1) Super Marine (Trent Walker) and Me

2) Me and my New Toy (Iraqi Police Officer's AK-47)

3) Flight Line, Al Asad MCAS, Sunrise

Dear Family and Friends:

Attached is a picture taken of me outside of Al Qaim back in October. It was taken by Ssgt. Toothless just after I jumped out of the Humvee to provide perimiter security. I like it because I actually look like a real Marine(!).

:D

Dear Family and Friends:

Desert Storm

...

The clouds surround the base in a massive, black crescent, the storm like so many others seemingly skirting around us to pound the uninhabited sands of the wasteland.

Near our hooches there's this solitary, uneven and cracked slab of pavement that serves as a basketball court. The hoop has long ago been broken by would-be slam-dunkers. I have never seen anyone play there.

Our staff took us there yesterday to chew our butts for something that was completely beyond our control. One of the Marines got hurt in a convoy-- his vehicle flipped over when he swerved to avoid a civilian car as it recklessly cut him off. The next day he's back with us, but we're hearing words like "there will be no liberty anymore; none of you will drive anywhere... we don't want you getting hurt" etc.

Classic knee jerk, irrational reaction to something beyond our control. Sometimes I want to slap them silly and yell in their faces that if God wanted us dead the next mortar would hit us and then all their stupid, obfuscated, enraging rules and inconsistently enforced standards would be worth nothing more than a pile of... what's left of us.

But tonight I'm too crushed to slap anybody. I don't even find my habitual self-doubt in place. I've spent most of the day feeling the deep and ruinous frustration of this place, of these people. I've cried alone when I thought no one else was around.

The rain is already starting to patter the ground. Vast underground ant colonies pass under my feet as I make my way to the basketball court. The ants scatter at the falling water; they always seem to me like it's the first time they've been wet: their running is manic, their level of organization something I always misapprehend.

I lay down in the middle of the court. I don't even kneel first, or roll down. I just collapse there and the minor pain of the ungiving surface just isn't enough to register with me. It doesn't matter when my heart hurts so bad, when all I can think to say to God is "Jesus help..." inbetween flashes of a pain I don't understand.

I just lay there, repeating myself. I place my boonie cover over my forehead at first, then toss it aside and let the warm little droplets land and slide wherever they want. The drops of rain tickle my closed eyelids. My cammies get soaked, and even though I know that only means I'll be a humid mess later, I don't care. I don't care.

The spear-shafts of lightning are immense. They criss-cross insanely fast accross the length of the crescent before plunging down to smite the earth with their familiar, fearsome roar.

I'm gonna call one of my friends tonight. It's her birthday.

...

Later, still damp.

I wrangle a phone from the masses and I can't wait to implement my plan of many days. I'm going to sing happy birthday over the phone from Kuwait. Tone-deaf over the phone like anybody, and I'm going to do it. The first time I call the operator interrupts and cutts me off just as her voicemail sounds-- wherever this operator is, please miss, stop messing about-- and I have to hang up and dial again. Not a problem if I were in the first world, but I have to rout my calls now, dial obscure locations in the US and have them transfer me. Automated menus, operators paid minimum wage.

I sing to the voicemail. Tone deaf and suddenly self-conscious in a room full of rowdy players, I don't quit. I throw in a blessing and hang up, and sit so no one can see me.

...

On the slab the rain is kind. It is warm, like tears except they don't bring sadness with them, but delicate and profound strength. I have been kissed like this.

...

Real men won't quit when they know it counts.

I borrow Stan's phone card, since mine lost its mind. She picks up. I tell her I'm going to sing happy birthday to her but she giggles-- a little laugh slaps me with a smile even this far away-- and says she just listened to the message. I almost sing again anyway just to show her that no indignity is too base for me to undertake twice on her behalf, but there's other things to say. When phone cards and busy schedules conspire, time is precious.

"I don't turn 29 for another five or six minutes," she says.

I laugh. "Trying to hold on to 28 for all it's worth?"

"Not really. I didn't like 28."

Not like 28? I ask her what she means. Apparently she didn't like 27 either.

"Now hold on," I say. "Near the end of 27 we met, and I'd say that makes it a pretty good year by any stretch!" and I'm already laughing at myself. Already laughing.

I am a conspirator-- if it must be known-- and I conspired with a mutual friend to get her a present. Halfsies gets good when you're both buying for a friend you love enough to get them something that says "people who know my heart and love it bought me this." It's a necklace, not just any old piece, but scandalously beautiful. My favorite ninja picked it out herself.

