The Gun Line MkIII

Green 3…

No, not me, I’m fine…

You remember Johann Lippowitz, the mime who performed a rather innovative interpretation of Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn”?

Well, it looks like he made it to the big stage…  With a twist!

If I were an artist with a song that I felt was a heartfelt ouPouring of my heart, and some guy turned it into a parody, I’d be a little miffed…

Kudos for Ms. Imbruglia for being such a wonderful sport.  A win – win for both of them!!!

I love the Wikipedia…

Among my many and varied interests is the study of cryptids, that is, the study of a creature “whose existence has been suggested but lacks scientific support”…  Bigfoot, the Yeti, the Michigan Dog Man, Mothman, the Loch Ness monster, that sort of stuff…

During the slow hours in the CP, I’ll hit the Wikipedia and see what other folks have come up with in regards to regional critters that have been seen, but not identified, and the legends that are created in their wakes…

One of my dreams is to hike through the Olympic Range, looking for the hundreds of airplanes that have gone down in the region, and see if I can score a Bigfoot sighting!

Anybody have a favorite critter that they’ve seen, thought they’ve seen, or would like to explore?

I hate running…

I would rather heft a 70 pound pack on my back and “ruck” or “hump” 12 miles over hilly terrain than put on t-shirt, running shorts, and “go-fasters” and run 2 miles on a flat course…

When I was a young Marine infantryman, I did run, but only because I had to.  I never go into the groove of running.  I got bored with it, and it hurt!

Towards the end of my Marine career, I was fortunate to have SSGT Tony Molino as a leader.  He recognized that it took a greater degree of motivation to get me psyched up to run that the average bear.  Because he knew me well, he came up with a plan that turned my sense of the romantic into an effective weapon.

“Imagine,” he said one day, as we were slogging through our daily five mile jog through the back streets and wildlands of Camp Margarita (aboard Camp Pendleton), “That you are running with the Scottish kings of old…”

I’m pretty sure that the likes of William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, and the Douglas Clan Chieftains never put on their Adidas or New Balance running shoes for a quick jog around the castle.  They had other, more important, things on their minds, and they really weren’t kings…  But the idea was implanted, and- can you believe it?- it worked!  As I ran, I fired up my imagination, and it wasn’t long before I felt the presence of my Scottish ancestors at either side, with the Pipes skirling in the wind, giving my feet wings.  My mind would not allow my body to weaken in the company of such heroes, and I fairly sailed through my daily runs.  Even my Captain, CAPT Evan Davies, would come with us, and see me cruising along, my mind across the sea and 800 years away.  he asked Tony what was afoot, and Tony simply said, “He’s running with Kings.”

But time passed…  Tony fell to cancer, CAPT Davies left after his tour, and I left the ranks of the Corps.

After all those years, I ate like an Infantryman, even though I didn’t burn it off doing infantryman things.  I grew fat, out of shape, and my priorities skewed…

My long time readers have followed my journey, my fight to come to this place, to serve once more on foreign soil, in this last Great Military Adventure.  I regaled you with the pride of dropping enough weight to get back into uniform, and the struggle to learn the new technologies and differing Army procedures as a Guardsman.  I told you of my pride in earning the right to wear a combat patch…

There was one task left for me to complete…

I had to take an Army Physical Fitness Test to get into the Guard.  That test, well, perhaps it might not have withstood the scrutiny of higher headquarters, but because I was running towards the sound of the guns, instead of running away, any subterfuge was dismissed because folks knew they had a soldier whose heart was in the right place.

Fast forward to this morning…

My morning PT group was formed with the express goal of getting everybody in shape for the APFT.  We spent countless hours working on push-up, sit -ups, and running.  I, of course, am the oldest guy in the group, and I was probably the most out of shape, with the farthest to go in getting back in shape.  It has been a hell of a fight…  I set for myself a goal:  If I passed the APFT, I would allow myself to enjoy a small cinnamon roll from Cinnabon’s…

This morning, SSG “Elder” and I went to the gym, and there he did admister the Army Physical Fitness Test.

