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SITREP: Veteran Perspectives on
Combat and Peace
Western Illinois University
2018
Art Credits
Front Cover: Camp Virginia, Kuwait ’12
Stephen Wallace
Back Cover: John Kennealy
Internal Photos Provided By:
Fort Bliss, Texas 2017-Alexander Newman
Veteran's Club, 2016-2017-John Kennealy
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Staff
Managing & Fiction Editor Ryan F. Bronaugh
Poetry Editor Chris Bell
Nonfiction Editor Luke Cummings
Art Editors Jared Worley
Ian Covington
Advisory Board Jacqueline S. Wilson and Barbara C. Lawhorn
Department of English
Kathy Meyers
Veterans Resource Center
Kristyne Gilbert
Buchanan Center for the Arts
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Dedication
Military service is a solo journey, but lots of people help
you get through it and back into civilian life. So, who do
you thank besides your family and your comrades-in-
arms? At Western, I would start with my favorite
professor, Dr. Frank Lupton, without whose support I
would probably still be a sophomore wondering
whatever happened to my G.I. Bill. Then, it’s my fellow
vets who shared similar experiences with Uncle Sam and
good times at WIU. Guys like Larry Harris, Mike
Calog, Maynard Bleichner, Chuck Johnson, Rick
Paulsen, Mike Novak, Jim Barnes, Tom Carper,
.... Cheers, and thanks everybody!
Stan McGahey
This project was made possible through funding
provided by the Buchanan Center for the Arts and
the Warren County United Way. Our gratitude is
beyond words.
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Acknowledgments
We are proud to feature a record twenty-four
contributors in this, our fourth volume of SITREP:
Veteran Perspectives on Combat and Peace. Thank
you to the veteran and service-member students,
alumni, faculty, and staff who continue to honor us by
sharing their fiction and non-fiction stories, poems,
and photography.
We are grateful for the continued support of Kristyne
Gilbert, Executive Director of the Buchanan Center
for the Arts, as well as the Warren County United
Way, who provided funding that allows our copies to
be distributed for free at our reading. We are so
thankful as well for the continued support of the
Department of English, the Veterans Resource Center,
the Council for Student Activities Fund, and private
donors. Kristyne continues to generously offer her
space at the gallery for outreach activities; and we are
grateful to the BCA Old Friends Talk Art (OFTA), to
Professor Daniel Ott of Monmouth College, and to the
Monmouth Chapter of the American Association of
University Women for giving our team the
opportunity to talk about the development of the
magazine and for the contributors to read from their
work.
We would like to thank Kathy Meyers, Director of the
Veterans Resource Center at WIU, who supported this
endeavor from the beginning. We are indebted as well
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to Mark Mossman, Chair of the Department of
English; Magdelyn Helwig, Director of Writing; Neil
Baird, Director of the University Writing Center;
Lynne Ward, Staff Clerk, and Tiffany Dimmick,
Office Support Associate, for supporting this work for
the previous four years. Thank you, Tiffany, for your
promotional poster design and for delivering all of our
past volumes in a digital format. You can read them at
http://www.wiu.edu/cas/english/magazines/sitrep.php
We are grateful to Brice Shake of the Center for the
Application of Information Technologies (C.A.I.T) at
WIU for maintaining our website at SITREP—vv.org.
The English Department provided generous funding
for posters and other marketing materials. We are in
debt to Carol Clemons, who brings it every year with
her stunning cover designs. Thanks to Tyler Hennings,
Director of the WIU Art Gallery, for providing a
space for our public reading. We appreciate our many
friends who have read and shared the book and to our
families for the gifts of time and space that allowed us
to meet the considerable demands of this project.
Finally, we are thankful for each other, for our team,
and for our continued shared endeavor of supporting
the creative work of those who have served.
The SITREP Team
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Resources for Veterans and Service Members
Beu Health Center
(309) 298-1888
Center for
Military/Academic
Transition and Health
Seal Hall 214
(309) 298-3697
Disability Resource
Center
Memorial Hall, 1st Floor
(309) 298-2512
Financial Aid Office
Sherman Hall 127
(309) 298-2446
Office of the Registrar
Sherman Hall 110
(309) 298-1891
Psychology Clinic
116 Waggoner Hall
(309) 298-1919
School of Graduate
Studies
Sherman Hall 116
(309) 298-1806
Undergraduate
Admissions Office
Sherman Hall 115
(309) 298-3157
(877) PICK-WIU
University Counseling
Center
Memorial Hall, 1st Floor
(309) 298-2453
Veterans Resource
Center
(309) 298-3505
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Table of Contents
Fiction
Atlantic City 1
Angels in the Architecture 3
We Carry On: A Watch’s Tale 8
Plastic Soldiers 18
Nonfiction
Corporal Sargent Corporal…Grant 24
The Inside Scoop on Air Force
Conversations 31
It Was a Proud Day 35
Seeing the Elephant 42
How Writing Saved My Life 47
What I Carried 51
Our Green Life 58
A Day on the Range 64
Prologue: The Disposables 69
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Poetry
Intrigue 75
No Rose Garden 76
Forgotten Warriors 77
The Cries for Medic 78
Another Day in Hell 79
The Dark 81
Sometimes You Just Feel Lost 83
Escape 84
The Hero’s Return 86
Going Home 87
Contributors 89
1
Atlantic City
“Now our luck may have died and our love may be cold but with you forever I’ll stay,
We’re going out west where the sand’s turning to gold,
so put on your stockings baby, cause the night’s getting cold”
Atlantic City – Bruce Springsteen
She had told him at the bar how she was visiting friends from a small town an hour away, that
she knew his name because it was on his work shirt and had decided to approach him because he
was cute. She was also giving him her number because she maybe wanted to talk to him sometime.
A week later he had called her, telling her of a party he and his roommates were putting on; it
would be a good time, lots of people, drinks. Maybe she’d come, she’d said.
They threw a killa; people talked about it for a long time. The neighbors called the police, the
DJ could be heard down the block, and someone was naked. He bartended at their hastily
constructed plywood bar. They loved him. But as the hours wounded and She didn’t come, the
sorrow which lived in his soul smiled broadly. He drank quite a bit, finally going into the
downstairs basement bathroom to lie in the bathtub and build tears in the empty blackness for
comrades dead; Lieutenant Commander McCoy, Lieutenant Uhura, Commander Spock.
Then he washed his face, made himself laugh in the mirror and rejoined the party. She was there
now, of course, arriving sometime between his pathetic sobs and wretched shaking, but likely
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before he forced himself to laugh into his reflection. She was happy to see him, she wanted to
dance, she wanted to touch him and run her hands over his still Infantry physique.
“Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty and meet me tonight in Atlantic City”
Atlantic City – Bruce Springsteen
When the party ended, and all were gone, he loved her and she had sex. They slept after,
both wrapped in blankets of unavailing expectations. She thought she woke before him and slipped
silently out. But he wasn’t asleep, having not slept at all and at the last moment he got up and ran
after her. He caught up to her at the door, and whispered in her ear more silently than ever, “S'il te
plaît ne pars pas.”
“Everything dies baby that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back”
Atlantic City – Bruce Springsteen
Captain James T. Kirk
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Angels in the Architecture
Q salted his beer. It was his third of the morning, and he was even more liberal with the
Michelada Especial than he had been with the previous two—both were well seasoned. What he
craved was a Bloody Mary; however, logistics demanded something self-contained that could be
stored in a soft cooler, or the pockets of his suit.
For Q it was easy to drink at such a time. He was an anarchist. There was only chaos. Only
the mind, seeking to find a pattern in everything, manages to find order where there is none. And
for Q, Scotty’s death was another random act putting an end to an already fortuitous existence. It’s
the human want for meaning that solicits the need to act out ancient rituals of mourning, he
thought. Q’s conceit had found a way to make it about him; but then, why not? Funerals were for
the living, not the dead. And so, he should be able to deal with it how he saw fit. He grabbed two
more beers from the cooler in the back of his truck, placing them in his pockets and crawled,
careful not to spill, into the limo.
Doc was already seated near the front, pulling up a sock.
“That’s class,” he said, and pointed to Q’s open container.
“Right, about as classy as fucking his sister?” Q remarked in inquiry, but with an edge of
contempt.
“Don’t . . . we didn’t . . . so just shut the fuck up, Q!” Doc shouted at a hasty whisper. He
leaned forward as if he were going to reach out for Q, but only paused with his hands still in his
lap. “All Mexicans have fleas,” Doc declared, just as he had many times to Q. Something in Doc’s
shit-eating grin told Q he would get the details he wanted (needed) at a more appropriate time.
“All Micks are Dumb,” Q said acknowledging Doc’s gesture with one of his own, and then
finished his beer in several large gulps. He placed the empty can in one of the limo’s many cup
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holders and opened a beer he pulled from his left coat pocket. Doc shook his head in disgust while
smiling in understanding.
Doc found himself in another time of change; a world sans a best friend. He was better at
identifying beginnings than he was endings. There was Basic, where Doc first met Scotty; the
beginning, a place and time when their teenage susceptibility to communal stimulus made them
ideal pupils to the Navy’s teaching. They wanted to be a part of something larger than themselves.
Then, infected through practice, they became men; of sorts: Corpsmen first, then men.
Through the experiences that facilitated a hard-boiled maturity, they were left with a stench and
stain they found impossible to hide or rid themselves of. The world cut and formed them, and they
adapted and licked their wounds together. And though they loved one another, their love carried
with it a particular form of antipathy as well—one rooted in competition. They were that which all
men should fear to become: binge drinkers; complacent husbands; capricious fathers; impetuous
combatants; porn addicts—hyper masturbators; when it was easier than telling the truth they were
often liars; and when circumstances permitted, diplomatic, if not overly appreciative, libertines.
In other words, perhaps because of it, outside of battle they were reckless and unreliable.
And any lessons meant to be heeded from the many terrible episodes that resulted too often ended
up in the chili bucket. The dump where bad things go that will one day have to be dealt with as one
broken down mess. Above all, their life philosophies were absolutistic. You deal with the black
and white as it comes, and save the grey for another day. You help the dying and bury the dead.
Sarah was the last to enter the limo. She took a seat offered her next to Doc, then looked at
Q’s beer for a moment before asking if there were more.
“Just the one,” Q said, lifting his jacket to display the weight and shape of the beer in his
pocket.
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“That will do,” Sarah said, as she reached out an appreciative hand. Q reluctantly gave her
his last beer. She opened it and took a long hard swig. Seeing the two of them drinking brought on
a nauseous flash from the pit of Doc’s stomach. It was the first time in almost seventy-two hours
he had been anywhere near sober, and the hangover was both emotionally overwhelming and
mentally disabling. For a second he wished Q had another beer to ask for. Q of course would not
have been as generous with his last beer for Doc as he had been with Sarah. It had nothing to do
with chivalry, but his general discomfort with women and confrontation. As usual, he
overcompensated.
“When this is over I say we get out of this snow and head somewhere warm, and where
there’s plenty of whoring to do,” Q offered.
“I swear, spring is colder than fall—even at the same temp,” Doc said. “And if it snows
again I’m tap’n out too,” he added, immediately regretting it.