"I'm going shopping soon to pick out an outfit that I can wear the necklace with," she says.

"oh...." and I'm always in a rush at the end when we talk. It's the exact opposite of being crushed by months of foul speech from ignorant men who hate your bravery and love of life. With calls like this there's an abundance I feel, something that wells up within me. A blessing. I only have a few seconds left and in keeping with my quirky outspoken-mindedness I'm counting down

"Five, four, three, two, and Jesus bless you today. Bye, J."

...

If only there was more rain. This place would be so green.

I wallow there, soaking wet. It's serious this prayer for help. It's all here-- me, that is. Pick through it. Sort by name or number. There's a lot here I see I'm not comfortable with. I can't change it. I need this help. I can't even imagine making a phone call today without this. There isn't anything abundant in me that's worth... I just don't know how to say it.

He doesn't leave me there. His rain, His crescent-shaped storm of darkness and skylit fire. He puts me together, gives me the only gift that really scandalizes, the only thing that's really beautiful enough to share, the one thing that cures the pain instead of just making it stop a while.

His love.

"Go call, son."

...

:D

Dear Family and Friends:

Something serious for once,

My wrist watch was stolen a few days ago. It's one of those fancy new models that stores information, and I had most of your phone numbers in it. It was sort of a portable/compact contact list.

Warning: If any of you receive calls telling you that I'm wounded, captured, or dead, these calls are FALSE. Even someone claiming to be part of the Department of Defense, no matter how credible their information, is lieing to you. The process by which family members are notified of a service member's adverse status does not include phone calls.

That being said, I'm very sorry if any of you receive 'prank' phone calls as a result of my failure to retain the watch.

love,

:D

The day has finally arrived,

Most of Alpha Co. is leaving late tonight. I'm left with my new favorite sergeant and a bunch of new guys.

Anyone know any cats with the last name "Tran"? I've managed to work with no fewer than four since my first activation two years ago. They're strange. I mean "something's disconnected up there" strange. One guy I knew was over here for OIF 1 and refused to put his gas mask on during all the bio/chem alerts the troops experienced just prior to the invasion. A couple months later he decided he was tired of carrying his rifle around and left it out there. Er, *somewhere*. It was eventually found by a Seal Team unit and shipped home.

In case this isn't apparent to some of you, Marines *are* actually married to their rifles. Unless it's in an armory, it's with you all the time. You even have to sleep with it inside your sleeping bag so no one can take it without "getting through you" first.

I've never seen anyone lose a rifle to an "enemy," even in practice combat ops where other Marines are playing the opposing forces. The only people who steal rifles are senior staff members, like our 1st Sgt, which means if I didn't like the guy before for all the grief he's piled on us, this little filching habbit of his hasn't helped.

Okay i'm not going to pretend to have anything witty or important to say.

God bless,

:D

Dear Family and Friends:

I've been a Marine for 1,620 days, 17 hours, and 36 minutes. I hope I remember what it was like for the first 1,095 days the rest of my life (before I made Corporal).

...

Today the Marines are being taken up to "the rock," a section of the base where there's a barber shop, post exchange, etc. They're all crammed in the bus that's waiting on the gravel road. I've just gotten done talking with the Sergeant I so politely tussled with last night. We exchange civil but meaningless discourse. I head towards the bus, needing a haircut myself.

I've been damp all day-- the rain here is nothing less than Champion grade these days. Even when I'm not out wallowing in it, it's hard to stay dry. If anyone had asked me at that moment whether I cared if I accidentally tripped and fell headlong into the mud, I might have shrugged indifferently. As it turns out (keep reading :) it was a good mood to be in.

Ever see Napoleon Dynamite? It's a movie you need to see. If you ever felt awkward and misunderstood ever, watch it. It's like seeing your most embarrassing moment over and over again. It hurts so good.

First, I Ieave the office and step into a puddle, foolishly thinking it's only a few inches deep. Turns out it's a small trench the Sea Bees had been digging and my left boot disappears in a gush of dirty water and mud.

"Tight," I whisper to myself.

Ahead of me are the HESCO barriers. HESCO is a Texan company that produces a very ingenious form of barrier for the military. It's comprised of a cube-shaped wire frame with a synthetic fiber lining. Fill it with sand and it becomes an oversized sand bag. If any of you could take a tour of bases over here you'd see these things lined up by the thousands in varying sizes. It's a very effective way to limit the explosive "kill" radius of indirect enemy fire.

