Since I got home, I really haven’t noticed any psychological after-effects of the deployment – but I didn’t experience anything “traumatic”, just a few rocket attacks that were too far away to really get my attention (exciting, yes, but not frightening)…  I don’t dive under mailboxes any deeper now than I did before we left (that behavior is a result of previous military experiences), so I think I got off lucky on that score.  My thoughts and prayers go out to the guys and gals who got a lot closer to the action than I did – THEY are the ones who need your powers of prayer, not me, I’m good, thanks…

Physically, I’ve got some VA Claims going on, two for conditions I believe were caused by the deployment, and a few where an existing condition was aggravated by the deployment, mostly falling under the category of “this is what happens when you try to keep up with folks half your age…”  Of all of them, the most worrisome is the tinnitus, which is to be expected when you live so close to the flight line that when the F-16s lift off – a pair of them, twice a day, for 10 months- the air around you crackles, and you can’t hold a shouted conversation with a fellow less than two feet away…

Emotionally, I’m doing okay…  I used a vast amount of the money from the deployment to buy the tools I will need for my education and a business project I plan on initiating about this time next year.  New desktop computer, because my old laptop needs a break…  Got the truck fixed, bought clothes, paid off bill and some expenses, stuff like that.  Maintaining overwatch on Jake, as he navigates the perils of adolescence, and keeping an eye on Katie Kat as she enters the rough waters of teenager-hood.  Trying to keep things cordial between KM6 and myself, and I think that we are being mostly successful, we’ve had more conversations filled with laughter than we have venom, which gives me hope.

I have enrolled in an Associates Degree Program for Business Administration, which I will most likely extend out to a Bachelor’s Degree, as my Montgomery GI Bill has been re-activated and will cover completely…

My support structure is very powerful, and I’m not really wanting for very much.  I’ve got a good roof over my head, food in my belly, a church to attend, friends who interact with me day by day – “normal” things that tell me that life goes on, well, “normally”, and that calms any demon in my soul.

And then there’s “Ice”..

Ice is a rescued dog.  She was left behind when a neighbor’s “guests” left in the middle of the night, leaving the dog tied under a bush.  The neighbor wasn’t prepared to deal with her, and asked if I could find a good home for her.  (I want to say, right now, that I am a sucker for a pretty face…)  A few days (and some extensive grooming later) and Ice has been welcomed into my home, and my heart.

But all is not beer and skittles at the Firebase…  The economy has taken its toll.  I had expected to find work long before now, but I just finished filing for unemployment, a step I never expected to take, but the coffers are beginning to look quite lean.  I’ve got to admit to a little exasperation…  I mean, here I am, fit, healthy, ready to work, with an impressive resume and strong work ethics, and I can’t attract the attention of an employer for love nor money, not if I want anything over and above a job that contains the phrase “Would you like fries with that?”

I realize that I could move, relocate to where the jobs are, but I don’t want to leave this place.  I certainly don’t want to leave my kids, my loved ones, or my hometown – if my reticence is my undoing, so be it, but there’s got to be something out there, I just haven’t tapped into it yet.  Hopefully, in a year, my project will kick off, and I will be fully solvent – to the point where not only cvan I walk to work, but I can employ a few of the folks in Rockford, which is something we – the town- really needs:  Local employers…

In the meantime, I’ve got to keep the lights on and the bills paid, so the search continues…

Keep me in your prayers, but know that everything is okay…  Not perfect, but much better than they could be, all things considered…

I haven’t just been sitting on my duff since I’ve been back.

I’ve been looking and applying for work.  I’ve been scheming with an old running mate to submit a business proposal that taps into a proven skill set of mine.  I’ve been in contact with a military/veteran friendly university to continue towards a BA in Business Management (the plan is to “ride out” this “economic recession” by hiding in the halls of higher learning.  I’m working with another friend of mine on an entrepreneurial venture that should come to fruition in about a year…

But there is down-time, time to plan, to think, to wait for a few of the rockets I’ve fired to go up, and then come down…

Have you seen John‘s truck?  His M38 jeep?  Beautiful machine…

Well, here’s FOB Rockford’s motor transport asset…  Not quite as beautiful right now, but give me a little time…  A 1952 Dodge M37 3/4 Weapons Carrier.

Pulling the engine on the '52 Dodge M37.

I’m pulling the engine to overhaul it…  Better take advantage of the down-time while I’ve still got it…

Jake takes a turn behind the impact wrench.

Jake working on pulling the engine.

A good father and son project…

It’s a new beginning, in many ways, beginning with what I hope is an increased sense of maturity.  I had time to think over there.  I had the chance to examine my life, and chart the “sustains” and “improves” that life’s lessons have imparted.  I came to many realizations, many epiphanies; some painful, some chagrined, some quite positive.  I’d like to think that I grew up a bit, which is a helluva thing to say at the ripe old age of 44, but better late than never, eh?