Q saw Doc’s face was red and his lip quivered. He had been witness to Doc’s reactions to
several brushes and close calls with violence, but never had he looked as vulnerable as he did just
then. He took another pull from his beer. Sarah followed.
“Jesus,” Doc protested, not just where the conversation was headed but everything driving
it as well.
“I’d be down to go to Myrtle or Mexico, or something,” Sarah said. “The further away the
better, I think.”
“Mexico’s far, and has whores,” Q said.
“And tequila, and dance, and violence, and peace, and fleas,” Doc added, his eyes red and
water logged and staring out the window to his right.
“Fleas,” Q said matter-of-factly, finding some originality brought to a worn out joke funny
in its own right. “I’m not going back to work, so might as well go somewhere,” Q said with a shrug
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of his shoulders. When his foreman hesitated at the thought of affording him the time off he
wanted for the funeral, because he had not been on the job a full year yet, he walked out of the
trailer and off the job without clocking out or even looking back.
Throughout the church service as he listened to the mournful musings of each speaker, Q
stared at the angels in the architecture. There were two just above him jutting from a support beam
like nautical figureheads protruding from the bow of an antique ship. Their arms were stretched out
before them, their palms facing up, their faces frozen in a mix of fear and pity. They fit right into
his fluid mosaic model of the world, where there was no real sense of permanence and everything
was always changing while staying the same. He craved a drink. He began to see the angels as a
caricature of him and his brothers; Scotty included. An absolute thought of violence bubbled up in
his chest like moral heartburn before dislodging to make room for something else . . . proper pain.
When Doc looked over and spotted Q staring up into the rafters dumbfounded, a chuckle
slipped through. Scotty’s laugh flashed in his mind; and so Scotty, for just a moment, was alive
again. Even at Scotty’s funeral, Doc had no idea where an end might be. When they were training
to be medics, Scotty and Doc would have believed their jobs ended if their patient died, or when
they turned them over to the next echelon of care; that turned out not to be true. Acceptance is the
last stage of death, and that goes for everyone in the fight. And there was always plenty of fight left
when those circling it went down the drain. Then there was the care of the body. They left no one
behind, and the practice of “turnover” took on a unique form when the dead or dying was a friend.
Doc could say he once thought the end was when their third deployment had been served.
However, that turned out to be just an anxious lie they told themselves to feel good in the moment,
to preserve an illusion of triumph. Like making jam out of the fruits of victory, racing against the
processes of rot. But post-deployment was just an extension of the deployments, only with a new
weight to bear. He wondered what ruck Scotty would have to hump in the next life.
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Following a long Catholic service, they laid Scotty to rest in a large Catholic cemetery. The
local VFW took care of military honors. The American flag draped his coffin like it had his life.
The report of the rifles firing their salutes set something that was already scalding to boil in Sarah
and she cried for the first time since learning of her brother’s death. Doc, not knowing what was
right, fought through the awkwardness of the act and wrapped an arm around her. Later, in Mexico,
Q would tell them he heard a thump coming from Scotty’s coffin as though he were turning over.
Ryan Bronaugh
8
We Carry On: A Watch’s Tale
Broken. Fascinating word, isn’t it? It blinds the reader, the unaware, of concealed, untapped
potential. When something or someone is broken, the world sees worthless, unsalvageable, and
unredeemable. I’m proof that brokenness is a lie that serves as a crutch for many and another
excuse to give up for others. Truth is that brokenness is, quite often, not the end of a story. No,
brokenness means a beginning to a new life few expect.
You see, by appearance, I’m the epitome of brokenness. My hour hand never strays from
the blue, metallic number “9” and my minute hand stands guard over the red, faded number “4”. A
jagged crack that blurs makes the “12” appear dismantled. Broken. I’d be useless to the ordinary
person. An ordinary civilian would recommend that I be tossed into the trash and replaced with
something newer, more high-tech.
Thankfully, I am on the wrist of an extraordinary man who loves me for what I am.
This is my story. It’s bittersweet. It’s a tale of two men, one dead and one alive with a
burning devotion to serve others. My story is the legacy of a man named Oliver and the continuing
journey of a man named Shane.
I’m being rude with my rambling. I’ll start my story somewhere in the middle. After all,
that wretched, blessed day made me who I am now and forever more.
I remember the radiant, unforgiving heat of the flames and the percussive violence of the
blast as the hull of the ship gave way to the inundation of salty sea water. The voices of determined
men are still a silent part of me because I’d witnessed their heroism and brotherhood from one of
those wrists. Stunned, exhausted, tomb-like silence replaced the voices as black zipped bags
disappeared, one by one, from my field of vision. Amid the dead, I’d come out of it as one of few
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survivors of that tragic morning. I’d been on my first owner’s clammy wrist, Oliver. His closest
friends called him “Ollyer” because it had appeared to be his catch phrase.
Oliver had bought me at the Navy Exchange with his first official paycheck. His blood
pulsed through his wrist with utter joy. I rarely left his wrist. The warm, salty sweat soaked my
band while he patrolled the bowels of the frigate. The oil from his fingers smudged my glass
whenever the heat fogged my face. I’d come to know those he counted as “brothers of the sea.” I’d
come know who he’d despised the most and understood why. I became his mute confidant. Like
every human, I suppose, he’d kept his secrets. My awareness of them kept them that way.
I had been on his wrist just below the cuff of his dress blue top the day he repeated the oath
of enlistment. I re-enlisted along with him a year before my life had changed along with my
purpose. Even now, I can recall the celebration that followed that night at the bar. Beers and hard
liquors blended until my owner had the better sense to take the cab back to the ship.
“I’m a lifer. I want this to be my life, Shane. I won’t let any woman change that. You guys
will be my only family, you hear?” He drank down the last of the beer in his can.
“You say that now. You, Ollyer, are drunk,” Shane chuckled, “I never heard you say that. I
won't’ remember anyway.”
“You know what?” Oliver steadied himself against the bar counter,” You’re right. I’m
taking a cab back to the ship. I'd hate to start my next four years with a Captain’s Mast for public
intoxication. Coming with me?”
Shane had stayed behind at the bar and Oliver stumbled his way to his rack, where he
placed me inside for the next day. The cool shadow of his bunk drawer offered me a temporary
reprieve while he recovered from the previous night’s party. There’s a world of difference between
the environments I lived in. Air-conditioned happened to be my second most preferred place.
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Time continued to tick away for me and for him. Only one of them would know me well.
There would be new places explored. New foods left their reminder on my face and on my band.
I participated in the proposal to the only woman who made the blood pulse through his
veins with awe inspiring velocity. One would have thought that he’d just completed a marathon by
the pace of his breakneck heartbeat. If not for his otherwise good health, I’d wondered if she’d be
the death of him.
I heard him repeat those vows, sacred to him as he spoke them. I remember the morning
he’d left her for the last time. Oliver had discovered that he’d be a father when he returned home.
I will never forget how his heart slowed when he walked away from her to board the ship
that summer morning. Agony of separation and apprehension about her being alone circulated
through Oliver’s mind when he’d manned the rails. When you are as close to someone as I had
been to him, you come to understand the subtlest of changes. His pulse. I’d felt this pulse on only
one other occasion. It had to have been a nightmare.
That morning had begun as every morning underway did. Nothing out of the ordinary or
alarming in any way. He’d rolled out of his bunk for breakfast and then on to the next four hours’
miserable heat. Three and half hours of his last watch had come and gone without concern. He’d
looked down at me with a sigh of relief, as he wiped his arm across his forehead. Oliver’s relief
would be there in 30 minutes. He’d head to the nearest air-conditioned space to cool down. Maybe,
with any luck, a better choice of lunch options in the regular food line. That day had been fried
chicken day and he’d missed every other time prior.
BANG!
Whine.
Creak.
WHOOSH!
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Then the blare of a loud alarm.
Total darkness filled the space like a cave; the scattered rays of sun peaked through an
angry jagged hole in front of us.
Smoke filled and blacked my face. A small crack had left an immediate permanent blemish
in the once smooth glass. A flame had scorched the outer layer of my band. Oliver had been
injured in the blast, mortally. Yet he’d been the man to take the lead while those below him fought
to plug the hole. Even as the blood flowed from his wound in his arm, he fought to keep the ship
afloat. Drops of his life soaked the rest of my band. He collapsed into a heap; my face stared up at
the steel ceiling of the room.
The percussion of the blast froze my tiny arms in their immortal position. His once strong
pulse slowed to an absolute stop; his life force had drained from him.
I had sworn that my life had ended.
What use would I have if I no longer told the time?
What else could be asked at such a moment like that.
Stretcher bearers came to remove Oliver’s lifeless body, as they had the rest. The clasp of
my band let go as they had placed him in the black bag. I clattered to the floor, ignored by them as
if I hadn’t mattered.
That’s where Shane enters my story.
Black, grimy, sweaty soot had coated most of his face
“You’re not done yet,” he whispered, as if to carry on a private conversation with me.
Shane hadn’t been the one to deliver the news of Oliver’s death but he’d been there to see
Oliver’s widow through the earliest days. He’d stayed by her side during the unloading of his
casket. The casket, in the hands of six Navy Honor Guard, passed us when it left the large plane at
Norfolk Air Station. Thirteen similar flag-covered caskets made the same journey. I’d been in the
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coat pocket of Shane when the 21-gun salute had been rendered at the funeral. I’d witnessed the
full volume of the widow’s wail and the abyss of her sorrow as they handed her the folded flag.
There are some things in life that are better experienced by sound. The sound of the human
voice conveys the depths beyond the comprehension of sight. Even a blind man would’ve
understood. I learned this on a constant basis over the passing of time.
One would’ve thought that he’d take me to a jeweler to restore me to my original purpose.
It would’ve been the next logical thing for most people to do.
This Shane wasn’t “most” people.
Shane left me as I was the day he’d picked me up, for the most part. Instead of the pulse of
a wrist, I sensed his pulse through the material in his pants pockets. He’d struggle for the next year
to reconcile the events, to no avail. The PTSD that the explosion and the loss of Oliver had
produced became stronger than his will to remain in the Navy.
He’d changed into a silent, intense man who spoke to few people. He’d tried to put his
heart into the training to become a game warden. That, too, proved to be a short-lived venture.
Night terrors plagued his dreams, causing nights of mind numbing insomnia. Lingering memories
interfered with his ability to live life without complication. No woman possessed the strength to get
past those constant, unwanted companions lingering in his mind. It might’ve been the end of his
story if not for the words of a fellow survivor that had come to see him on a nearly tragic
anniversary day.
“It’s been nice catching up and all, but I have to go. I’m not coming back here again. I
mean it.” The alcohol had slurred Shane’s voice when he slammed me into the surface of the bar’s
counter.
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“Yes, you can. You’re drunk and if you drink anymore, you won’t have another
anniversary to face. Where do you live?” The man asked, picking me up and placing me back in
Shane’s pocket.
From the darkness of the pocket, I’d witnessed the words that had somehow breached the
abyss of his misery and pulled him back into the world.
“How do you do it? How do you live with it?” Shane sobbed with pent up grief.
