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.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Re: Hammurabi, USMC - DMR
Yo, like We're the last unit left on base from 1MEF (Marine Expeditionary Force). I still don't know which unit I'm going to be sloughed off on, and at this point maybe I should add "whether it's going to happen at all." The positive side: I haven't met a single staff sgt or above from any of the new units that looks in any way as reproachable as my own. I don't get it. Super Marine and I were laughing self-depricatively the other day about how we were cursed. Both times we've been activated we've been under these sleazy, corrupt commands who reign their Marines with an iron fist because they're afraid we might "do something." They never specify, and such is the nature of fear. The less specific their fear is, the more control it has over them. (we can assume they're afraid of incidents of a public nature, i.e. "when the Marines get back to the US we don't want them getting drunk so we're not going to give them any liberty... they need to wind down first.") Riiiiiight. See how fast they snap when they're back on Camp Pendleton and can literally smell the southern Californian ocean... and they can't go there. Never mind beer and ladies. I feel like I'm watching a Greek trajedy from the front row-- close enough to the action to feel like I'm part of it-- where the main characters try to do everything they can to thwart fate but end up playing right into its hands. The main characters here being the staff, who hope to manipulate their Marines into behaving well by continually and unjustifiably restricting their lives tighter and tighter with each passing week. Has no one ever told them that (typically) fatherless Gen-Xers lose their minds in an uber-controlled environment? Even boot camp can't undo the roots of nintendo and the all-powerful "WHAT-Ever..." I guess Roy Rodgers said something about people, their different styles of learning, and how some learn by observing, others by careful instruction, and some sods just have to go and urinate on an electric fence for themselves... ... I talked to my commanding officer this morning about the units I could possibly be assigned to, and he asked me if I still wanted to be attached to 3rd LAR or something like that (light-armored recon). Honestly I was shocked he'd still ask. I'd been broken of aspiration long ago, but said "that'd be great if you could swing it, sir." (no, he doesn't know I've been to JAG. unfortunate as it may sound, being "frugal with the truth" is a lesson well applied here. He doesn't ask, I don't tell, and no one gets their lace pantaloons in a bunch. By the time the investigation trickles down to him, it won't have my name on it-- and yes, I got that assurance from JAG since I work for a company that's all about personal vendettas.) Where was I? Oh. Here's a little joint, as in "day dream," I'll share with you all in closing. It's one of those "this would be too good to be true" things that I'm afraid will go "poof" if I just mention it aloud, or in written word. There's a squadron of Huey gunships that roam the base and surrounding area with a AH1 Super Cobra escort. Their callsign is "MISFITS" and the other day they invited some of us to go along on a "ride," i.e. "let's see if there's anything to shoot out there flight," but our staff told us that it was dangerous and they didn't want anyone getting hurt. ??? Oh My God what am I? A Marine or Mary Poppins!?!? (a broken dichotomy given that even Mary, faithful, pure Mary got to fly around the dangerous streets of london whenever she so desired). Alright, but for God's sake THEY PAY ME HAZARD MONEY EVERY MONTH FOR A REASON. sorry I didn't mean to raise my voice but Lord forbid we actually face danger while we're here. You see, they lost their old excuse for keeping us in a dog kennel when our replacements arrived on deck. They used to tell us "no convoys, no flights: we have the flight line to run and that's our mission so shut up already!!!" ...seeing as how we're now very close to being unemployed, they can't tell us that anymore. We're training the guys who will take our place, which means there's a glut of qualified personnel on a flight line that's winding down anyway. So now we should just be safe. I'll be sure not to stub my toe on my way over to the MISFIT squadron this afternoon when I go to "observe operations," and do my best to safeguard my fingernails when I sign in on their mission roster. Wouldn't want to break one or get a hangnail and have to fill out all that messy workman's comp paperwork... (and yes, for those of you who are still reading and wondering "but will he bring his lace underoos that his company issued him?" the answer is "no, I don't wear them.") At this point you're all fired if you read this at work... I've been on a while. Thanks for the opportunity to vent, guys. much love, ;D
# posted by chevas @ 6:31 PM 