On Monday I had the unique opportunity to visit not only a court room, but also testify for my "brother-in-arms" Cpl. James Whitney. Whitney and I shared many an acre of Iraqi soil and have concluded that any Marine's that chew that much sand together are bonded as brothers indefinitely. Unfortunately our skills and proficiency in "killing" and "maiming" are not understand by the civilian community at large. Whitney was involved in an incident at a local bar called Hammerheads and like most Marines engaged in life outside the Marine Corps was put in an awful, if not controversial decision, to exercise his right to not only "bare arms," but utilize the proficiency of close combat to engage 3 individuals in said club. An attempt was made to escort my brother from Hammerheads and without prior knowledge, the bouncers came up against someone who exercises not only a high skill level of close combat proficiency, but also an blood-alcohol level of 2.1 or higher.
The situation unfolds, as relayed by the prosecution, as one in which Whit exercised extreme prejudice when dealing with the three accosting members of said bar. They approached Cpl. Whitney and asked that he remove himself from their location and no longer return. This situation would have been deescalated had the members of the staff of the location, given Whitney an opportunity to leave on his own account. However, the staff decided that physical force was necessary immediately to remove him from the area.
Cpl. Whitney was grabbed by the first individual and in a split-second decision, he reached for the blade he had stowed in his pocket and proceeded to exercise his skills and proficiency to execute perfect Marine Corps Martial Arts (MCMAP, Marine Corps Order 1000.54), ability by slashing two individuals multiple times. An exuberant amount of blood began to flow and immediately the the situation had been escalated to the point of no return. Whit had resorted to his, our, training and the effects were effective.
Vertical to horizontal knife strikes, Whitney defended himself from the threat and rendering them incapacitated, escaped the situation by resorting to the violence that had saved us countless times in Iraq. After the incident Whitney fled and was later apprehended by the Evansville Police when discovered in the parking area of a local Shnuck's grocery store.
Fast forward to a year later and I find myself as a character witness in his trial. Facing 4 felony counts of battery and assault, Whit was looking at well over 8 years incarceration in the Federal Penitentiary. Cpl. Whitney asked me if I would testify as a character witness in his trial, and like brother's would I swore absolutely. I drove down Monday morning and took the stand. The process was overall quick, but without the witness testimony, my brother faced the noose of the Hangman's gallows. I erupted on the stand, explaining combat engagements and what life is like in a war zone. He was released from the shackles of prison and put on home incarceration for 4 years. A lengthy term, but overall better then the alternative of getting ass-raped in the DOC system.
After leaving the trial I began to wonder if I had made the right choice testifying. Yes, he is my brother and he suffers from PTSD, but I am under the same diagnosis and have never stabbed someone. (Situations Vary). However, after the long trek back to New Albany, Indiana, I concluded that I had in fact made the right choice.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
The Burden of Government.
Currently I undergo various forms of treatment related to stressors from combat. Many were provided as parting gifts upon completion of two deployments to the "Hell Hole" that is Iraq. Now obviously there are good experiences from combat. Like... well okay mostly they are negative and serve as little more than reminders of times when things were at their worst. However, the most burdensome aspect of combat life is not the direct or indirect fire. It is, of all things, the complete lack of treatment from psychological disorders that are prevalent among so many returning veterans. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Severe Anxiety Disorders, bouts of uncontrollable depression and the ever present memories. Nothing more then memories, bitter sweet, anguish-inducing memories.
The problem with the care and treatment for these wonderful and abundant memories, is that it comes wrapped in red tape and surrounded by bureaucracy. To receive an appointment there is the normal period of calling in, waiting 6 months and then finally getting the opportunity to plead your case in under an 1 hour. However, the truest to nature form of treatment for veterans displaying "any" signs or symptoms is to... wait for it... here it comes... MEDICATE. That's right! Medicate the fuck out a problem and either it'll go away or best case scenario for the Veterans Administration is that the veteran himself will slowly diminish and disappear all together.