The greatest realization is in the field of self-identification.  I’ll not bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I shifted gears:  from the artificial identity imparted by the Marine Corps (which is great if one is surrounded by the total Marine support infrastructure, but not so much once you leave the protective arms of the Corps) to a confidence to just be me, to be “Bill”, and take strength in who I am as a person, and in what I believe, who I want to be.

I am content to be me, to be Bill…

Not to discount the experiences I have endured in the past.  I will always be “veteran Marine Sergeant B.”, I will always be “Iraq War Veteran Army Sergeant B.” – and proud to have earned the titles, but I don’t need to define myself in such terms, not every day.  I have earned my bones, but there is so much more to me, and I am confident to be “just” Bill.

There were casualties, however.  In a years-long campaign to try to live life is something approaching a stable manner, I pushed off on others some the responsibilities I should have shouldered myself.  While I was out being Superman, and saving the world, I didn’t take care of the business right in front of me, and the person who I should have been working with as a partner was forced to step into a situation she neither expected, wanted, or was really prepared to assume.  In such circumstances, disaster was the only logical result, as the structure of our relationship fell apart through a series of changes that caused major rifts on a fundamental scale, culminating in the tragedy of divorce.  The fault is shared, but I was the one who blew the final bridge, and I did a bang up job of it.  If there is a bright spot in all of this, it is that KM6, despite the pain and stress this has caused, has agreed to attempt to maintain an amicable relationship, for the sake of the children, and her fortitude in the face of all of this deserves the highest accolades I can voice.  I’ve read many accounts when one “ex” uses this public forum of ours to vent about the other “ex”…  I am not one of them.  We knew, going into this deployment, that we were through.  At that time, KM6 was well armed with a General Power of Attorney, and she could have completely blown my world out of the water – selling my civilian truck for a dollar, selling my military truck for a song, racking up debts out of sheer spite, and initiated any of a thousand other actions to make my life a living hell – but she didn’t.  She took on the challenges of a single parent like the spouse of any other deployed soldier; she paid the mortgage, kept the lights on, kept the kids fed, dealt with the cats, all while holding down a full time job and going to school for her Master’s Degree (which she has just recently completed the academic phase, and needs to take the State Board Exam in October, and complete a specified period of OJT (my term, not hers) to finally be able to realize her own dreams in terms of self-fulfillment and professional achievement.  (Her Master’s Thesis was received by her instructor with not a single correction, and has been said to be one of those submittable that future student should use as a reference of how to do it right.)  Despite our differences, I am very proud of her, and it is my intent to support her in any way, shape , or form as she recovers from this morass of misery she has been forced to endure.  She kept the faith, and I am eternally grateful for her efforts, though I was not deserving of them.  She is a hero, and I lift her up as such.

At the same time, another face entered the picture, and I will tell you of her later, when time has passed, and wounds have healed a bit more, for she was also instrumental in my getting my head and tail re-wired, but more on that later…

So now, I am home, living in my mother’s basement until KM6 closes on her new home, and I can move back into my previous residence.  I’m looking for work, have a few irons in the fire, and seemed to have weathered this deployment well.  Last night I took my harmonicas down to the Harvest Moon (one of our two watering holes) and spent four hours jamming with four other musicians.  We sounded a little rough at first, but there is potential.  We won’t ever go further than being a local club band, and I really don’t think we want to, because it’s about the music, and giving our local friends and neighbors a chance to tap their feet and get away from the outside world for a while, and that’s the best reason to make music in the first place…

So, right now, I am content, as I reconnect with old friends, rebuild the bridges that can be rebuilt, and fire up The Gun Line for the next Great Adventure:

…  The rest of my life…

I was one of the Command Post guys…  I had a set schedule, I didn’t go out on missions.  I stayed behind when my guys went out and I manned the various communication systems that monitored them when they went out.  I watched them roll, and I waved to them as they headed out of the motor pool on their way to the Entry Control Point (ECP).

And I worried about them…  I prayed every time they went out, that when I came back on shift the next day, that there wouldn’t be anything other than the list of required checkpoints and the annotation that “BC13 RP JBB 0200 23/6, 34/33.”

Most of the times that was true, and even when there was a “significant” event, all my guys made it back inside the wire, a fact for which I praise God, the small unit leaders that motivated the men, and the men themselves…

Not bad for a bunch of “weekend warriors”, I’m thinking…

How was life over there?  Not really that bad, actually.

That isn’t to say that it was a lark, or a walk in the park, but everybody stepped up to the plate, did their jobs with a minimum of angst or drama…  We came to play ball, and we brought our game faces on.