I had trouble with a “dead zone”, the first four inches after pushing off of the “down” position…  In the past, I just couldn’t break through it…  I usually crapped out at about 24 push-ups (30 is passing for my age group)…  That was enough to sap my motivation a bit.  My form would suffer, and no matter how hard I thought I was trying, I couldn’t get past that barrier…

Not today…

I started out, and felt strong all of the way through.  My form was perfect, and I blew through 25 like nobody’s business…

…And somewhere, faintly, in the back of my mind, in the deep recesses of my imagination, I heard it…  The faintest sound…  The striking up of the Pipes…  The first hum of the drones…

I blew through 30, and fought hard to see if I could keep going, and finally gave up the ghost at 34 push-ups – a personal best…

Sit-ups were next, and I had already proved to myself that the 31 required would be no problem.  As I rounded out an honest 35, the Pipes in my mind drew closer, and the phantom Piper blew the low “E”, set to Pipe a reel or a jig…

One event left…  my nemesis…  The 2 mile run…

I stretched out, and then looked to SSG “Elder”, with his stop watch in hand.  “Are you ready?” he asked…

But he and I weren’t the only ones there…

(William Wallace was a nobleman, a knight who spoke Latin and french, and probably little Gaelic…  He never wore a kilt in his life, and rode horseback most of the time…  Just so you know…)

But into my ear whispered a phantom, the image of Sir William, as played by Mel Gibson (”Braveheart”, do ye ken?), and he would run the very ridges of Scotland, from highest Hi’land Peak, to the very streets of Glasgow and Edinburgh- the rascal- simply because it was his pleasure to do so…

“So, laddie,” the spirit of William said into my ear, “Are ye up for a wee jaunt?  What say ye, Bobbie?”

“Aye, William, if this young pup thinks he can keep up!” Robert the Bruce said, just the other side of me…

(When you’ve the likes of this pair, you don’t dare say no, nor do you fiddle with the moment, as absurd as it might be…)

The Piper struck up a lively air, and the race was on!

I started out strong, knowing that the ten or so seconds I needed for the end of the race should be made up now, since I had the quick energy…  I needed to come in at 18 minutes, 40 seconds to pass.  I had hovered around 19 minutes even…

At the quarter mile mark, somebody had gathered the rest of the band, and my mind was filled with the full resounding glory of the Pipes and Drums, as well as the panting breath and bawdy quips of the two ghosts who ran on either side of me…

The finish line lay about a quarter mile ahead of me, and I saw SSG “Elder” waiting at the line.  “Let’s go, lad, you’ve got a bit left in you!” William growled.  SSG “Elder” began to run towards me.  He reached my side, and then reversed direction, “Push it, SGT B!”

100 meters, with SSG “Elder” exhorting me onwards, Robert the Bruce offering encouragement, and Cousin Billy threatening to put his claidheamh mòr (Claymore sword) up where the sun don’t shine iff’n I didn’t get my arse in gear in short order!

50 meters, all four of us sprinting for the prize!

25 meters, and I poured it on, the Pipes screaming in my ears!

Finish, with a war cry that they heard at the gates of Castle Stirling!

The time: 18 minutes 19 seconds…

I had passed the Army Physical Fitness Test…

It took a little while to compose myself, as I staggered about, trying to catch my wind, as SSG “Elder” looked on with approval.

“Good job, lad.” William said, “Ye done well.” And he and Robert drifted away, to fade back into memory…

And I caught another presence, just a hint…

“Thanks, Tony.” I whispered.