Keep coming back, the rambles of a disgruntled vet will only get longer winded and next time include up to 30% more bitching.
The problem with the care and treatment for these wonderful and abundant memories, is that it comes wrapped in red tape and surrounded by bureaucracy. To receive an appointment there is the normal period of calling in, waiting 6 months and then finally getting the opportunity to plead your case in under an 1 hour. However, the truest to nature form of treatment for veterans displaying "any" signs or symptoms is to... wait for it... here it comes... MEDICATE. That's right! Medicate the fuck out a problem and either it'll go away or best case scenario for the Veterans Administration is that the veteran himself will slowly diminish and disappear all together.
Keep coming back, the rambles of a disgruntled vet will only get longer winded and next time include up to 30% more bitching.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Live From Iraq, Continued.
As I write this edition it must be noted that days have passed since this evolution into Marine Corps wisdom unfolded. It is also of a strong validity to understand that as members of 1st Platoon, or The Dark-Side, and my favorite one overheard as an explanation in the Admin. office... "Just leave em' together because separated they'll only spread like an infection through the company."
Ah discipline, understood by all involved in a platoon closer than any I've ever seen. We only needed to have the statement made that, "we just truly didn't give a shit about what you though" (I'm talking to you Smigel). Don't think I'm going to leave your mark off of the "docket of truth," in order to spare a light-bird from a little heckling at the expense of "his" Marines.
Taking this point of digression I'd also like to recite another one of my favorite 1st Sgt. quotes, "Dooon't let me down people!" (Again, I insert a big "green weenie" up your ass and hope you rode with that lump in your throat all the way back to Cincy).
Back to the desert. I believe these may make more sense if I could put the Coor's down and actually focus. Oh well, as far as I can recollect the following was a series of weeks that came and went through the changes quicker than the daily temperature. The tent city was located off some bum-fuck dirt road out beyond the gaze of the Kuwaiti's and yet still not in sight of Baghdad. For the sake of brevity let's just all agree that it's one big fucking desert out there. Full of nomads and the largest collection of stray mutts I've ever seen. You get a lot of time to think about these dogs especially as every time you head to the shitter you can't help but climb a berm and see if Saddam and his deadly assassins had finally assembled on the other side. No such luck, instead you always spot a few mangy ass animals and think back to those commercials with Sarah McLachlan's, "Arms of a Fucking Angel," blaring as you look at deprived animals and are solicited for some emotional realism that if you'd sacrifice a bit of your luxury you could save these animals. Sorry PETA and ASPCA, and especially you Sarah, not going to happen. When you can spot dozens in a area the size of a football field I'm going to tell you the much cheaper alternative.
No! Not shoot all of them or increase the snitching on your neighbor Michael Vick for dog fights... My solution is this, CONCENTRATE on something of more fucking importance.
Morning glory finished and a nice dry shave using a Humvee's broke ass mirror we set about the task of seeing how bored we could really become. Until it dawns on our command, sandbags! General we need an order of 10,000 sandbags, we've got Marines sitting here waiting for nothing and what better way to really break their morale than to fill sandbags. "Yes sandbags. That's what'll save us!"
Now with rational thinking aside and the inability to think of a better alternative I still can't wrap my brain around the concept of filling sandbags that would all be emptied within a few weeks. Adding to the general stupidity of this scenario as it unfolded I'd like to give an account of eating in an Army chow hall, DFAC... or whatever random tent that had tables and food that was slightly better than MRE's.
"GAS, GAS, GAS... Oh shit!"
This is it and everyone knows it. This isn't some kind of fucking joke this is the preemptive strike we knew would happen. What did that NBC (Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical Specialist) or 22 year old fuck-stick that spent an additional three weeks in occupational schooling than MP's do, say about donning and clearing a mask? Oh yeah, 9 seconds... Ripping the Velcro from a side mounted olive green satchel produces that same life-saving piece of gear that is dragged around the base and has bounced against the most damaging conditions one could think to exert upon it. Almost as if in an old chain gang or the ball and chain joke... it hangs on your side and other than a nice place to store cig's and a bonnie cover for those time periods when the upper-echelon would allow us to grace the gear they sent us here with.