“I carry on. I’m still alive and breathing even if others aren’t. We both know that Ollyer
would never allow you to live like this. He’d want you to do the same.” The man pushed me into
my owner’s thigh. “Let’s get you home, okay?”
The change in him started the next morning and grew stronger with time. Five years had
come and gone. On the sixth anniversary of that terrible day, he restored my band and tattooed my
back cover with small words. My hands remained where they’d been for six years. The thumping
of another human pulse below me allowed me to let go of the abilities I had lost. In me, he’d found
something not everyone finds. He’d found life and purpose in me.
I remember how he’d looked down at me before starting the car and heading south. He
stopped somewhere in the middle of Tennessee.
The land he’d bought had started with the renovation of a small cabin surrounded by a vast
area of trees with yellow and orange leaves. The number of buildings grew, along with the stream
of visitors. People like him, people struggling with the past, came seeking lost solace. Families lost
in their own grief spent weekends in search of peace. The best part, for me, hadn’t been the change
in the people that frequented the grounds.
No.
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It had been the change in Shane, in the man he’d transformed into. Part of him remained
broken, as it may always be. The parts of him that had survived had healed enough to discover he’d
still had a purpose.
Was it because of me?
Was it because of my Oliver?
Could it be that we both played an equal part in Shane’s future?
I got my answer to this question the day of the company picnic.
He stood before men and women in attendance with their families.
“I’d like to thank everyone that makes our mission possible. I couldn’t do it without your
ceaseless, heartfelt efforts. Simmand’s Hope wouldn’t reach anyone if not for you.” He addressed
the hushed audience.
He held me up to the light of the afternoon sun after the applause had died down.
Eyes followed me and strange looks crossed many faces.
“This is a wrist watch,” he said from his place at the center of the wooded amphitheater
stage to the right.
“Correction. It’s more than a wrist watch,” he explained, “I’ll tell you why.”
His blue eyes locked on me as I descended back into his afternoon shadow.
“It’s broken. It hasn’t told me the time of day for over six years now. It’s reminded me,
however, that my life carried on.” He paused, twisting me on his wrist a small measure.
“It once belonged to my brother. I call him ‘brother’ because we’d look after each other as
if we came from the same family. He’d keep me out of trouble more times than I care to
remember,” he recalled with faint smile and soft chuckle.
He tapped the small crack on my face.
15
“This exact watch had been on his wrist the day my ship almost sunk after an unexpected
attack. He’d been on duty waiting for the next guy to take his place. I would’ve been dead had it
been 30 minutes later.” He paced.
“Why?” He stopped and his tone changed.
Guilt. I felt the guilt he’d always carried with him.
“The guy that was supposed to take his place had been…me. I watched them carry him
away.” His voice cracked, some tears followed. “It fell from his wrist before he left my sight.”
Shane stared into the distance to compose himself.
“I’ve carried it with me ever since. The band has been replaced, for obvious reasons.” He
touched the band. “However, the old band is framed in my office as my reminder. It’s my reminder
of my brother, Machinist Mate Third Class Oliver Simmands, the man that this facility is named
after. This watch reminds me what it means to be a veteran.”
His voice strengthened.
” Some might define me as a ‘combat veteran’ because no one should ever witness the
horrors I saw that day.”
He shook as he thought back to that day.
“The man I was before flew away with Oliver that day. I won’t ever be the same again, much
like the people we serve every day. Yet, it doesn’t mean I have ceased to be useful. It means that I
serve a new purpose, much like this watch on my wrist.
“We might lose the abilities with the passing of time or by tragedy, but we are still valuable.
We’re a reminder, to those we love and to this world, of the sacrifices few will ever have to make
or face. We carry with us those we have lost. We keep them alive with how we live.” He raised me
up once more.
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“This is what is means to be a true veteran. The title of ‘Veteran’ isn’t limited to the image
our society sees on war movies. Every day we are reminded that veterans come in every shape and
every status. A ‘veteran’ for us is more than military men and women. I see a ‘veteran’ in the
families that come on this hallowed ground to find peace with loss because of death or their loved
one’s never ending struggle to live with their service.
“It’s the fighting spirit that refuses quit, even while the rest of the world wouldn’t blame
them if they did. It’s the never-ending desire to complete our missions, no matter how difficult they
might be, and see them through with a heart of hope. It the idea that we are family whether we’ve
worn the uniform and still wear it in our soul or if we are surviving along with those that barely
survive.” He made his point clear by the quiet passion of his voice.
“The words that make a veteran are the words that are engraved on the back of this watch.”
He carefully released the metal place-holder from its hole.
A light breeze caressed my metal; I rose into the summer air.
“We.” He looked at every one to the left, passion in his voice.
“Carry.” He focused on the people at the center, intensity in his eyes.
“On.” He looked into the eyes of those on the right, his voice softened.
The woman behind him handed him a box.
“Each of you will receive a wrist watch with those exact words engraved. Each will have
your initials as your personal reminder of this company’s purpose.” He looked to the crowd.
“Remember this every day of your life and know that each of you is a veteran in your own
right. You help people carry on.” Shane pointed out, “Isn’t that the definition of we, a team?”
17
I processed those words knowing that my answer had come. Although I no longer carried
out my original mission when I had been made, I still had meaning and purpose. I guess that would
make me a veteran, too.
Tia Payne
18
Plastic Soldiers
Amos’ spine was unresponsive when he woke up that morning; only when he rolled over in
his cot and sat up did it give him a twinge of feeling, and not a very good twinge at that. He
groaned at the pain as he stood up and stretched his hands to the ceiling, smiling with satisfaction
at the pops and snaps that ensued from his neck to his toes.
“Goddamnit I’m fucked up,” he chuckled, looking over to Stone, who was lying down
reading a book in the cot across the aisle, one muscular arm propped up behind his head and feet
crossed at the end of the cot.
“Ain’t we all,” said Stone without looking up. Stone was always reading something, be it
the label on a can of beans or a dictionary. Everyone called him ‘Scholar,’ which somehow didn’t
meld with his southern accent.
“Good thing I’m getting out . . . one of these days I think I’m just gonna break,” Amos said
as he bent over and reached for his toes. “And then they won’t be able to use me – I’ll be
hazardous waste.”
“Amos, you don’t want to be useless,” came another voice from across the room. Amos
stood from his stretches and peered over his shoulder. He made eye contact with Davis who sat at
the far end of the wooden, cot-filled hooch, a cup of coffee in one hand and a protein shaker in the
other.
“Why, you scared of what’s on the outside, Davis?” Amos laughed. “We’re all going
eventually, sooner than later for me.”
19
“You won’t last on the outside; no one does,” Davis said. He didn’t have much humor in
him, and had no patience for sarcasm. They all figured that’s what happens when you’re in for as
long as he’d been in. The light-heart turns to stone and the smiles fade away. Maybe that was
necessary for a squad leader; he had to be tough on his guys, after all. Davis was the kind of soldier
that commanded respect. His leather skin showed his experience as much as the scars on his face,
and one look into his dead eyes made any guy want to run.
“Yeah, well I’m going to last, don’t you worry,” Amos said. He was sick of the negativity
from all of the older guys. They chose this life, they chose to stay. But why should he? He’d seen
more chaos and death than any average person should have to see, and now he was done.
Tomorrow he’d be discharged, sent back to the world. He served his country and he served it well.
He’d given his all and sacrificed much. They promised to take care of him until he breathed his last
breath.
“Don’t listen to him man, you’re lucky to get the hell out of here,” said Jones quietly from
the cot next to him. Jones had an unlit cigarette pinched between his lips, and he was beginning to
disassemble his rifle on his cot for cleaning.
“How much time you get left man?” Amos asked, pulling his camo bottoms up, tightening
the belt.
“Sixty-three days, bro . . . sixty-three hot, sticky, motherfucking god-awful days until I can
stop lickin’ boots and suckin’ wind in this shithole.”
“What are you gonna do when you get out?”
“I don’t know . . . probly go home for a while, see what the old gang is up to, then
hopefully get a job doin’ somethin’ that pays more than this. What about you?”
20
“I don’t think I’ll do much of anything for a while, ‘cept try to forget all of this,” Amos
trailed off, staring intently at nothing in particular. Jones studied him for a while, then reached over
and slapped his shoulder.
“Keep in touch man, I’ll hit you up when I get out,” he said before standing up to go
outside and light that cigarette.
Amos spent the rest of that day filling out paperwork and getting signatures from various
stations in his unit and important figures in his command. The process to get in was simple enough
that he never imagined getting out would be as hard as it was. It was almost like they hoped you
would second guess yourself halfway through and just reenlist. Wouldn’t faze him . . . what they
forgot was that all the training they’d given him just made him harder to break in any situation.
His squad left for a mission that evening, but not before he shook all their hands and made
his farewells. He watched them pile into the helos and climb into sky, soon fading into the
darkness and out of his life. It felt strange, being in the hooch without them, not being in the air
with them, not landing and hitting the target and watching their backs while they watched his. It
felt so strange, in fact, that he flipped in his cot throughout the night, unable to catch more than
thirty minutes of sleep before waking up again. Each and every time he expected to see their
silhouettes in the cots around him, and each and every time he was disappointed.
Dawn came again, and he stood in the empty hooch with a backpack strapped over one
shoulder, burning the surroundings into his memory. He placed his last three packs of cigarettes on
Jones’ cot, knowing he needed them less than his friend. And then, with a heavy sigh and tip of the
hat, he turned and made his way out the door and down to the front gate of the base.
21
When he reached the gate, two guards met him and asked for his papers. They studied what he
handed them and eyed him with a curiosity he couldn’t shake.
“What the fuck are you looking at? Let’s go,” he said impatiently. They told him to wait a
moment as they called their superior officer. Amos sighed and craned his neck up to the
brightening sky. It was like they didn’t want him to go, like they knew something he didn’t.
Seemed to him that everyone had that attitude, and it made him seethe. He’d known plenty of guys
who had gotten out when their time came; he never heard from them again, but he assumed that
could be blamed on their contentment and success in the civilian world.
“Are you sure you want to do this, soldier?” asked the young officer who came out of the
guard shack. “You can’t ever come back.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Amos with a smile. The officer eyed him for a moment, and then
stepped in close enough for the staleness of his last cigarette to climb up Amos’ nostrils.
“You won’t make it . . . no one does,” he whispered. Amos scowled and looked him in the
eyes. He expected to see haughty disdain, jealousy even . . . but what he saw appeared to be
genuine concern. They held the tense gaze for a moment.
“I’m going to be fine, now let me the fuck out,” he finally said.
The officer lifted one finger to signal the gate operator. Steel screamed and gears whined as the
massive walls began to slide apart in front of him, dust swirling around them until Amos could
hardly see. He covered his mouth and peered through shuttered eyelids at the crack that formed
between the gates. Freedom was upon him, his life awaited.
22
When the gates were wide enough for a man to walk through they stopped, and the dust
lifted enough for Amos to catch the eye of the officer giving him a timid salute. Amos returned the
gesture with a half-assed wave before he stepped forward and walked through the open gate.