I felt a smile, and it too was gone.  I miss my friend, but I know that he is somebody’s guardian angel, and he checks up on my every now and again.  Call me crazy, but it’s a comfort…

SSG “Elder” confirmed the score…  And then, in keeping with my personal prize, took me to Cinnabon, and bought me a cup of coffee…

…And a small cinnamon roll…

Okay, now I can come home…

(My observation of the anniversary of the D-Day landings is a quiet one:  My Grandfather was responsible for a number of the destroyers providing off-shore fire support for the invasion forces.  His contribution was as important as anyone’s but there are others’ whose stories of personal fortitude deserve to be celebrated in a louder voice (on this particular day), and so I shall tip my hat to Grandfather, and let other tales be told…)

At the tail end of every deployment, one of the rituals that the deployed soldier, sailor, airman, and Marine must perform is the “culling of the crap”…

For some reason, we seem to amass a collection of assorted health and comfort items during our stay on foreign shores:  Posters that livened the otherwise naked walls of our CHUs, letters, knick knacks that were iconic of the support we received over the course of the mission, and the well-loved debris of a time spent far from hearth and home.

Most of it is theater specific, and is boxed up to be passed on to the folks who relieve us, or left out in a public area to be scavenged by our fellow inmates…  All done under the auspices of the original sender, who approved the idea of succoring the poor schmucks who have to stay in resident in this armpit after we have kicked the dust from our boots and departed this blighted land on silver (or grey, or green) wings…

But there are things with which we would not part, and these are packed up in various containers, and either stowed in the CONUS-bound CONEX boxes with the Company’s gear, or delivered into the hands of the United States Postal Service for transport back to the World.

Yesterday, I delivered one such container to the Main Post Office here on JBB.

Entering the building, I first filled out the Customs Declaration Form, and then made my way to the sign that said:

WAIT HERE TO BE CALLED BY THE NEXT POSTAL INSPECTOR.

And then heard a surly “Next!”

The woman who called was obviously having a bad day.  Her face bore the expression of somebody who did not enjoy here job, was prepared to lambaste the miscreant who dared to flaunt the Rules and Regulations of the United States Postal Service, and had obviously been dealing with the worst that the United States Army had to offer.

“Put the box on the table.” She ordered.

“Good morning!” I exclaimed as I lifted the black footlocker onto the waiting tabletop.  (Devious soul that I am, I learned that a person who is determined to have a bad day is absolutely infuriated when they are forced to deal with a perky and cheerful fellow like your truely.   “Killing with kindness” – not just for breakfast anymore!)

She grunted, and then ordered me to turn the box around so that it might be emptied of all of its contents for inspection.  (I pity the poor soul who tries to send his assortment of whips, leather tutus, and ball gags back home!!!)

She continued to be terse as we emptied the various items out of the box: CDs, little stuffed animals, extra uniforms, a few coffee cups, my GPS unit, until we reached the bottom of the box, and she saw a layer of red flannel, trimmed with white fur, with little golden bells, contained in a protective garment bag.

She lifted the garment out of the bottom of the box, and recognized it for what it was, and I saw the realization of both the garment, her own conduct, and the implications…

She was being a sourpuss to Santa Claus…  Himself (incognito, of course!)

Santa and two Bonecrushers - Christmas in Balad 2008

The flash of Yuletide Red caught the eye of one of her fellow inspectors, a younger man with a more amicable personality, who watched the proceeding with interest…  He made eye contact with me, cocking an eyebrow to see what would happen next…

I couldn’t resist the opportunity…

MY inspector had to make sure that I wasn’t trying to smuggle anything out of the country in my Santa Suit (like a T-72 tank or .50 caliber machine gun), so she had to actually pat the suit down, and with each palpitation, the bells on the coat tinkled merrily.  I thought I saw the beginnings of a carefully restrained smile, and I even think that she gave the coat an extra shake, just to hear the tinkle of Christmas again.

“Did you buy it?” She asked, her demeanor rising through 32 degrees Fahrenheit, and ascending, “How much did it cost?”

“No.” I said, lowering my voice just an eensy bit, “It was made specifically for me.  The cost is paid when I put it on.”

She looked at me, “I have a certain reputation to uphold…” I explained.

The other Inspector sat back in his chair and began to grin.