No impact, no idea. All I know is there is some unkempt fat Army fuck telling me to get outside and get under cover. Okay, go OUTSIDE, and get under what cover? Oh, the sandbag constructed death traps that would have structural integrity issues if you placed a sandbag just wrong. Allow me to take this moment for a little inward reflection and composure. Aye-Aye Sgt. 1st Class. Schmuckatelli... Rangers lead the way Hooah!!! Now "meandering" across this vast 200 yards to the sandbagged covered plywood and wouldn't you know it, we should have ordered 20,000 sandbags not 10,000. Too late to focus on that Marine! Get in this pit. What? Get in the pit, with all the shit that has been thrown away from the chow hall and God knows how many service members depositing what waste they felt necessary to toss into this pit for burial.
After refusing to bed down in the pit of shit, I made my way back to the other side of camp. I believe at this time I decided that the less meals I consumed at the "chow-hall" was that much less likely the chance of having to run for cover over some dumb asses decision that the pack he heard thud against the plywood ground of a tent had to be incoming mortars.
The ultimate breakdown in cohesion was Camp Doha. Few acknowledge its existence, for to do so would admit that we actually craved contact with our loved ones at home. (Think, "Feelings in a jar."). Now add that they also had the lock down on crave cans of Doritos's and you've got the crippling power of reducing hardened Marines to mere POG's. (Personnel Other than Grunts). Not sure how a POG is any different than the normal service member other than the obvious distinction of ASVAB scores and the ability to choose outside of the cannon-fodder MOS that was much more hyped then actions would finally prove. I will freely admit that I would make the chit as often as possible to Doha. I had a real connection with the people back home that the deployment had yet to severe. "Dirty fucking family lover." "Hey everyone, this guy loves his family... Booooo!"
Now aside from the hardening of sandbag bunkers and the impossible task of stacking enough sandbags into a vehicle to make it bullet and explosion proof. At this time I'd like to introduce the wisdom of "armoring" a vehicle and then upper-echelon command would figure out after the complaints of several contemptuous complaints by Lcpl.'s that had already voiced the idea that sandbags and camiflouge netting over a vehicle would only serve to draw more issues than ever dismiss. Back to Doha, it was that place that almost made you forget that you had ended up in some shit-hole country and actually were just at a really bad swap meet. Although everyone here was wearing cami's and try as you might you couldn't escape the notion of this ultimate feeling that all of these people were in someway going to get you fucking killed, if you at any time let them take control of your fate.
I got side tracked trying to explain multiple situations but join me tomorrow for a run down of the bravest Marine I've ever known. RIP Col. Crackers, "You'll Be Missed." As well as, the continuation of the FUBAR situation of arriving and getting prepared to cross the breach point. Even a rundown of Tiger Team. Kuuuu-Wait. These are the events as I remember them, maybe not accurate, but fuck it we were at war.
Ah discipline, understood by all involved in a platoon closer than any I've ever seen. We only needed to have the statement made that, "we just truly didn't give a shit about what you though" (I'm talking to you Smigel). Don't think I'm going to leave your mark off of the "docket of truth," in order to spare a light-bird from a little heckling at the expense of "his" Marines.
Taking this point of digression I'd also like to recite another one of my favorite 1st Sgt. quotes, "Dooon't let me down people!" (Again, I insert a big "green weenie" up your ass and hope you rode with that lump in your throat all the way back to Cincy).