I could complain about a great many things.  I could gripe about the institutional food.  I could bitch about the months on end where there were no days off.  Sure, there were personality clashes, and there was the usual dysfunctional disconnects that you find in any unit that isn’t used to the ways of an Active duty unit, but, all in all, those memories fade as each day passes, and I prefer to concentrate on what I have seen in the “big” picture.

I saw every indication that it is gettiong close to the time for us to hand Iraq fully back over to the Iraqis.  The “insurgents” are treated as criminals, and everyday another force of Iraqis steps up to the plate to replace a CF unit walking the streets of the major towns.  I can’t tell you that they will be entirely successful, but I can say that I think that we are seeing the end of this, and it’s on a good note.  America can be proud of what we have done here.  I may not agree with all of the decisions made during the course of this, but, all in all, we have done good things, and I am proud to have been a part of it.

So, as compared to many, I did have an easy time of it, when my deployment experience is compared to many (I’m an old fart, my best work was done in support of the actual warfighters anyway…) when taken at face value…

The real conflict was actually taking face in my own head, and in my life on the domestic side of the pond, and that is where “Sergeant B”‘s story is found…

… More later, as it settles in my brain housing group…

That’s it:  Mission Accomplished.  End of Mission.  Rounds Complete.

I’m home…  No more soldiering for Sergeant B.  It’s over…

Or is it?

It was once thought that once a soldier had returned from whatever war he/she was fighting, that everything would go back to the way it was, as if nothing had changed.  We now know that that is not the case; the experience of warfare changes a person, regardless if they were on the front lines, eyeball to eyeball with the bad guys, or sitting in the Command Post listening to comrades dealing with what they had to deal with on the roads of Iraq…

Now that I am back in my home town, I am slowly getting myself used to the idea of being in a place filled with the verdant scenes of greenery.  Where the cars are not expected to suddenly explode.  Where the folks I bid farewell in the morning can reasonably be expected to return at night, there not being the threat of IEDs on the side of the road.  Where I can read the street signs and billboards.re I will have to find useful employment and get on with the living of life outside of the tan and dusty environs of Iraq.

As the deployment passed, I had the time to ponder my life.  I had the time to look at myself forthrightly and honestly, and resolve that this deployment would be a turning point, a synchronization of the different influences in my life.  When this train of thought settles and clears, I will expound further upon it.

There are also kudos to be given:  The support shown by folks willing to provide comfort to a deployed soldier was humbling and gratifying.  The stalwart efforts from unlikely sources deserves mention.  The efforts of both organizations and individuals must be mentioned in its own post, which is quickly forthcoming.

And I will keep you appraised on this part of the journey:  Of the recovery and reintegration.  Of lessons learned personally, and of opinions on the effectiveness of our activities in Iraq, as seen my my own eyes.

I will share with you the sights and sounds of my deployment, and beg you to keep in your hearts the knowlege that there are still brothers and sisters over there, in harm’s way, who continue to need your prayers and support as they ply the dangerous avenues of Iraq, though those very avenues are beginning to become less perilous, and we can begin to see the end of this portion of our Great War on Terror.

Stay tuned, dear readers, the Adventure Continues…

But for now, I am home, safe and sound, with all of my pieces and parts intact.  By the grace of God, my eyes did not see the horrors of war.  I was never required to Pipe a brother or sister to Glory – the Highlander Battalion suffered no fatalities – we brought ‘em all back alive…

Sgt. B.

Rockford, WA

Green 3…

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…

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!!!

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.

Do you remember when a tyrant forced his will upon you, and forced your sons to fight, while his own sons took your daughters from the streets, and violated them?

Iraq!  Do you remember when your army was confused, and dared not to protest against the crimes of a dictator?

Do you remember when your sons went to war with only the shirts upon their backs?

Iraq!  Do you remember when there was no one to turn to when the electricity went out?  When there was no water?  When there was no justice?

Do you?

Iraq!  Do you see now the proud faces of your sons, as they stand, shoulder to shoulder with us, wearing the proper equipment for their jobs?

Do you see their pride?  Do you see their professionalism?

Iraq!  Do you see the new construction?  Do you see the children going to school?  Do you see the protestors speaking out without fear?

Do you see the Americans stepping into the background, as Iraqi Policemen, and Iraqi soldiers protect the rights of the Iraqi people?

Iraq!  Do you see the joy on the faces of your people, as they wave their purple-stained fingers after casting their votes?

Do you see the criminals in your country being reported by Iraqi citizens to Iraqi authorities, and then arrested by Iraqi law enforcement officers, and tried in Iraqi courts by Iraqi judges?

Do you see?  Do you see?

Iraq!  We are almost ready to go home.  We have given you our sons, our daughters, our sweat, our tears, our blood, so that you might have this day!

Iraq!  You are a good people, you are a strong people.  Cast away those who would deny you your future!  We do not rule over you, we offer you our help as you finish this part of your struggle!

Iraq!  Do you see?

We do…