Once outside of the base, Amos expected to see a road that led to an airport, or maybe even
a car waiting to give him a lift. But there was nothing. He spun in circles, peering through the dust
to catch a glimpse of anything as the gates squealed closed behind him. Soon he realized that he
was in a large enclosure, the walls of which were coming closer by the second.
“Hey!” he shouted, trying to get the attention of whoever controlled this portion of the exit.
“How do I get out?” There was no response, and the walls kept coming. He moved around the
room, frantically searching for an opening or a door handle or a control panel; there was nothing
but smooth steel.
“What the fuck is going on?!” he screamed. “Let me out of here!”
He put his arms straight out to his sides, palms against the walls like Sampson, trying against all
odds to stop them from closing in on him. Sweat poured down his head and his breath came in
gasps.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop it!”
As if on command, the walls stopped moving, and silence took over. With a sickening relief he
tried to catch his breath, his shoulders heaving and his chest pounding.
“Thank you for your service,” said a mechanized voice over a quiet speaker above him.
And then he felt the heat.
“What the fuck is this?!”
23
Sweat began to fill his eyes and his mouth. The air was getting thicker and the oxygen was
getting scarce. He dropped to one knee and clutched his throat, but when his hand met gooey
matter and sunk into his neck he wrenched it away, watching in horror as strings of elastic skin
clung to his hand and wrist. His skin was sliding away, but underneath there was no flesh or blood
or bone, only more sticky, gooey, stringy mess. He felt his legs give way and he sluiced to the floor
of that steel furnace into a puddle of himself, the smell of plastic permeating his nostrils as his eyes
sunk into blackness and he felt nothing more.
Luke Cummings
24
CORPORAL, SERGEANT, CORPORAL,
SERGEANT, CORPORAL, SERGEANT,
CORPORAL, SERGEANT, CORPORAL,
SERGEANT, CORPORAL
GRANT
A thirty-days leave after a tour in ‘Nam helped me adjust to life back in the “real” world.
It wasn’t exactly “party hearty” for a month, but four weeks of working on the loading dock at
our family business. My dad thought the best way for me to adjust was for me to work, and he
was right. I did have some time to visit my friends and do a little bar-hopping on Rush Street.
Had one helluva time trying to get to Camp Pendleton, California to report – some bad
weather crippled air traffic on the West Coast. I reported in late, actually the next morning. I
had an explanation from the airline for my delay, so I didn’t anticipate a problem and there
wasn’t one.
I expected to be assigned to an infantry outfit since I had been a Field Radio/Wireman
overseas. To my surprise, I was sent to a motor transport unit. I had also done some office work
but never had qualified as a “Personnel Specialist.” I could do some typing if you didn’t mind
the half-dozen-or-so typos per sentence. The only filing system I understood was the “round
file” on the side of the First Shirt’s desk. That’s where a Marine’s liberty requests were usually
placed.
Well, in any Grunt’s mind, it’s better to ride in the back of a “deuce and a half” than having
to walk everywhere. Maybe I could work my way into becoming a truck driver full time.
There was a school bus waiting outside of the 5th Marine Division’s Headquarters. The
driver was a BAM (female Marine) and she was kinda/sorta cute. The way she acted, however,
showed that she was not inclined to have one thing to do with us replacements. (Oh. What’s a
“BAM” you might ask? Well, it’s what you never, never ever call a female Marine to her face if
you treasure your God-given manhood.)
A bunch of us got into some sort of formation and, as our names were called, we would
25
shoulder our sea bags and board the bus. 13th Motor Battalion was about the eighth or ninth stop
on the driver’s route. That was my stop, and that driver didn’t even acknowledge my “Thanks!”
as I clumsily made my way off of her bus. The Staff Sergeant at Battalion seemed to be a really
nice guy. He told me that he’d get me to Charlie Company as quickly as he could. But since it
was still early afternoon, he told me not to be surprised if I were to be assigned as Duty NCO for
the rest of the day once there. Of course, he was right.
I arrived just as the Commanding Officer and First Sergeant were wrapping it up for the day.
I handed my orders, my personnel file and my medical record to 1st Sergeant Smith and he
introduced me to the Company Commander. And, guess what? Top told me I had Duty NCO for
the rest of the day. With that, I was handed a copy of the Company SOP and a roster of all the
Marines in the Company. Then, the Top left for the day.
So, Duty NCO is Duty NCO whether you’re at Headquarters, Marine Corps or at a little
Motor T outfit in the middle of nowhere, like Camp Pendleton. The hardest part is staying
awake.
The next morning was to be my introduction to the rest of Charlie Company, all 74 of ‘em.
One Captain, one 1st Sergeant, six Corporals, one Private First Class and 65 privates.
The Commanding Officer was a short-timer who was getting out of the Marine Corps in
about six months. He might be around the area in the morning, but he left the running of the
Company to 1st Sergeant Smith.
Top was a World War II and Korean War Vet. He was also an old “China Hand.” After
WW Deuce, he was in China as Mao was taking over. After a couple of tours in ‘Nam, he
expected this assignment to be his last in the Corps. That doesn’t mean he slacked off; he was
Marine through and through.
Unless they gave us trouble -- the privates were just 17 years old -- kids waiting for their
18th birthday and their orders for Viet Nam – working with them went pretty well. Actually,
dealing with them was like handling a class full of high school juniors.
The Corporals were the backbone of the Company. We were the only reason anything got
done and that the Company functioned so well. Every one of them was a great Marine and a
26
good person to know. But, in a group like that, for one to stand out is exceptional. That
exceptional Marine was Corporal Grant. Grant was a Korean War Veteran and had served
with my Regiment, the 5th Marines, at the “Frozen Chosin.” That’s the battle that had the 1st
Marine Division totally outnumbered, sur- rounded by Chinese Communist forces. The
Division Commander, Marine legend General Chesty Puller, told his Marines that the
ChiComs were in front of them, behind them and on their left and right. Then he said, “We
got ‘em where we want ‘em!” The Division fought its way out and inflicted heavy casualties
on the enemy.
One day, as we were in the Motor Pool, I got to talking with Grant. The day before, the First
Shirt had submitted the paperwork for Grant’s promotion to Sergeant, E-5. The promotion was
“mandatory.” Since there was no cause for the Commander not to recommend him for a
promotion, and since Grant had the maximum amount of time in grade as a Corporal, he either
accepted it or he faced a forced discharge, although it would have been an “Honorable” one.
With just a little more than a year to go before becoming eligible for a pension, that option would
have not been one he would take.
Grant just looked at me and said, “I don’t want to be a Sergeant.” And with that, he walked
away.
“Whiskey delta foxtrot! What the hell is with him?” I thought. Every normal Marine’s
ambition is to make Sergeant. In the Corps, Sergeants sit at the right hand of God. Sergeants are
infallible in all matters, and their orders are followed just like the Ten Commandments.
The only person who could give me some sort of explanation for Grant’s attitude was the
First Shirt. So, at my first chance, I told Top what happened and what Grant had said to me. He
explained that Corporal Grant was a squad leader in Korea for two years, and in that time, every
member of his original squad and every replacement that came in was Killed in Action. Grant
swore that he would never act as a Sergeant again.
He made good on that oath he made to himself. Every time Grant made E-5, he managed to
do something that warranted a reduction in rank to Corporal, but not bad enough to warrant any
additional punishment. He did just enough to not get any “bad time” – any punishment that
would extend a current enlistment such as going AWOL (Away Without Leave) or that would
result in a discharge. Usually, after getting promoted, Grant would just go out into town and get
27
blind drunk and then go back to his unit. That’s when 1st Sergeant Smith said that Grant had
always made good on his promise to himself.
The Friday came when the Battalion Commander brought Corporal Grant to his office and
promoted him to Sergeant for the fifth time in his career. Somehow, we all knew that he’d be
back in the Old Man’s office in a few days.
That weekend also happened to be one of the weekends when Charlie Company was out of
the Battalion’s “duty rotation.” In other words, we had a two-day Liberty Call.
I just knew there was going to be trouble. After the Saturday morning formation, Liberty
Call was announced and then, of course, the mad dash to the Company Office to sign out
individual Liberty Cards. Sergeant Grant seemed to be in no particular hurry to get his. He
already had his weekend planned. In fact, he had no plan to ever even leave Base.
That evening, Grant approached me and asked me to join him at the NCO Club. I couldn’t
join him because I already had promised a couple of buddies to join them bar hopping in
Oceanside, the town outside of the Camp Pendleton gate. But we did make a plan to meet with
other NCO’s at the club Sunday evening for some burgers and beers.
I don’t know what Grant was doing that Saturday. Frankly, I didn’t think that it was my turn
to watch him. Most of Sunday passed and, late that afternoon, a few of us Corporals got
together and headed for the club. We got to the bar and ordered our drinks. That’s when I
noticed Sergeant Grant at the bar sitting next to the waitress’ station. I went over to him to
remind him of our scheduled meeting and said hello. At the time he seemed fine to me but
didn’t seem to want any company. With that, I rejoined my group and had a few beers -- okay,
quite a few beers. I do remember walking back to the barracks and crawling into my bunk.
0500 Monday morning Charlie Company was up and starting a new week. Except for one
newly promoted Sergeant.
I asked a few of the guys if they had seen Grant, and the replies were all negative. So,
another Marine and I went to his room and knocked on the door. With no answer, we opened it
and found Grant. He was in civilian clothes and spread out on his bunk. He was pretty drunk,
28
but not to the point where I didn’t think we couldn’t sober him up enough to fake it through a
duty day. Boy, was I wrong.
We buddy-carried him to the shower where we sat him down and directed a stream of cold
water at him. We alternated the cold showers with intervals of trying to get him to walk around
with our help. After an hour of this, we realized it was hopeless. The only thing left to do was to
dry him off, get him in some clean, dry skivvies and put him in his bunk to sleep it off. Maybe,
we thought, if we just played dumb and maybe if the First Sergeant and the CO were too busy
with other things and maybe, just maybe, we could say that someone saw Grant in the Motor
Pool while another guy would say he thought he saw Grant heading to the Battalion S-4, then,
just then, maybe nobody would check on Grant, and we’d get away with covering for him.
Hah! Not to be! You can’t put one over on an old China Hand like 1st Sergeant Smith. Top
didn’t even start that Monday at the Company CP. He went directly to our barracks, made a bee-
line to the NCO’s rooms and opened the door on a sleeping Sergeant Grant. He didn’t even try
to waken him, he just figured he had to let him sleep it off.
We had a new Company Clerk by that time. School trained. Very impressive. Knew it all.
We also found out he was very efficient in searching up charges (as well as “specifications”
nobody ever heard of) in the Uniform Code to type out on Sergeant Grant’s charge sheet. Poor
Clark. Even Mother Theresa would have taken him out and shot his sorry ass after that clerk got
done with him.
We finally got Grant sober enough that afternoon to get him to don his one tropical shirt that
had his only set of Sergeant stripes sewn on (talk about “pre-planning”). We brought him to the
Company CP where the CO immediately read the charges to Grant and then referred the matter
to the Battalion Commander. Since Battalion solely had promotional authority to make
someone a Sergeant, Battalion also had the authority to reduce an NCO in rank. The Ol’ Man
wanted Grant busted but didn’t realize that was what Grant also wanted.
