The Gun Line MkIII

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.