My inspector looked me in the eyes, not sure to believe what she was hearing, but, boy, did she need something to brighten her day, even just a teeny bit.  (My Mother actually crafted the suit, as a functional garment, to last for years, and her workmanship is of the highest caliber…  But I am sure that, knowing Mom, she was channeling the essence of Santa’s elven tailors when she put THIS rig together.)

“My tailors have been doing this for a very long time.” I said, allowing just the hint of the deep base tones I use when I portray the Jolly Old Elf, and holding my finger to the side of my nose, causing the other Inspector to almost roll out of his chair in silent laughter.

“Uh-huh.” She said, and continued to inspect the suit, and tinkling the golden bells (a few more times than she really had to…)

We loaded the box back up, and she sealed it, affixed the required documentation and stickers to the outside of the box, and then gestured, with a wave of the hand that was far less surly than her original demeanor, where I should take the box for payment and shipping.  Her whole attitude was warmer.

I thanked her, and moved off to the counter, where I handed the box, suit and all, to the clerk behind the counter.  I paid the postage, and then left.

On my way out, I veered past the woman who had inspected my box, “Merry Christmas.” I said, in a low voice, and I meant it.  I didn’t think she heard me, and I kept walking.

… But just before I walked beyond earshot, almost at the exit, I heard a very quiet voice:

“Merry Christmas…  Santa…”

You know, every time a bell rings, that’s the sound of an angel earning its wings, right?

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a Good Night…

Merry Christmas!!!

Had that been one of my gunners, his team leader had better get to him first… To prevent me from doing the lad harm… He and his team leader could count of carrying the main and secondary barrels of that gun until I got tired, and, back in the day, that took a very long time…

Hat tip to the Armorer…

Memorial Day…  A day to remember those who have gone before.

Particularly poignant here in Iraq.  It’s never too far from my mind, the fact that we have lost brothers and sisters on this very post.  Having been here for the better part of a year, and being the curious soul that I am, I know most of the place where, in times past, a lucky rocket or mortar round impacted, snuffing out the life of American warriors.  The scars of the shrapnel still pock the walls, despite the best efforts of the Facilities Maintenance workers to hide the damage.  I walk by one such place every day.

We carry on, however, and try to push the awareness out of our minds, and continue about the day’s business, ignoring the fact that we still face the same dangers, although our ability to defend against such things has increased considerably.

We do remember, however…

Memorial Day, 2009, began for me at 0530, when I gathered with the other Headquarters Bubbas for morning P.T.  I’d like to say that I lead these sessions, but the truth is that I am simply a participant, trying to wage a personal fight against a once expansive waistline and my “advanced years”.  It has been a hell of a fight, to that I will admit.

We gathered at Holt Stadium, for the running of the Joint Base Balad 5K fun run.  5 kilometers, not a far distance for a young warrior in his prime; barely enough distance to find his or her stride…  A hell of a long way for a old dog who doesn’t “run” so much as “lumber” along.

The race starts, and the pack moves out, the human greyhounds in the lead, the occasional runners in the middle, and then come the old, the overweight, the not-so-fast folks, like me, who simply plod, head down, moving forward, forward, out of the stadium, onto the streets of JBB, winding our ways through the side-streets and tributaries, stretching out as the seconds tick by.

I’ve made progress, though.  Through the encouragement of my amigos, I have stepped from the mind-numbing pain of the out-of-shape, to the normal aches and pains of the relatively conditioned.  The pain is there, but it is no more than is to be expected, and my mind is free to step into the “zone”, where the feet and legs are on autopilot, and the mind can go someplace else as the miles tick by.  I’m not a fast runner, but I am a steady one.  I am by myself on this trip.  In some ways this is good, in some ways bad.  I admit that I miss the formation runs with my fellow Marines, but, as has been pointed out to me:  I’m not in the Corps anymore…

I keep my pace, pleased at my progress, one foot in front of the other, dogtags clicking out a soothing rythymn as they click against my chest, and I realize that the end is near, the road to the stadium, and the finish line, is just up ahead!