A couple of days later, Grant had his Article 15, plead “Guilty” to a bunch of minor
charges, and was reduced in rank from Sergeant E-5 to Corporal E-4. Everyone was happy.
The Battalion Commander was happy; the CO was happy; First Shirt wasn’t too happy, but just
glad the whole damn thing was over with. But most of all, Corporal Grant was happy.
29
I transferred out of Charlie Company a few days later. I understand the 1st Sergeant
retired soon after and received a Medal for Meritorious Service. The CO got out and entered
civilian life in his family’s business. I don’t know whatever happened to Grant. Some time
later I did hear something about “the oldest Corporal in the Marine Corps” finally retiring.
Musta’ been Grant.
Jerry Czarnowski
30
31
The Inside Scoop on Air Force Conversations
I was a member of Flight B538. A flight is a group that airmen are assigned upon
arrival to basic training. Flight B538 consisted of about 40 diverse females. We were the band
flight for our graduating class, which was an honor because we played the ceremony songs.
These girls and I discovered that there is an interesting selection of vocabulary, various forms of
address, and behind-the-scene joking involved with the process of becoming an airman.
All military branches have their own vocabulary, and as a member of the Air Force I
must emphasize that the vocabulary is quite unique. Some words or phrases are latrine, snake pit,
wingman, civvies, and standby. Latrine means the restroom, which was used by saying,
“Sir/Ma’am, trainee Morrison reports as ordered, may I go to the latrine?” Another interesting
term is snake pit. In the dining facility there was a table specifically for the military instructors,
and when the trainees walked by, the instructors would yell at them in front of everyone. The
wingman concept was important throughout basic training. A wingman is basically someone
who goes with you everywhere and watches your back while you watch theirs in return. Civvies
is a golden word, because it means civilian clothes. After spending months in a military uniform,
the idea of wearing civilian clothes was refreshing. I recall the first time I put on my civilian
clothes after training; my clothes fit differently but it felt good to wear what I wanted. Lastly,
another word that was used is standby. This word is a preparatory command that means hang
tight for the next thing that will happen. The military is like a whole other world with its own
language, so to speak.
32
When talking to individuals in the Air Force, there are certain forms of address that must
be used. For example, we always had to say sir/ma’am because that was a sign of respecting
authority. Also, a reporting statement was said with every remark or request, which is along the
lines of “Sir/ma’am, trainee (last name) reports as ordered…..” The tone of voice must be loud
enough for the instructor to hear; otherwise they will yell at you until the statement is louder.
Not to mention, we had to stand at the position of attention with our arms at our side when
talking to an instructor. As far as interaction with each other, last names were the primary way
to get another person’s attention. One thing I found to be interesting is that not all branches
appreciate being called sir/ma’am. As an example, my wingman and I were coming back from a
smoothie shop in our gym uniform when an Army sergeant approached us and asked, “Is it
authorized in the Air Force to drink while walking in uniform?” Looking at each other in
confusion, my wingman and I responded by saying, “no sir,” and as a result the sergeant said,
“Don’t call me sir; I actually work for a living.” Army sergeants don’t like being addressed as
sir/ma’am, because that is for higher ranked individuals such as officers. I have learned that
what one branch views as a sign of respect could translate to disrespect for another branch.
The basic training environment doesn't seem like a place for jokes or games, but that
doesn't mean that those things never occurred. As I mentioned before, I lived with 40 females for
two months, and since we were forced to tolerate each other there was a camaraderie that
developed. As a result of this bond, there was periodic joking that happened among many of the
girls. For instance, the military instructors had their own way of calling marching commands,
and one girl in my flight was very good at imitating the instructors. When our military instructor
wasn’t around, she would say “Flight march,” and swing her arms back and forth, which made
33
us all laugh because of how spot on she was. Also, since we were fresh trainees, our marching
abilities were far from outstanding. To elaborate, most of us focused on getting the movements
so perfect that sometimes we ended up looking ridiculous. I recall laughing with the other girls
about how some of our movements mimicked penguins waddling. Another opportunity to joke
and have fun was when we sang “jodies” during PT. A “jody” is a song or call that functions as
a form of expression. An example of a “jody” is, “Everywhere we go people wanna know who
we are, so we tell them, we’re not the Army, the ground poundin’ Army, we are the Air Force,
the high-flying Air Force.” Ultimately, there was always a time to be serious, but it’s important
to balance that out with some laughs.
The television industry and media thrive on sharing the moments when soldiers are
forced to deal with embarrassing punishments and intense training methods. The rarely depicted
reality of basic military training is what happens behind the scenes when your wingman needs a
shoulder to cry on or a tissue from laughing to the point of crying. I can say first hand that my
most enjoyable moments were being able to laugh with the other girls about the crazy days we
all had. The funny experiences enabled us to get through eight weeks of constant yelling,
bumping heads, failures as a team, and the list goes on and on. We needed that type of
interaction to fight the homesick thoughts and fear of the unexpected day ahead, as well as to
embrace the courageous choice that we made by joining the military.
The conversation of service members in general seems to reveal a comradery that
distinguishes it from other professions. For example, when you disagree with an employee, you
most likely don’t have to go home with that person; in the military you could be forced to lie in
a cot next to that same person. There aren’t any breaks or escapes from a problem, only the
34
constant opportunity to get a job done regardless of any issue that comes up. To elaborate, a
girl in my flight named Walker got in trouble for something but blamed another girl. We all
knew that Walker was lying, and as a punishment our instructor made us do pushups until she
confessed. There wasn’t an escape from the situation because everyone was forced to deal
with Walker’s attitude on an hourly and daily basis. The interactions helped my group define
ourselves by showing how we leaned on one another. Our identity wasn’t “I” it was “we.”
Of course, we all had our own personality and some were more outspoken
than others. The assigned leader of the group was our dorm chief, and we would be considered
the followers. There was a chain that we all had to follow that started with the instructor giving
an order to the dorm chief who would relay the message to us. There were some girls that had
strong personalities and would make it known that they were there for themselves, not us. These
girls had a habit of causing friction in the group. Consequently, the way that some of the girls
treated each other led to constant bickering which resulted to us all getting punished in the end.
Learning to become accustomed to a new life experience can be quite nerve wracking.
We tend to prefer comfort rather than change, which doesn’t allow us to grow as a person.
Along my journey I’ve had adversities to overcome, but I believe that those around me
contributed to my success. All in all, the conversations that we have throughout life can open
the door for meeting new people, sharing, and developing a sense of community that isn’t
always cherished in society.
Asya Morrison
35
It Was a Proud Day
As William Shakespeare wrote in The Tempest, “What is past is prologue.” A similar
thought was expressed in the novel Trinity, written by former Marine Leon Uris, about the
English-Irish conflicts over the centuries – “The past happening over and over.” A blend of the
current award-winning movie, The Post, with my experience on a recent flight from Atlanta to
Peoria, underscored the relevance of those quotations. But the truth of those quotations has
become clearer to me today, almost half a century after I entered the U.S. Marine Corps. Time
molds our perspective. The events detailed below, absorbed over the past 50 years and recently
renewed by the current events mentioned above, have shaped my perspective on U.S. soldiers
dying in far-off wars, about which we are poorly informed and intentionally kept in the dark.
The messages from Shakespeare and Uris resound, today, more loudly and clearly than they did
nearly 50 years ago.
Let us begin at the beginning.
It was a proud day, for me and my on-looking parents, when I was commissioned a 2nd
Lt. in the U.S. Marine Corps in 1968 at the University of Idaho in Moscow, Idaho. Also in
attendance at the commissioning ceremony was, albeit very stoic and silent, the Marine Corps
full dress uniform I was wearing. The uniform was reverently referred to as “Dress Blues.” And
it was that Dress Blue uniform that was the reason I was first introduced to the tragic realities of
the Vietnam War.
36
After my commissioning in December, 1968, my next Marine Corps related activity,
about one month away, was to report for duty as an official 2nd Lt. Marine Corps officer and as a
Navy flight school student at Pensacola Naval Air Station, in Pensacola, Florida. The drive from
Moscow, Idaho to Pensacola was huge fun – my last days as a civilian, the excitement of flight
school in my future, driving in the comfort of my 1969 Chevrolet Impala, and, most important,
appreciating the quality of sound from the car’s 8-track tape player as it played songs such as
Bob Seger’s “Ramblin’ Gambling Man,” still a huge favorite. So I drove for three days,
accompanied by everything I owned, listening to great music, and guided by the exciting but
unknown future awaiting me in the U.S. Marine Corps.
The first days on active duty at Pensacola were a whirlwind – initial Marine Corps
orientation, settling into the Bachelor Office Quarters (BOQ), learning to salute each time I
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walked to the Base Exchange, and my introduction to the well-known military phrase, “Hurry up
and wait.” Given the swift arrival of officers for flight school and the delay in starting their
training, I was placed in a ‘pool,’ waiting, as were all others in the pool, for our slot in flight
school. So time, for those of us in the pool, began to weigh heavily on our hands. The Marine
Corps responded, as it always seemed to, by offering new, but unspecified, opportunities. The
question was asked, “Which officers had Dress Blues?” I was excited to let people know I had
the complete uniform, including white gloves. So, I put my hand up and was told to report, the
next day, in full uniform, to the Base Chapel. My education was about to begin – and it was not
about flight school but the realities of serving in a Marine Corps at war.
Like the majority of Americans in the late 1960s, my views on Vietnam were a direct
result of what I saw on television. As an expert at the University of Illinois commented, “the
typical television news imagery was Walter Cronkite sitting in front of a map, describing where
the most recent battles were raging.” The academic expert added the relevant observation,
“Vietnam War (television) coverage was mainly notable for presenting a more sanitized view of
wartime casualties.” Television imagery was my only contact with the reality of the war in
Vietnam. That was about to change.
There were six Marine officers – all rookie second Lieutenants, such as myself – who
appeared at the Base Chapel the morning following the official request. We were resplendent in
our Dress Blues, looking very formal and playing the role as official representatives of the U.S.
Marine Corps. One of the minor things I recall was walking from the BOQ to the Chapel that
morning, in my Blues, wearing my white gloves. It is not permitted to salute wearing a glove.
So, I carried my right hand glove in my gloved left hand, in case I needed to salute with my right
hand. One must demonstrate proper Marine Corps standards at all times, particularly when in
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Dress Blues. As it turned out, a commanding officer passed by, in his official vehicle, and I
saluted. It was returned, and I felt very positive about my proper behavior. A small victory for
this young 2nd Lt. That victory was to be short-lived.
The officer who greeted us at the Base Chapel, also wearing Dress Blues, introduced
himself and quickly divulged our ‘mission.’ We were all assigned as casket bearers for Marines
who had recently died in Vietnam and who would be buried in the Pensacola area. The fallen
Marine was to receive full military recognition as those who have died in battle. Such an
introduction to our duties was unexpected, but not as unexpected as the impact on us that was to
follow.
Pensacola Naval Air Station is home to Barrancas National Cemetery. All of the young
Marines whose burial I was involved with were buried at the National Cemetery. Since the
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cemetery is on base, the base provided the formal military ceremony. Details we on the burial
detail carefully followed:
A military chaplain for family members.
