodies of strangers to whom you hold no responsibility and owe no love. Wake up in the morning and return to the job you hate, so you can keep buying crap you don't need, so you can keep showing up next Saturday night (really sunday morning) and get your fix all over again." ... My alarm goes off twice every night. Once at 11pm, the second time at 11:05. I'm not a heavy sleeper and always stop the alarm after the first few bleats. Why get up five minutes before i need to, right? Sanity, and the life I will experience today, depend on it. It's easy to think, in the midst of mind-blowing fatigue, "Why on *earth* did I volunteer to extend here...?" "You were listening to Me," Jesus answers. "Dear *God* help me I can't do this all over again. God help me..." Five minutes later, the other alarm sounds and I know it's time to get dressed. I'm the first one up every day, the first one ready, the only one to turn on the lights and wake every other Marine up. Yes, if you're thinking there aren't enough redundancies in this wake up plan, you're right. I slept through my alarm one morning and we were all late. I took the butt-chewing with style. My Sgt. actually got angry at me, seeing it as my failure. I calmly informed him that on a long enough timeline, failure of the "system" was bound to occur. I let the whole concept that the other Marines are grown men and can set their own doggone alarms remain in the mists of implication. If he wasn't willing to think through the problem I sure wasn't going to waste minutes of my life explaining it to him. I don't expect perfection from myself, nor my watch for that matter. He didn't calm down or change his stance, but then again he's an abusive and self-hating man, so I didn't expect him to. Calm face, I let it wash away. He can't steal my day, not what little joy I have in this. No way. ... Several things are true. I have bad leaders. They really do stink for all the reasons I've railed about in previous emails. My job is very, very, very boring. Almost as bad as having a writer repeat an adjective three times by way of attempting emphasis, only a few hundred times worse. Some day, this trial, this service, with all it's irritating and soul-wearying aspects, will pass away. Some day. But what about *today.* The promise of sleep in a few months doesn't do anything for *this* morning. Some day I won't have to listen to my Sgt. The minute I'm back in Ft. Lewis and have my orders he can kiss my rhetorical butt crack. He is a small and angry man from which I will learn nothing if not rage, deceit, and vengeful thinking, to name a few. But I have to listen to him today. Argh... Let me get at it another way. We know ourselves better than we know anybody else. On a good day this keeps us humble. On a bad day, we're a spiteful mess, unable to forgive or portion grace to others because we so sharply condemn the faults in ourselves. I spend most of my time in the latter state, to some lesser or greater extent, and I anticipate that I'm not alone there. Not every day is "anger boileth over" day, but they're there every so often. It happens. In my life I've heard a lot of people say that they'll be "finished" when they're dead. This makes a certain amount of sense, as I don't ancitipate ever acheiving satisfaction with my own personal development. I don't deny or disbelieve in the concept of progress, of seeing the fruits of prayer and hardships endured. I'm just not comfortable resting (irony anyone?) in times when there's nothing in my heart to work on. I know I've got improvements to work towards. I'm not satisfied with selfish impulses and inconsistent love for others. I want my heart to work from the self-less throne of God, not the self-serving throne of me. "In a few years, maybe you'll be okay then. Maybe by the time you die you'll actually figure out how to love someone. Of course by then it will be too late." [This is the devil speaking. See his blending of truth, the concept of progress, with falsehood, that no matter what you do you'll be too late to affect any good whatsoever? Whenever the truth seems harmful, not simply revelatory, and if this feeling of conviction is more like shame and only makes you want to hide away, chances are you're listening to him, your accuser, whether you ever thought he was really there or not.] Too late? Unfinished for your whole life, only to squeak into heaven, paradise, or wherever because the Guy in Charge thought "oh might as well let another one in, but man are we scraping the bottom of the barrel..." ? You're useless today because you're not finished, and you'll always be useless and cranky and angry and selfish at heart because you'll never be finished in this life? I DON'T BUY IT. I grit my teeth in my five minutes of sanity searching prayer and refuse the lie. The truth is, the promises of God are meaningless if there isn't victory in this lifetime, today, this minute, this cold and windswept morning on the western plains of Iraq. If "I am with you always" means He's with me now, then maybe I really am supposed to be here, no matter how little faith I have in myself. Maybe screwed up, unfinished, uncoordinated, easily-flustered and always tired *me* is right where he belongs. There's still time today to instill hope in someone else's heart. Don't waste it. Watch your words. They are either of life or of death. A momentary utterance, for good or evil, is forever, either way. ... For Monday. Some of you will get this email early. Some of you will are reading it now, at your desk in your office or your cubicle. You're tired. You feel unprepared for another week of ... *this* ... There are at least ten very important things you'd rather be doing right now, and maybe should have done already. Most of us would worry about that. Don't