I pull in:  One final lap around the stadium’s running track…  I’m tired, but moving well.  I reach the  halfway mark, and a voice calls out my name:

“Come on SGT B.!  Almost there!”

It is Specalist “Firebrand”, a young, cocky Scout, a strong athlete and a determined warrior.  He finished many minutes ago, but stayed at the finish line to encourage the rest of us.

I run, beginning to feel the wane of energy, but giving a better showing of myself than would have been expected even just a month ago.

Suddenly, I see SGT Snuffy on my left, and SPC Firebrand on my right, keeping pace with me, running with me for the last turn of the race.  It reminds me of the air war in WW2, where a lone, lumbering B-17, limping home, is suddenly joined by a pair of red-tailed P51s, who keep cover to the end of the mission.

Last turn, 50 meters to go.

“If we must end, let us make such an ending as to be worthy of a song…” said Theoden, king of Rohan, to Aragorn, at the Battle at Helm’s deep.  I reach deep, and am almost surprised to find reserves of strength…

Firebrand is carrying the company guidon, the flag that identifies the Bonecrushers to the rest of the world, and if you are going carry it, you had better be on your “A game”.  Firebrand holds it out, “Put you hand on it!  We’ll finish together!” he cries.

The old wolf inside of my growls, “Give it to me, I will carry across the line!” I growl, and he hands it off.  I take it, and my feet grow wings.  I see the look of a few Air Force runners, still standing around the finish line.  They look up at astonishment at the sight of this old war horse, thundering towards them with a full head of steam, sprinting now, flanked by two younger soldiers, each shouting encouragement.  They scoot out of the way, and our trio crosses the line…  There are few who will ever appreciate what has just happened…

But the memory will remain with me, always, of the morning when I broke through another level of my mind, with two of my brothers, two of my sons running beside me, carrying the colors of my company in a glorious finish…

It was a good showing, and I even got a t-shirt out of it!

The rest of the day is spent in quiet work; the Command Post is a steady source of activity.  I help to process some of the paperwork that will get us out of this place, interrupted only by when SGT Snuffy makes an appearance:  We have a pact, he and I, to help me recondition my upper body…  When we see one another, we drop, and do ten push-ups, nose to nose.  By the end of the day, we will have knocked out 100 of the damned things, with burning arms and chests, and we do it with grins on our faces, skimming the very top of that pool of camaraderie that makes men to ridiculous things when in stalwart company… Like win battles and wars…  SGT Snuffy doesn’t need to do this…  He does it for me, for whatever reward he finds in helping me become stronger, a smaller indication of a large realization:  We do not need to be here.  We could have chosen to remain home, safe and sound, and let somebody else leave hearth and home, and come to this foreign land…   But we didn’t…  We are here, by our own choice…

Why?

The sun sets, and I am afforded the opportunity to complete a final task…

I am not here for glory…  There are but four tasks I needed to accomplish here in Iraq:  First, GET here.  Second, earn the right to wear a combat patch.  Third, find myself.  Fourth, play the Pipes on the battlefield  for Those Who Have Gone Before, with my Commander in attendance…

I didn’t think that I was going to forget, did you?  The Pipes are alive and well, and on the evening of Memorial Day, 2009, before the flagpole upon which flies the Colors of our Nation, I struck up, and raised to the Heavens my tribute to the Fallen, with my Captain, my Captain looking on, the sweet sounds of “Amazing Grace”…

At the end of the day, I looked back.  It was a good day.

A day of achievements.

Why?  I asked that earlier…

I will tell you.

For Them…  It is all for Them.  I am here because of the memory of so many who have laid it all on the line for the principles of Freedom, and the willingness to risk their lives for it.  I could not meet their eyes, were I not to take advantage of the youth I have left to contribute to that Cause.

I sought the moral high ground…  Not for the sake of punditry, but to be able to simply say, “I was here.”

Lafayette, we have come…

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars

And say “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.”