A casket draped in the flag of the United States
A casket team serving as honor guards in a ceremonial role over the remains and
as pallbearers
The formation of a rifle party, between three and seven, who fire a three-volley salute
The playing of Taps
Following the playing of taps, the U.S. flag, which was draped over the casket, is carefully
folded by the honor guard and then presented to the widow or a family member. While the
recognition procedures for the Marine are straightforward, military and precise, the emotions
involved are incredible. Taps in such a setting is powerful beyond words. But it was the
presentation of the folded American flag, to a widow, surrounded by their children, or to the
parents of the fallen soldier, that was incredibly moving to me and to those attending the burial.
It clearly was most moving to the grieving wife, children and parents. And to a young 2nd Lt.
from Moscow, Idaho, all of the ceremony was a sobering introduction to the reality of the war in
Vietnam, where young soldiers were more than simply part of the daily body count released by
the Pentagon but were dying and returning home to be buried. I had never seen a formal military
burial of someone killed in Vietnam shown on television. At that moment, during the first burial
for which I was part of the honor guard, and for each burial over the following two weeks, I
came to the conclusion the reality of war, such as the deaths of American soldiers, was
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something people more senior than myself believed was a topic best left in silence and certainly
not to be shared with the American public though television coverage.
In February of this year I was strapped in my airline seat waiting for the door to close on my
flight from Atlanta to Peoria. One of the outside doors on the jetway, which connected the
airplane to the terminal, suddenly opened and a young Army Staff Sergeant appeared, clearly
having climbed from the ground up to the jetway to enter the airplane. I thought this unusual, but
he was in uniform and perhaps the airline had given him a special dispensation to walk around
the aircraft before boarding. He entered the cabin as discretely as possible, although in full dress
with an impressive array of decorations on his chest, and sat down quickly and quietly. The
doors closed and soon we were airborne, en route to Peoria.
The reality of why he was on the plane was soon made clear by the airline crew who
announced he was accompanying the casket of a soldier who had recently died in the Middle
East. The soldier was to be buried in Illinois. The Staff Sergeant would accompany the casket
and, I am sure, repeat the same military burial ceremony that I had done half a century before.
When we arrived in Peoria, the casket was clearly visible as it was unloaded from the airplane.
The Staff Sergeant was the first to leave the plane so that he could be with the casket. I had a
very good idea what lay before the Staff Sergeant that day.
The combination of the young soldier’s sad return home to Illinois and the current film The
Post, which revealed the U.S.’s secret enlargement of the Vietnam War, prompted me to recount
my burial duty assignment 50 years ago. Just as I was introduced to the full, but private, reality
of the U.S. at war in Vietnam through burial duty at Pensacola Naval Air Station, it seems we
only learn about the scope of U.S. military involvement around the world, accidentally, such as
the tragic killing of four U.S. soldiers in Niger last October. The U.S. military has been in Niger
41
as long as the U.S. military has been in Afghanistan, if not longer. That reality only became
public when the four soldiers died. And it is the burial of young soldiers, whether 50 years ago,
last month or today, which is a clear, but silent reminder to the American public of the scope of
U.S. military activities.
But, on reflection, I was no more open about military causalities in Vietnam than was the
U.S. government. While on active duty, I wrote home to my parents each week and my mother,
bless her soul, kept each letter. I recently read them as I prepared this article. And at no time did
I mention my burial detail assignment and my proximity to death. I did not wish to distress them
about things, just as the U.S. government officials and television executives chose silence rather
than facing the reality and consequences of the war in Vietnam.
As a father and grandfather, I am concerned about the silent expansion of U.S. military
involvement in an unknown number of countries to address ‘vital national security interests.’
And, as a taxpayer and concerned parent, I would like more openness and more robust
explanations of why my fellow citizens are dying in Niger, at the direction of the U.S.
government.
Bill Bailey
42
Seeing the Elephant: A War Story
War is a product of mankind’s devise. A sinister hell remanding future generations to an
eternal slumber in the cold earth. Their names carved in granite and marble, a testament to
man’s inhumanity toward fellow man. To quote LTC Harold Moore, battalion commander for
the 2/7 Cavalry in Vietnam, “There is no glory in war, only good men dying terrible deaths.” I
was witness to one of these terrible deaths as a young, naive 18-year-old. Only seven months
removed from graduating high school in Colchester, Illinois, a month-and-a-half after graduating
from basic training in Ft. Knox, Kentucky, I, along with the rest of First Brigade, First Infantry
Division out of Ft. Riley, Kansas, sat on an airplane at LaGuardia International Airport. It was
New Year’s Eve and the pilot wouldn’t take off until the ball had dropped in Times Square. The
flight crew was kind enough to pipe in the sounds of celebration while we grew restive at their
attempt to cheer us up. I squirmed uncomfortably in my airline seat as the brass buckles on my
nylon web gear dug cruelly into my sides; my shoulders chafed from the shoulder straps, my feet
falling in and out of sleep. I had joined the Army to pay my way through college; war had been
the last thing on my mind. The drill sergeants had a field day with all the recruits of Alpha
Company 2/13 the moment Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Some were told they wouldn’t
live to get to use their college money, a few were ridiculed and mocked for answering in the
affirmative when asked if they were willing to die for their country. I was in the latter group.
Assigned to Bravo Company 1/34 Armor, I was placed in second platoon on the platoon
sergeant’s tank. I was to be a loader on an M1A1, main battle tank, 62 tons of steel with a
120mm main gun capable of firing at a maximum effective range of 2,000 meters. I was the
errand boy for the platoon, running messages to the other three tanks in the platoon. And as a
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brand new private I was subjected to the usual hazing by the older, more experienced soldiers in
our platoon. I was sent on bogus missions to acquire tools and parts from the mechanics that
didn’t exist. Items such as a “front slope adjusting wrench” or a box of reticles. It was all in fun,
and it helped to pass the time while we waited.
We fought boredom, banal monotony, and, occasionally, each other. Waiting for
information from higher up about what was going on—information that was nonexistent. We
waited on letters from home, care packages, and the letter addressed to “Any Soldier” was a
welcome respite from the time we had on our hands and the warring thoughts in our heads. We
envisioned many unpleasant scenarios. I thought back to the CNN report that estimated
thousands of casualties on the first day that hostilities would commence. At times we had to ask
one another what day it was; the surreal passage of days and weeks flowed together in a
kaleidoscopic mirage. I witnessed grown men weep after reading letters from home. I tried to
cry, but for some reason my tears were hoarded against the arid desert sands. The mundane
ritual of radio watch while scanning the vast, empty horizon led to a feeling of detachment. I
started smoking to occupy my idle hands; I’d decided to get a tattoo upon my return to Kansas.
Many decisions were made as the war clouds formed on the horizon.
February 24, 1991: The ground war had officially begun. A 0400 wake-up from my tank
commander SFC Berryhill in his nasally New Jersey twang, “If I’m not tired, you’re not tired!” I
grimly pulled on my chemical protective suit, wincing as its gritty charcoal liner stained my
hands black with soot. We were in our MOPP 2 outfit; MOPP: Mission Oriented Protective
Posture, our nuclear, biological, and chemical resistant suits. With the pants, boots, and shirt on,
I silently prayed we wouldn’t have to complement our outfits by adding our gas masks and
gloves.
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The first day we crept along at a mind-numbing five miles an hour, a far cry from the
tanks in the Army ads that sped through the countryside jumping small hills. The squeal and pop
of the treads crushing against the sand was almost hypnotic. I stood in the loader’s hatch and
kept air guard with my M-240 machine gun mounted on its swivel. I was unsure of the weapon’s
ability to harm any aircraft we might encounter, but it was per the manual, and I honestly got a
kick out of being in my hatch surveying the endless march of machinery. The slow rhythmic
pace was almost relaxing; I nearly forgot we were in an actual war. To this day I have difficulty
calling Desert Storm a war. The cynical side of me wants to refer to it as an arms expo for all the
defense contractors who would finally see some return on their investment.
We halted at our first objective and listened as the area ahead of us was prepped with
artillery rounds for almost two hours. Salvo after salvo echoed like thunder, and I was glad I was
not on the receiving end of it.
Throughout the entirety of that first day all platoons had been informed that our scouts
were out in front of us in their Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles. But as the sun crept below
the horizon, the atmosphere devolved from one of order to anxiety. Sitting down inside the
turret, I became nervous and uneasy. My midsection tightened up; my insides felt hollowed out.
Sweating and trembling, I didn’t want to let my crew down when called upon to load the main
gun with its 70-pound rounds. I listened to the muted chatter from the radio transmissions
between tanks and realized our entire company—13 other tanks--were on the same radio
frequency trying to relay information and updates to our Company commander. Not all the
pertinent information would be relayed.
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One of our first platoon tanks radioed in and reported a ZSU23-4 in their position. This
is a Soviet, anti-aircraft vehicle with four 23-millimeter guns. Our company commander (a West
Point graduate) gave them the go-ahead to fire, as we had friendly aircraft in the area. The shot
went out in a blaze of light and a muted roar, followed quickly by the crackling explosion of
steel as the round met its target. “Good shooting, Bravo,” was the message from our Company’s
master gunner. This accolade was quickly followed by the admonition to “Cease fire!”
It wasn’t a ZSU they’d hit, but one of the Bradleys. And to compound the tragic error,
the scouts evacuating their burning vehicle were fired upon by another unit on our left flank.
Tragically, the Bradley’s gunner never made it out as the armor piercing round penetrated the
turret wall, killing him instantly. The scout’s platoon leader, while directing his men to whatever
safety they could find, was hit in the calf by small arms fire, nearly severing it from the knee
down. A helpless, sick feeling pervaded in our tank. Sgt. Courtney, our gunner, was incensed.
He knew it was a Bradley before the shot was even fired, but due to the configuration of the
radio frequency, our tank was unable to get through to the commander’s in time.
There was still one more casualty to be counted among the dead and wounded as the truth
would meet an ignominious end on the desert sands that night.
The next morning, we assembled in a company formation, and our commander informed
us that forensic experts had found an enemy rocket-propelled grenade at the site of the shooting
and that first platoon was not responsible for what had transpired the night before. The revulsion
and disbelief that sank into my bones left a stain darker than my charcoal lined MOPP suit. Faith
in my leaders eroded as the seeds of doubt and cynicism were sown into our collective psyche.
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Our company, even though absolved of any wrongdoing, was not allowed to fire another round
the entirety of the abbreviated ground war.
Three months later our role in Desert Storm was over. We flew back to Kansas and
during the bus ride from Forbes Field in Topeka to Ft. Riley an information officer instructed us,
if we were ever questioned, to speak only of the positive aspects of our experience. For me
nothing positive was gained except for living through it, and during my four years in the Army I
became very familiar with the phrase “believe none of what you hear and half of what you see.”
On that February night, truer words had never been spoken.
Chris Bell
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How Writing Saved My Life
The bell rang, the students quickly took their seats, and Mrs. Willhite began speaking
about the upcoming poetry assignment. Little did I know that this would be my first experience
as a writer. Writing letters home while I was fighting two wars was another time where my
proficiency increased. Lastly, writing saved my life as I transitioned to civilian life from military
service.