There's an opening between the H. barriers just between me and the bus. In a moment of inspired leadership-- yes, i did actually decide this was a good idea in a split second-- I decide to run headlong at the barrier, smack into it, and in so doing reap a chuckle or two from the Lance Corporals on the bus. They're sitting there in the damp and stinky bus interior making their best Sardine impression. They need a laugh.

I'm running, my boots are slogging through the mud, and I hit the barrier at just the right angle to glance off it-- it's just this silly rifle I carry is a factor I hadn't allowed for. The carrying handle snags the barrier, the barrel and front sight assembly snap into the inside of my left knee ---oooouuch...--- and there I am.

Making out with the mud.

"ooohhhh..." I whine audibly. "DANGIT!!! I JUST CLEANED MY RIFLE YESTERDAY!!!"

I stand up. Peals of laughter are erupting from the bus. My rifle is stuccoed with mud, as am I.

I board the bus, standing there in front of two dozen smiling faces. I try to look like a cat that just fell out of a tree and pretends no one saw it happen. I yell in my best Drill Instructor voice

"I am an NCO-- Non-Commissioned Officer of Marines and I WILL NOT BE LAUGHED AT!!!"

They wail, they squeal, they writhe in their chairs. I see teeth and smiles from ear to ear. I grab the rank on my collar for emphasis and gesture like a true nincompoop. Their mirth is unquenchable.

"I didn't see it..." Chelsea complains. "Oh God I wish I'd seen it! How did it happen?!?!"

In the midst of the explanation provided by red-faced witnesses, I slam my rifle/stucco combo down on the floor.

"Reallllly?" I ask.

I walk off the bus. I walk back through the barriers, get a good ten yards away, about face in the mud and face the tinted windows of the bus.

"All you Nasties watching? I wouldn't want anyone to miss it! We good?"

A muffled chorus "yesssss" comes from the bus. I can see indistinct profiles from inside the tinted windows.

I run. I smack the barrier. I throw myself a bit further, end up rolling through the mud into a larger puddle. I jump up and board the bus, repeating my earlier tirade to the letter. The Navy bus driver is mortified. I drip wet sand unrepentantly.

Cackle, cackle, cackle :]

...

Later, at my new favorite watering hole (the Green Bean) an Air Force officer is sitting at the two tiny circular tables with a bunch of civilian contractors. I don't hear a single word they're saying. I'm too busy laughing with my buddies. Getting out of the bus, I smacked my head on the door frame. This was unintentional, just like the first fall, and we're having our fun.

"Excuse me, Marine," the officer interjects. "What's the red patch on your uniform for?"

"It signifies my Military Occupational Specialty designation as that of an In-Flight Missile Repair Technician, Sir."

This is total B.S. and I'm a bit confused in that instant as he doesn't even seem to have heard the preposterous words that just escaped my lips.

"Also, sir," I continue, "It's awarded to Marines who are qualified as Door Gunners on the Space Shuttle."

But he's trying to interrupt me and I don't catch what he's saying before I finish the last bogus explanation.

"Excuse me, sir?" I ask.

"Try again, Marine."

He hasn't smiled yet. What a dork.

"Actually, sir, it signifies us as the HIV-Positive platoon. It tells all the desert-hotties to stay away."

"Try again, Marine."

This guy isn't smiling. He's like a boring broken record. I'm holding my second mocha for the day-- my arm was twisted by my buddies and the Hadji behind the counter-- which signifies shots 4-6 for the day. I figuratively regard the first few ounces of chocolatey-beany goodness as "the party," the last few ounces as "Full Self-Destruction." I'm not in a place where I can respond to his perturbed inquiry.

"It signifies me as a Landing Support Specialist, Sir."

"Thank you, Marine," the officer says. I look at the civilians. They're smiling, even though he isn't, and I'm struck for a moment, in awe actually, of how large and dentally unsound their teeth seem.

"Sure, sir. You'd believe the most boring explanation."

I leave, instinctively watching the eave of the door as my head still hurts from my encounter with the bus. It's about six inches above my head and I'm not in danger. I'm giggling so furiously at my own expense that I almost trip on the stairs.

I hear the officer mutter an exasperated "ugh... MARINES..." as I leave.

Boo-hoo, Air Farce.

...

:D

Oh. I almost forgot. I'm in Kuwait now. I let that out in one of the last emails. It's like Iraq, except it doesn't smell bad, it rains, there's more coffee/internet/foofy things to do, and well, that's it. There's still a big flight line to run here. Oh, and there's no mortars or rockets falling in my general vicinity anymore. The phone system sucks, but I suppose trading good connections for less immanent danger is okay, right?

:]