Back to the desert. I believe these may make more sense if I could put the Coor's down and actually focus. Oh well, as far as I can recollect the following was a series of weeks that came and went through the changes quicker than the daily temperature. The tent city was located off some bum-fuck dirt road out beyond the gaze of the Kuwaiti's and yet still not in sight of Baghdad. For the sake of brevity let's just all agree that it's one big fucking desert out there. Full of nomads and the largest collection of stray mutts I've ever seen. You get a lot of time to think about these dogs especially as every time you head to the shitter you can't help but climb a berm and see if Saddam and his deadly assassins had finally assembled on the other side. No such luck, instead you always spot a few mangy ass animals and think back to those commercials with Sarah McLachlan's, "Arms of a Fucking Angel," blaring as you look at deprived animals and are solicited for some emotional realism that if you'd sacrifice a bit of your luxury you could save these animals. Sorry PETA and ASPCA, and especially you Sarah, not going to happen. When you can spot dozens in a area the size of a football field I'm going to tell you the much cheaper alternative.
No! Not shoot all of them or increase the snitching on your neighbor Michael Vick for dog fights... My solution is this, CONCENTRATE on something of more fucking importance.
Morning glory finished and a nice dry shave using a Humvee's broke ass mirror we set about the task of seeing how bored we could really become. Until it dawns on our command, sandbags! General we need an order of 10,000 sandbags, we've got Marines sitting here waiting for nothing and what better way to really break their morale than to fill sandbags. "Yes sandbags. That's what'll save us!"
Now with rational thinking aside and the inability to think of a better alternative I still can't wrap my brain around the concept of filling sandbags that would all be emptied within a few weeks. Adding to the general stupidity of this scenario as it unfolded I'd like to give an account of eating in an Army chow hall, DFAC... or whatever random tent that had tables and food that was slightly better than MRE's.
"GAS, GAS, GAS... Oh shit!"
This is it and everyone knows it. This isn't some kind of fucking joke this is the preemptive strike we knew would happen. What did that NBC (Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical Specialist) or 22 year old fuck-stick that spent an additional three weeks in occupational schooling than MP's do, say about donning and clearing a mask? Oh yeah, 9 seconds... Ripping the Velcro from a side mounted olive green satchel produces that same life-saving piece of gear that is dragged around the base and has bounced against the most damaging conditions one could think to exert upon it. Almost as if in an old chain gang or the ball and chain joke... it hangs on your side and other than a nice place to store cig's and a bonnie cover for those time periods when the upper-echelon would allow us to grace the gear they sent us here with.
No impact, no idea. All I know is there is some unkempt fat Army fuck telling me to get outside and get under cover. Okay, go OUTSIDE, and get under what cover? Oh, the sandbag constructed death traps that would have structural integrity issues if you placed a sandbag just wrong. Allow me to take this moment for a little inward reflection and composure. Aye-Aye Sgt. 1st Class. Schmuckatelli... Rangers lead the way Hooah!!! Now "meandering" across this vast 200 yards to the sandbagged covered plywood and wouldn't you know it, we should have ordered 20,000 sandbags not 10,000. Too late to focus on that Marine! Get in this pit. What? Get in the pit, with all the shit that has been thrown away from the chow hall and God knows how many service members depositing what waste they felt necessary to toss into this pit for burial.
After refusing to bed down in the pit of shit, I made my way back to the other side of camp. I believe at this time I decided that the less meals I consumed at the "chow-hall" was that much less likely the chance of having to run for cover over some dumb asses decision that the pack he heard thud against the plywood ground of a tent had to be incoming mortars.
The ultimate breakdown in cohesion was Camp Doha. Few acknowledge its existence, for to do so would admit that we actually craved contact with our loved ones at home. (Think, "Feelings in a jar."). Now add that they also had the lock down on crave cans of Doritos's and you've got the crippling power of reducing hardened Marines to mere POG's. (Personnel Other than Grunts). Not sure how a POG is any different than the normal service member other than the obvious distinction of ASVAB scores and the ability to choose outside of the cannon-fodder MOS that was much more hyped then actions would finally prove. I will freely admit that I would make the chit as often as possible to Doha. I had a real connection with the people back home that the deployment had yet to severe. "Dirty fucking family lover." "Hey everyone, this guy loves his family... Booooo!"