I was an interesting student at Sherrard High School. I was always in trouble and could
never fully apply myself. While I cannot remember a teacher ever giving up on me, I can
certainly remember the amazing teachers I was blessed to have. Mr. Kovac, a science teacher,
was one such example, but Mrs. Willhite, my English teacher, truly stood out as an example of
what a teacher should be. She was an amazing, albeit stern, woman. The class and I were
assigned to tap into our personal lives and creativity, then construct a rhyming poem that
conveyed our heart’s content at that period in our early lives. While I do not have the poem
anymore (it was lost quite a long time ago), I do remember how I toiled tirelessly to fully adhere
to the assignment and produce extraordinary results. Through this assignment, the tutelage of my
teacher, and my own inner ambitions, I planned to create a truly unique artistic creation that no
other could claim or copyright. Some of the poem echoes in my head as I recall its long distant
memories. “Stabbed by a blade of darkness, cold as a winter’s night…” Short, cropped, and
disrupted lines of text erupt into my brain. I am slowly remembering! I do hope that someday the
knowledge of that poem will come back to me. On the day that I presented and read aloud my
poem, that old English classroom was filled with the sounds of clapping and cheering. Such a
marvelous spectacle it was! Mrs. Willhite immediately commented, “Is it really dark at your
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house?” I fired right back with, “Only when I turn the lights off!” I was and still am a facetious
smartass. After class, a friend asked if she could have a copy of the poem that I had written, and
hinted at what it had meant to her. Times like those make me wish that I could be young again,
but the wisdom I have found since then overshadows them, and now I am merely humbled and
left content knowing that I was able, in some small semblance and manner, to positively affect
someone else’s life.
Through the rigors of battle, every ounce of my being was tested. My body, spirit, brain,
morals, and innocence were all tested. I saw and did things I can never forget. Afghanistan is a
terrible placed with a completely different culture than I had ever experienced. With all of the
death, destruction, poverty, and the mission at hand, few things helped me through it. My
brothers fighting beside me, my letters to home I wrote, and the mail I received from home were
my greatest support. The care packages with tobacco were a nice touch, though. It was because
of this seemingly primitive and undeveloped geographical location that our only source of
communication to the “real” world was old fashioned snail mail. The part of Afghanistan I was
in was a blend of shades of brown and scarce green, unless we were patrolling through an opium
or marijuana field. We would occasionally come across a river to bathe in, or we would dig holes
and sleep in them, but they were brown too. Because I had no other options of communication, I
used writing to connect and convey information, feelings, and situations to my friends and loved
ones back home, but there was more. Perhaps I was channeling the feeling from the previously
mentioned English class poem, but something sparked me to pursue the art of letter writing. It
was in this deployment and method that I learned how to use words like an artist uses a
paintbrush. My letters were always honest, heartfelt, and overly lavish with regard to the highest
hopes for my loved ones back home. “To my dear and beloved mother” was the standard
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greeting when I wrote to her. When I say overly lavish, I seek to clarify that I could die at any
moment, and as a direct result that letter I was currently writing would have been sent home in
accordance with my wishes and guaranteed by my brothers in arms. I did use a lot of colorful
wording and sought to make sure that my family knew that I loved them and missed them dearly.
I still have most of those letters, and I consider them to be priceless treasures in my collection of
junk.
Having survived the wars, trying to learn how to be a civilian again was an arduous and
ongoing process. It’s been ten years since I was in combat, but I have endured much more than
the average person shall know. When I was honorably discharged after completing my active
duty service period, I lost my sense of belonging, purpose, identity, and the camaraderie of my
brothers. I was existing, but not living. Writing offered me an outlet that allowed me to express
my darkest and deepest burdens in a healthy way. Words like “monster” and “hatred” were
commonly found initially, but, over time, I began to understand what altruism is. It was not a
smooth, easy, or enjoyable process, but it forced me to recognize where I had been and why I am
the person I am today. Heart-wrenching and agonizing memories from my past were chronicled
on paper and submitted to officials at the Department of Veterans Affairs. I quickly learned that I
had to provide intimate details of my experiences and situations involving terrible ways of
human beings dying. I had to recall and document these torturous events. That was a necessary
step, and, through that, I was later able to feel more at ease regarding those situations. In a way, I
was learning to live again by finally dealing with my trauma. Later still, I would find the happy
moments in those sad times and create positivity.
My literacy was greatly influenced by a poem written in a high school English class, by
writing letters home on deployments, and by writing about my combat experiences. These
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examples are only part of a truly complex and lengthy path, and my destination as a writer has
not yet been reached. I will continue to develop my skills as a writer, and someday I will write a
book based on my own experiences, successes, and failures, all with the hope of my heartfelt
words and most sincere wishes reaching a veteran whose life may be impacted in a profoundly
positive and uplifting way. I do not fully understand the power of the words I write, but I can
hope that they will be useful and bring peace to someone who has not known it for some time.
Kaleb Wadsworth
51
What I Carried
Tim O’Brien says a war story isn’t moral. It doesn’t instruct or encourage virtue. He says
it can be difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen.* I think he’s right.
We share a common experience, ground pounders in the Vietnam War. We were called grunts
and saw a lot of weird, crazy stuff. Civilians, or those who never experienced combat in a line
unit, think many of our stories are not to be believed. Crazy, yes. Normal, no. But it’s not
beyond the telling. You can make up your own mind.
I received the dreaded letter in the summer of 1968. “Greetings, you have been selected
by your friends and neighbors to serve in the armed forces of the United States.” Friends and
neighbors, my ass. They wouldn’t do this to me. The draft board did, though. The words of that
notice hadn’t changed since they ‘selected’ Jackie Robinson and my father, or millions of other
Americans, for World War II.
I never really thought seriously about going to Canada. A lot of guys left the country to
avoid the draft. But, somehow, it didn’t seem like the right thing to do. Truthfully, I didn’t want
to go to ‘Nam. I had heard of Vietnam; it seemed a million miles away and not real.
But it was real, and the Tet Offensive had caught us off guard. Apparently, the military-
industrial complex didn’t want that to happen again. August/September of 1968 turned out to be
the second largest draft call in our nation’s history. Only the conscription after the attack on
Pearl Harbor was bigger.
So, in August of 1968 I found myself at the armory in downtown Chicago. They
wouldn’t let us inductees leave to take care of personal affairs and return with necessary items.
“We’re afraid you’ll go out and join the hippies,” an old drill Sergeant told us. The Democratic
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National Convention was in town and Mayor Daley’s cops were at war with demonstrators. The
streets were volatile.
The next day we were put on a troop train, the same train later memorialized in song.
The ‘City of New Orleans’ was taking us to Fort Polk, LA. What an eclectic collection we were!
There were whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, American Indians, and who knows what else.
Farmers, city boys, suburban Joe Colleges, blue and white collar workers, clean cut guys and
long hairs. Fu Manchu mustaches, crew cuts, beards, pony tails, tie-dyed shirts, sandals, work
boots and wing tips. We would soon be stripped of all this individuality, our hair cut, and all
forced to wear the same boots and olive drab clothing.
That first day I carried a few dollars and some personal items my family had been
allowed to bring me at the Armory, plus a large burden of disillusionment. Were we being asked
to go fight a war that was being protested in the streets of Chicago? It was a mixed message at
best. Many of us were anti-establishment. We never thought of what it would be like for us
when, and if, we returned from our military experience.
Like most draftees we were ticketed for Vietnam. Of course, there were truck drivers,
cooks, clerks and artillery needed in ‘Nam. But most, like me, were in the infantry. I did Basic
Training and AIT (advanced individual training) at Ft Polk. I was put in mortars. So, I wasn’t a
straight-leg, or 11B MOS. My military occupation specialty was mortar grunt. I was 11C. I
was soon to find out that didn’t mean much in ‘Nam.
My orders for Vietnam said NLA at the top, or No Leave Authorized. Many of us
trainees had gone home for Christmas. Wouldn’t you? Now they wanted us to go to war
without seeing loved ones. I disagreed with this directive and went AWOL, so I got busted
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down to Private E-1, but eventually reported to the Oakland Army Terminal for overseas
deployment.
I arrived in Vietnam as a replacement. Most guys didn’t go over with a unit. It
happened, but not that often. You were kind of on your own, at a replacement center, waiting to
see where you would be sent. Most guys’ first job was burning shit. After the obligatory two to
three days of burning human waste with diesel fuel, and waiting for orders, I was sent from Bien
Hoa AFB to Dong Tam. Ninth Infantry Division headquarters were in Dong Tam. After a few
more days of shitty duty, rocket attacks and bad food, I was re-assigned to Rach Kien, a small
base camp close to a village of the same name.
I don’t really know what I expected when I got to my new duty station. To be sure, I was
not welcomed with open arms. There were guys walking around yelling, “Short!” I wasn’t sure
what that meant. I soon found out it meant they had little time left in country. Their one-year
tour was almost over. I was a newbie necessary for the rotation of older troops back to the
world. I soon had good and bad news. The good news was that I was promoted to PFC. My
earlier AWOL and reduction in rank made no difference now. The bad news? In my new outfit
you had to at least be an E-3, PFC, to go out in the field. That was SOP or standard operating
procedure. Guess I wouldn’t be staying in base camp with the mortar platoon. I did sometimes,
but went out and humped more often. The only positive there being that we didn’t carry the
tubes much. We only humped the small 60mm mortar a few times and left the large 81mm in
camp.
I arrived in Rach Kien in January of 1969. The base was surrounded by rice paddies and
tree lines. Everything was green and damp. Tree lines were kind of like a little jungle or oasis.
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The vegetation was very thick. Humidity slapped you in the face. There were palms, banana
trees, elephant grass, shrubs, reeds, flooded and dry rice paddies surrounded by dikes. Soon, I
was to explore this verdant world. Rach Kien was a small base camp. We had a company
commander, first sergeant, a small chopper pad, mess hall, EM and NCO clubs. There were no
barracks. We lived in hooches, ramshackle huts. The whole thing was surrounded by barbed
wire. You had to go through a gate to leave and go to the village. The guard checked to see if
you followed SOP, had ten dollars and two prophylactics in your possession. “Saddle up.” The
first time my squad leader said that I knew what he meant. Put the things on your back you need,
along with whatever is already on your person, and get ready to move out. We were going to
hump, or walk, and carry a myriad of things. About 65 lbs. of gear seemed to be our company
SOP.