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words

Harry the King (COL Taur), Bedford (CPT Z) and Exeter (Snuffy),

Warwick (Dill Pickle) and Talbot (Crane), Salisbury (Jeff the Elder)  and Gloucester (Zoltan),

Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now abed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

For my part, I remember older faces, lost before this current fight.

PFC Keith Woodfork, USMC, Marine Barracks, NAS Brunswick ME, taken by a drunk driver in 1985.  He was my roommate, and best friend.

SSgt Tony “Tigger” Molino, USMC, 33 Area Camp Services Admin Chief, MCB Camp Pendleton, CA, succumbed to cancer believed to be related to Gulf War Syndrome in 1996.  He, too, was a close friend, and my immediate supervisor, whose shoes I then had to fill.  My only solace is that he accepted Christ into his life during his last hours.

I miss you, my brothers…  I mourn you to this day.  Be at peace.

Man…  Just a few short months to go until we are done with this…

Won’t be too much longer before I pen what might be the final entry on this blog, the one titled “Lessons Learned…”

We’re still here, in Iraq, doing the job, haven’t lost anyone ot enemy action, and I pray that it continues, that we bring everybody home (except for the ones who went back early, and most of them will be waiting for us at the drill hall).

As for me, this deployment looks like it has done all that I had expected…  It has prepared me to lay down the rifle with grace and on my own terms.  It has been the last Great Adventure for Sergeant B., perhaps a little anti-climactic, as the days of charging into the face of the enemy by a 40-something infantryman are long gone, and the battle seems to have shifted over to the ‘Stan.

But before It Ends, there’s a huge chunk of good news, in that I will be afforded the opportunity to take leave from this place, recharge the batteries for the final push…

Summer in Washington…

I’ll let you know when the party is.

From Yahoo’s News Feed:

State Assemblyman Pedro Nava fled Wednesday with his wife, two dogs and a cat. They tossed pictures, documents and a few days of clothes into a car and went to the home of a friend.

“I’ve learned how important preparation is in an emergency,” he said. “The public has to be prepared to move, and in Santa Barbara they are prepared. When the police squad car came through with loudspeakers telling us to leave, there was no arguing. And they will all be back.”

Just now?

There are about a gazillion risk analysts and emergency preparedness gurus tearing their hair out when predicable disasters happen, and THEN folks say, “Gee, I’ve finally learned my lesson!”

No screaming eagle shit, Batman, we’ve only been putting out warnings since Pompeii…

There are some folks out there who took my post entiltled “Privateer…”, and thought that I was beginning to pine for the combination of fast gunboats, hevy automatic weapons, and the possible monetary advantages offered to private contractors in that line of business…

Let me just say, don’t worry…  While the glamorous aspect of such an operation makes the young machine gunner’s heart go twitter patter, this old dog isn’t going ot be shipping out any time soon…  My adventures in privateering will be limited to the 16th century, along previously established guidelines…

But  like the way you all think…

In other news, spent 5 glorious days in Qatar, on a pass.  Spent the days in Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, with “Margaritaville” playing in the back of my mind.  I have since returned to Balad, and have found no new brushfires to be extinguished.  All is well, and we continue to progress towards the end of this deployment.

While in Qatar, I enjoyed the company of some fellows closer to my age.  A Lieutenant Colonel, a Major, and a Chief Warrant Officer (Jeff, Kevin, and Mike, respectively).  We watched the antics of the younger soldiers of our group (everyone who traveled together from here seemed to gravitate towards one another) in terms of attempting to secure companionship of the opposite gender, only to be shot down in glorious flames.  I very much enjoyed the opportunity to  converse with gentlemen of my same age, and learned quite a bit about the ways of the regular Army.  There’s just something about sitting around with a beer and corking good war stories.

Currently reading “Killing Rommel” by Steven Pressfield, which accounts the exploits of the British Long Range Desert Group’s mission to track down and eliminate the German Afrika Corps’ ultimate leader.

Oh, and I missed this year’s Milblog Conference…  That’s twice!!!  Maybe next year…