bother. You are where you are, being held together. Today is not an accident. Do not let the anti-monday pessimism of the modern world precondition you to miss whatever joy may be found. The truth is, *you* are the main character of your life story. You're not the mook in the background, half-off camera and out of focus. You are the one God called to be where you are and His choice to bring you here was not a mistake. [this is true without your consent, and no, no one did ask you, but that's okay, because He's in charge and He loves your heart and has wonderful dreams for you, remember?] It's not up to any of us to understand the enormity of the task set before us. Thankfully. I would spend most of my day trying to figure out my day, and overthink my life to the point where I forgot to live it. We are where we are, whether it's your monday and the latte didn't come through for you or not; whether it's my flightline and I have to sit outside at 1am in the butt-crackling cold and air up the vehicle tires. There is victory today, right now, this very second. Clinging to that belief is one of the hardest sea-saw battles of my life, but it hasn't killed me yet. We may not see our victory now, but that's alright. We're alive. None of us are alone or too far off. We love one another. Happy Monday, :D
# posted by chevas @ 1:57 PM 0 comments
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Alright (!). When Aristotle hacked out his explanation of what it means to be virtuous, that is, to do that which God made you for, I don't recall him giving any explanation as to how we're supposed to know we're doing what was intended. [Jim "Disco" Taylor, my philosophy professor and recipient of this email, is probably spinning in his cubicle right now... "what?!?! Can't remember!?!?!" ] Just kidding. Disco's the real deal. But I don't remember Aristotle saying anything like "Virtuous? I dunno. It's hard to explain, but I know it when I'm in the moment." ... Teaching Police. Whoa. Hold on. Let me contextualize. First Sgt. ... what name did I give him? Oh who cares. He doesn't rate a nickname, even a depricating one. From the beginning of our activation we've tried to add significance to our (prison-like) tenure at the flightline. We've volunteered for convoy security, prisoner of war guard, internal (base) guard, external (base) patrols, you name it. We've done everything we could to lock on training that's fun, i.e. macho and we get to blow things up, but there's always this disconnect. Like, you're on the list but at the last minute no one gets to go because the class was mysteriously "kanked" (cancelled), or you're told to show up at 2pm and the class started at 9am. Huh. Again? Mysterious and upsetting how that *always* seems to happen to us... I'm not a mathematically inclined person but I do remember playing "connect the dots" when I was a kid and certain variables tend to stack up fairly quickly. Who's ultimately in charge of sending Marines to training? Ssgt Baldy, my first platoon commander here who's since been promoted, billet-wise, to Company Gunnery Sergeant, though he still holds the rank of Staff Sergeant. Then there's his friend and long time, er, "buddy," the Beloved First Sergeant ****. Who, as it turns out, have deliberately thrown wrenches into the schedules and hard work we've come up with to make our lives and service as Marines count for something more than "gee, mom, I didn't do much but handle incoming mail and baggage for the real Marines." ... Why, pray tell? You're going to think the explanation is too simple, too easy, perhaps the product of some intense suspicion and anger on my part. Believe me, it's taken me the whole time I've been here to say this: They're jealous. They've been POGs (persons other than grunts) their whole careers. Half of them (the staff, the aforementioned men included) LIE, straight up LIE for God's sake, about having been former grunts. WHAT!?! Who *does* that anymore? Who really lies about what they've done to make themselves sound hard, tough, etc.? We know they're lying because we've asked around, talked to other staff from other units who've met them before, worked with them, and found all corroborating evidence to run counter to everything these guys claim. "Phony Tough" is written all over them. Oh. Yeah. My "leaders." The men who literally have lied, stolen, and in other ways broken the laws of the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice) the whole time we've been here and every time covered eachother's butts. Compile to this list the fact that they have fried good Marines for the simplest infractions, to the fullest extent of their power as executors of the UCMJ for our unit. Something stinks here and it's not the wadi, for once. In a classic show of "I've still got give-a-S**t-itus," the disease that haunts real motivators like me and my friends, Super Marine locked on a chance to accompany the outer perimiter security sweeps. But we hear 1st Sgt **** whine about "it's not our mission. our mission is the flightline. there's no way Super Marine is leaving the flight line. Ever." So why did they make such big promises when we were headed out here? Why didn't they tell us in the first place "You're pogs, you're a shame to "real" Marines, and you're good for nothing more than the simplest tasks that even apes could accomplish here on the flightline." God. At least then we would have known to lose hope and not try and just resign ourselves, our educated, capable selves, to being their cronies and nothing but. [the patrols Super Marine was going to participate in would not have conflicted with his 12-hour shift at the flight line, so there is no dereliction of responsibility to the mission that can be logically voiced in the argument, though