Now aside from the hardening of sandbag bunkers and the impossible task of stacking enough sandbags into a vehicle to make it bullet and explosion proof. At this time I'd like to introduce the wisdom of "armoring" a vehicle and then upper-echelon command would figure out after the complaints of several contemptuous complaints by Lcpl.'s that had already voiced the idea that sandbags and camiflouge netting over a vehicle would only serve to draw more issues than ever dismiss. Back to Doha, it was that place that almost made you forget that you had ended up in some shit-hole country and actually were just at a really bad swap meet. Although everyone here was wearing cami's and try as you might you couldn't escape the notion of this ultimate feeling that all of these people were in someway going to get you fucking killed, if you at any time let them take control of your fate.
I got side tracked trying to explain multiple situations but join me tomorrow for a run down of the bravest Marine I've ever known. RIP Col. Crackers, "You'll Be Missed." As well as, the continuation of the FUBAR situation of arriving and getting prepared to cross the breach point. Even a rundown of Tiger Team. Kuuuu-Wait. These are the events as I remember them, maybe not accurate, but fuck it we were at war.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Live From Iraq.
Each day is a struggle and an inherent choice to do what is wrong even when it feels right. Strange as the last sentence may appear it is worded carefully to explain what Live From Iraq means to those that have ever stepped foot on the sands of the God-forsaken land of the Hodji. Before I continue, know that I use Hodji in the connection that a Marine uses when he discriminates his enemy from himself. Hodji is as blatant a bigot response as any that currently we shutter to say in the presence of Mexican Americans, African Americans, or Native Americans. We each know of a derogative connotation and can express a disgust for a whole unification and symbolism of a group with simple slanderous words. It is known that these are insults and meant to cut at the deepest emotional sensation in those being attacked.
However, Hodji for a Marine is no different than Gook or Charlie or VC when used in the vernacular of Vietnam era Marines. As Marines we speak freely or not at all. That is the cockiness that war on top of the distinguishing triumph of earning an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor permit the Marine. To use the wrong word in the right spot, and eventually doing the wrong action even when it feels so right.
This is insane, I can hear you question my self-rightousness and wonder how I have the ability to be racist to a dignified body of people. Yes, judge freely, attack the concepts that CNN, Fox News, and the New York Times have lain out for you to ingest and feel superior to those sinister forces of the U.S. Marine Corps and their mission to topple not Saddam Hussein but the whole existence and culture of the Iraqi people.
Live From Iraq is not an attempt to be politically correct, instead it is a "REAL" (scary fingers) recollection as to what it means to truly be Live From Iraq. Hodji is slanderous and I understand that in complete agreement, however, using the term is to truly embrace a Marine or any service-member in any point or time of the Iraqi war.
The following paragraphs will use the language appropriate of the situation as well as embrace the preconceived hatred of a body of people we knew little about and inherently judgement was passed before we stepped foot into their country. Iraqi's were Hodjis and the only "good Hodji" is a "dead Hodji." You won't find this written on any official government letterhead or email but this truth was known on February 12, 2003 when I touched down in Kuwait.
The C-130 Hercules was loaded full of seabags, Molle packs, vehicles, and disgruntled Marines. 19 hours on a flight to a shit hole country will piss off even the most level headed person, now lend that emotion to trigger happy teens in the willing attempt to go to war with people "we" know are standing at the ready. As one high-ranking enlisted man would put it, "They're there to kill you God-dammit! They are dug in as deep as possible and waiting for you."
I'd like to take this moment to thank that Marine that made empty promises to our company and never came through, with a few of the following phrases which remain paramount descriptions of upper-echelon leadership;
"When you're a 1st Sgt. then you can have your own cage."
"Take your feelings and put em' in a fucking jar."
"She's at home bangin' Jodie right now, so get it off your fucking minds."
"Fuck with me and I'll put a bullet in your head."
"You fuck me, I'll fuck you, deeper and harder, with a bigger dick and more stamina."
"Home by Father's Day!" (Yeah right you fuck).
Seriously I wonder if once you get so salty (old and hard) they send you to a course just to learn to cuss and put together anecdotes for daily speech. I could list a thousand or better, but they would only serve to show the lack of spoken discipline in the Marine Corps.