this isn't the sort of thing Corporals tell their 1st Sgts. It would be like telling a caveman he can't simply hit a woman over the head and drag her off to the cave and have his way. All the caveman sees is a "blocker" to his personal adjenda, nothing more. And for men who think that hitting things and yelling solves problems, being the one to disagree means you get hit, and you get yelled at. I'm not in this for that.] ... It's a good thing I don't spend a lot of time hoping in these men, and that I put my trust somewhere else entirely. ... So yesterday, without the knowledge of my chain of command, and during my off hours, having served 13 hours at the flight line already, I went and helped train the iraqi police class here on base for three hours. I got four hours of sleep last night but I feel awesome. At first the men seemed unsettled that we were there. I'm sure it seemed like we were observers, looking for mistakes only. When Stan and I volunteered to be the "non-compliant" felony arrest subjects and let the trainees use their non-lethal subjugation techniques on us, the doggone ice got broke. They were intimidated at first (we are about twice their size, and at least 1 foot taller than the biggest of them) but everyone is the first time they have to take down a bigger man. It doesn't matter so much not being able to speak Arabic, or that these men can barely pronounce "Robers...roberts-unn." A smile is a smile, and laughter is understood everywhere. I don't have much time left, but I'll leave you with an observation. The media tells us constantly "more iraqi police officers fled in the wake of insurgent violence." Well, there's lots of logistical reasons for this (lack of ammunition for the IP's is a big one, and that we don't issue them ROCKET LAUNCHERS, like the bad guys have... bit of a difference, that one). Also, as I've discussed earlier, if I could flee a police station and save my family from the rapine of foreign-hired insurgents, I'd go home early. But, then there's something else I'd do, too, once it got dark. I'd take my issue 9mm glock and get some potatoes. Since the town is small and since everyone knows where these braggarts/rapists live, I'd ninja up in my head-wrap and I'd silently walk around the outskirts of town though the trash heaps until I got to their house. Jam the potato on the end of the pistol. Shimmy through the door, probably unlocked, and cap the first guy. The potato silences the pistol for one shot. If they're all in the same room, keep capping. Use potatoes when I can so less attention is drawn to the scene. Less attention means fewer witnesses. Then leave. Leave their still warm, dead bodies where they lie, taking nothing, saying nothing, ditching my dark clothing in the trash heap on my way back home. In the morning I'd go back to work and let the news of the violence surprise me. ... Some of you are shocked. Oh well. What these men need is a modern, living mythology of heroes. They've lived in the grip of a tyrant for 35 years, where the proverbial "nail that sticks out" didn't get hammered down so much as yanked out, twisted, and tossed in a refuse heap. They don't have the benefit, the "macho poison" for you cynics, of Hollywood's countless heroes. They don't know that they don't have to be afraid of these men. The worst thing these men have to fear is being afraid, to steal a good quote. What they fail to see is that they, the new police, are a kind of gang of their own. Now I'm not suggesting that they adopt the same rape and throat-slashing of their enemies. Nope. Remember Chicago, New York? The "roaring 20's"? The streets of America hung in the balance between the mob families who elected themselves into public office, stepping into place over the bloodied bodies of their enemies. The cops... with their six-shooters and uniforms, what could they do? Huh. I dunno. Maybe buy some .45 caliber Thomson machine guns and kill every last mook they could find until the occupational hazards of being a gangster in an organized mob became less compelling than the benefits. This *is* their frontier time. This *is* their turn to be the Lone Badge that Saved the West(ern) Province of Al-Anbar. ... At any rate, i'm going to train these men as long as I can, before the staff of my unit cripse and cry and make me sit in my barracks watching paint fade, which they can do. This is the military. Until then, love you all, :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:19 PM 0 comments
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Dear Family and Friends: Today I walked over to the Iraqi Police training center on base with my buddy, Stanley. We volunteered to work our afternoons, between 1pm and 5pm, to help the civilian trainers with the future Iraqi cops. It was amazing. The Gunnery Sgt. working there sort of scrunched his eyebrows and said "wow... I really don't have anything to do for you. I'd hate to give you busy work. God, I'd hate to turn down two motivated Marines... Let's talk to the trainers themselves..." Outside we meet G. and D. They are awesome. Old retirees from the military special forces and police departments (back in the U.S.), both came to Iraq because they believed they could make a difference. No questions asked, we can show up tomorrow. They're so short of volunteers they're willing to accept us, right? :) Either that or we actually come accross as two guys with some sort of intelligence and capability. Not that our own leadership would act as if that were ever the truth, but forget those losers. They don't want to take advantage of the capabilities we have, we'll cash ourselves out to someone who will. Tomorrow we start by helping the IP's learn traffic stops, etc. Oh yeah. More later, :D
# posted by chevas @ 4:59 AM 0 comments