Feb. 12, 2003
My diary entry would have read something like this,
Arrived in this shit hole. The C-130 opened and it was like Satan inhaled at the same time I exhaled. Breathing was labored for a few minutes and my chest felt tight as I walked off the plane. Nervous, probably, but it was 120 degrees and as we later would hear this was a good day. We made our way to waiting company vehicles that had arrived on Feb. 9th. Of course, being that we arrived three days after the advanced party we were already the FNG's in country. (Fucking New Guy). We were given an ammo crate full of ammunition and told to fill our magazines. A magazine for the M-16 A2 service rifle has the capacity for 30 rounds. However, to prevent jamming, which we learned from our Vietnam War fathers, we loaded 25 rounds in each. Ammo is heavy but as lessons had taught us in skirmishes past, Marines have a tendency to shot every last fucking bullet and then wonder when more would arrive. It's comparative to leaving the water on while you brush your teeth. At this point I feel like breaking into to some earth-friendly song but that may distract from the already apparent distractions.
Magazines full we proceeded to pile into vehicles and get the lay of the land. Driving through Kuwait is the first immediate culture shock. (A lot of Marines had a hard time realizing that not all "Hodjis" are in fact "Hodjis"). We made our way to the first firm base and got racked out on cots in nice tents put in place for us by the Pakistani's prior to our arrival. Nice in the way a tent in the middle of the fucking desert could possibly be anyways. Leaving the vehicles and walking up to the Hooch, that we would bed down in I greeted my brother, who now sported a shaved head and the typical Camel light tucked behind his ear. Grabbing the cig and rough-housing a little, we established a prehistoric dominance bond. Something about a little roughness that secures Marines in the notion of security. I found my rack next to Whit's. (Cpl. James E. Whitney). Unloading my shit I secured an empty MRE box and made a nice night stand on which I could store my gas mask and MP notebook. Two clarifications, MRE, Meal Ready to Eat, comes in two varieties, MRE Alpha and MRE Bravo, this refers to the case and what its contents are. Each box contains 24 meals and sports such classics as, Pork Patty, Five-Fingers of Death, Beef Stew, Chicken Patty, the usual shit that appeals to civilians on an occasion basis but gets old very fucking quickly in the deployed Marine's diet. The other is MP notebook, my MOS, military occupational specialty, is 5811 Military Police. An MP notebook is one of this items required in every formation to check on the diligence of every Marine present but separate of those rare occasions just a useless notebook of scrap paper.
Magazines full we proceeded to pile into vehicles and get the lay of the land. Driving through Kuwait is the first immediate culture shock. (A lot of Marines had a hard time realizing that not all "Hodjis" are in fact "Hodjis"). We made our way to the first firm base and got racked out on cots in nice tents put in place for us by the Pakistani's prior to our arrival. Nice in the way a tent in the middle of the fucking desert could possibly be anyways. Leaving the vehicles and walking up to the Hooch, that we would bed down in I greeted my brother, who now sported a shaved head and the typical Camel light tucked behind his ear. Grabbing the cig and rough-housing a little, we established a prehistoric dominance bond. Something about a little roughness that secures Marines in the notion of security. I found my rack next to Whit's. (Cpl. James E. Whitney). Unloading my shit I secured an empty MRE box and made a nice night stand on which I could store my gas mask and MP notebook. Two clarifications, MRE, Meal Ready to Eat, comes in two varieties, MRE Alpha and MRE Bravo, this refers to the case and what its contents are. Each box contains 24 meals and sports such classics as, Pork Patty, Five-Fingers of Death, Beef Stew, Chicken Patty, the usual shit that appeals to civilians on an occasion basis but gets old very fucking quickly in the deployed Marine's diet. The other is MP notebook, my MOS, military occupational specialty, is 5811 Military Police. An MP notebook is one of this items required in every formation to check on the diligence of every Marine present but separate of those rare occasions just a useless notebook of scrap paper.
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