Everybody had to carry certain things. And here I nod again to Tim O’Brien. Ammo,
food, and water were necessities. I carried twelve clips of M-16 ammo with a double-ready clip
in the weapon, slung across my chest, bandolier style. I had two canteens of water and a couple
C-ration meals in cans inside extra pairs of socks hanging from my shoulders. I usually had
about four grenades clipped on somewhere. Two concussion or frags (fragmentation), one
smoke, and one Wilson Picket (white phosphorus). The number and types could vary. I was a
big guy, so I carried a couple belts of M-60 machine gun ammo bandito style. Sometimes they
gave me M-79 rounds to hump, grenade launcher ammo that looked like huge shotgun shells. I
had bug juice, matches, chewing gum, toilet paper, and water purification tablets. Dog tags
around my neck and sometimes a flak jacket. The protective jackets were heavy and only
practical if you were hunkered down under fire, not humping. I wore a steel pot (helmet) with
stuff like cigarettes behind the rubber band holding the camo cover on. I had a nylon ruck sack
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with an aluminum frame. If there was any room inside the sack, I had a poncho, poncho liner,
and a jungle hat. Sometimes I brought stuff to read like the Stars and Stripes newspaper,
magazines, or maybe a paperback. Most times I was too tired or it was too dark to read. But I
carried them out of stubbornness. I don’t remember if I carried my wallet. In civilian life, most
men had a wallet, maybe a handkerchief. I had a hanky tied around my neck or forehead. I
didn’t have any credit cards or any place to use them. Dog tags were all the ID I needed. I did
carry family pictures and one of my fiancé. She later sent me a ‘Dear John’ letter. I burned her
photo with C-4. I carried that plastic explosive plus Claymores. These were mines used to set
up a defensive perimeter at night. I had detonation chord and blasting caps too. I carried an
entrenching tool. I carried a bayonet. Thank God I only used it to chop ice or cut down bananas,
not in hand-to-hand combat.
Occasionally, I carried a toothbrush and soap. But usually serious personal hygiene
waited until we were back at base camp. After my mom sent me care packages, I toted cans of
Vienna sausages, peanuts in the shell, and cigars. Good stuff! I carried all kinds of shit. When
we took the mortars, I had to hump the tube or the baseplate. Everybody helped with the rounds.
I carried a .45 automatic a few times. It didn’t make much sense, though. Who wants to be close
enough to Charlie to use that? I never carried a grease gun but often humped a LAW (light
antitank weapon). The bazooka replacement was light and had a carrying strap. I never carried a
Bible, statue or amulet, souvenir, diary/journal, or lucky charm. I thought that stuff was useless.
The only drug I carried was atropine, the stuff you jammed in your thigh if you got hit. I had a
couple first aid patches. I didn’t carry smack or grass like some guys. I knew a guy who carried
tranquilizers. I wanted to be alert, not mellow. There was no way to carry music back then.
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What else did I carry? Nothing with any mass that I can remember. I did carry the hopes
and dreams of a young man. Being a teacher would have to wait a few years if I was lucky. I’d
probably never play first base for the Cubs now. I carried the fear of battle. I carried the good
wishes, concerns, and worries of friends and family. I carried the ‘what if’ syndrome. What if I
hadn’t been drafted? What if I had gone to Canada? What if I wasn’t put in the infantry? I
carried my Uncle Frank’s humor. He always said, “If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all
have a merry Christmas.” I carried the emotions of a confused young man in the late 1960s.
Why did Americans assassinate their leaders and send young people off to fight an unpopular
war? I carried my family history. I carried my desire to make a difference. I carried the whole
surreal experience of Vietnam. I carried the disillusionment of my comrades and myself. I
carried a desire to return home safely and in one piece.
It was all about the hump. We humped in clicks or kilometers. If you could hump you
could walk, carry, perform, and be one of the guys. If you could hump and carry the weight,
then there was a way to get back home again. At least the Beatles said there was. If you could
shoulder this immense physical and emotional burden, you could complete the hump.
I did it! I humped out of Vietnam and back into civilian life. I finished college and went
on to be a teacher. I had an interesting and sometimes difficult life. There were many
jobs/careers, ups and downs, and much self-medication, depression and bitterness. There was
anger, avoidance, self-doubt and some successes. There was a supportive, loving spouse and
children and many others who helped. There was good and bad luck. And finally, after forty
years of indifference, there was the VA.
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So, do I still carry anything? Yes, I do. The hump is not over. I carry the specter of
PTSD. But I’m okay, I have help. I don’t have to carry this psychological burden all by myself.
Nowadays, I carry my golf clubs. What do you think? Is this a true war story?
*“How to Tell a True War Story”, from The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien
Larry Harris
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Our Green Life
Vietnam 1968-69, U.S. Army, 2LT & 1LT 82nd Airborne Division (Platoon Leader) in I and II
Corps and 1LT MAC-V Mobile Advisory Team Leader in IV Corps
When you raise your right hand and swear to defend everything sacred to the American
way of life, the Army takes over yours. They shave your head, powder your butt, and inoculate
you with something akin to a Gatling gun. You still have a name, but it’s mainly just your
surname, and it’s never spoken, it’s yelled. Later, when you get some rank, that becomes your
first name. In the meantime, you’re called by various names that all mean “dumb ass.”
Everybody wears green uniforms and hats that are ill-fitting and make you look like a duffle bag
with legs. All your stuff that made you such a stud in civilian life becomes a distant memory,
including your sweeties. They’re all dating the same guy. His name is Jodie.
But the Army isn’t all bad. Anytime you get a bunch of young guys together, AKA “fuck
ups,” you find ways to have fun, hopefully at the expense of the enemy, which is anybody who
outranks you. You make good buddies, and they become your brothers and your partners in
crime. The peacetime Army is the worst. Really! I mean, what’s the goal? You’re constantly
wondering, “Why are we doing all this crazy shit?” A guy who looks like your grandfather is
harrumphing around the parade ground with his brass twinkling in the sunlight looking for litter
or inspecting the barracks hoping to find an untucked blanket or an unflushed turd. Is this guy
for real? Unfortunately, yes. All these shenanigans are about preparedness, the magic word that
allows every prick who outranks you to nitpick your ass for the most trivial concerns. Not
having a war to fight is like treading water in the kiddie pool or waiting for the coach to put you
into the big game that’s never played. It may sound like a good way to coast through your hitch
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without a worry, but the Army is also filled with wannabe heroes, and they get extremely
irritable when there’s no hill to charge or ambush to spring. When it’s all spit shines and salutes,
inspections and paperwork, and parades and training schedules, the joy of being a badass grunt
gets lost in all their happy horseshit.
Being in a combat zone was different. Imagine that! Nobody cared about the B.S.
anymore. All the bigshots wanted was body count and something to crow about. The ordinary
grunt was more worried about survival. But we also accomplished our mission because
somebody else’s life might depend on it. The only medal or ribbon we cared about was that
elusive “Alive in ’69 Badge.” We wanted to take the freedom bird home in an upright position
with as many of our buddies as possible. Life was spartan in the field, and many people have
written about what we carried. Let me add my two cents worth.
Soldiers who served in combat in the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam carried as little
as possible because it was all on your back and in your pockets, all day long, every day. And it
was heavy. Sometimes 100 pounds, and you carried it up and down thick jungle trails, many that
you hacked yourself with a machete, and across paddy dikes and along roads and trails into
villages.
Our uniforms were called jungle fatigues. They consisted of a green T-shirt, a long-
sleeved green shirt, and green trousers bloused into our green canvas combat boots. And that was
it, except for maybe a green towel around your neck to help cushion your rucksack and wipe
away the constant sweat and grime. Anything else caused jungle rot. You always kept your
sleeves rolled up unless it got too cold at night during the monsoons, or if the mosquitos got too
thick, or if the jungle foliage began cutting your arms too much, which also caused jungle rot.
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With the 82nd Airborne we wore a helmet, which the Army in its anal wisdom called a steel pot,
which made me wonder why they didn’t call my rifle a steel pipe. With MAC-V, I wore a
boonie (short for boondocks) hat, kind of like a cowboy hat, except it was green and made of
floppier material.
We were part of teams (units), and we carried things for several reasons depending on our
MOS (military occupational specialty), which means our job, the one we were especially
selected and trained to do. I was an airborne infantry platoon leader (71542). The things we
carried were to:
1) Defend ourselves and kill the enemy: M-16 rifles (I carried one with the 82nd Airborne, but I
carried a .38 revolver on an ammo belt as a MAC-V advisor); M-60 machine guns (two in my
platoon); M-79 grenade launchers (had a couple of these too); claymore mines (had several of
these that we put out when we set up a night perimeter or ambush; they shot out 600 small steel
balls when detonated); metal magazines of ammo (maybe a dozen per man with 18-20 rounds
each); fragmentation grenades; extra M-79 rounds, and extra machine gun bullets we wore as
belts slung around our neck and shoulder to help lighten the load for the machine gunners.
2) Communications: We used PRC 25s (known affectionately as Prick 25s) to communicate
within our unit, with other units, with our base camp, with mortar and artillery support, with
helicopter gunships and medivac helicopters, with jets that could drop bombs and napalm, and
with navy ships, including aircraft carriers that fired rounds when we were in combat or
harassing and interdictory rounds to keep the enemy (VC and NVA) from moving too freely.
My RTO (radio telephone operator) carried the Prick 25. Some of us carried extra batteries,
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which were heavy, because if we ran out of radio power, we might all be doomed. We also
carried smoke grenades to guide in helicopters or aerial gunfire.
3) Sleep: We carried a poncho and a poncho liner. The poncho was a plastic tarp to lie on, or it
could be hooked up with another one to form a tiny V-shaped tent (no floor though). You could
also wear it as a rain coat. We carried a poncho liner which snapped inside the poncho to keep
us warm at night. Even though it was hotter than hell all day long, at night it could get cold,
maybe just by contrast. Everybody loved their poncho liner, especially when we were wet,
which was often.
4) Eat: We carried mostly C-rations. And they mostly sucked. Ham and lima beans were the
worst. We called them “ham and lifers.” Spaghetti was okay. Canned eggs were pretty bad too.
Everybody’s favorite was peaches because they had sweet syrup we could drink, and we were
always thirsty. If you got peaches and pound cake at the same time, you could make a really
nice dessert. Peanut butter was good too. We called it “shit thickener” because we often got
diarrhea, and peanut butter helped make the runs a little less runny. We also got a tiny can of
cheese once in a while that you could use to make a cheese sandwich with a tiny can of bread.
You sliced the bread, spread the cheese in between the slices, and then placed it on top of a C-
ration can lid that you bent backwards over a small flame made from burning C-4, an explosive
we used to blow things up. It was a delicate operation, especially in rainy weather. But the
cheese sandwiches tasted heavenly! I had a machine gunner named Vargas from Missouri who
was a great cook. When we set up a perimeter where it was safe enough, we would all give
Vargas our C-rations and any leftover salt, pepper, and other stuff. He would put everything in
his steel pot and cook it over an open fire. Man, it was good. I would have married him, if he
wasn’t so ugly! A few times we got LRRP (long range reconnaissance patrol) rations. They
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were really good but used lots of water, and that was heavy to carry and precious to use. Each
person carried about five quarts whenever we could fill up at a stream or well.
5) Personal health and hygiene: Every person was required to carry mosquito repellant, since
mosquitos were thick, and malaria was a problem. We applied lots of repellant, and we also used
it to squirt on leeches. It made them drop off. If you pulled them off, their head might stay inside
your skin and cause an infection. One time when we stopped for a break in the mountains my
RTO pulled over 40 leeches off my body. They were everywhere. We hated those little blood-
sucking bastards! We took small malaria tablets each day and one big one a week that we called
the “horse choker.” We also carried water purification tablets to cut down on diarrhea and
parasites. Toilet paper came with C-rations. We would just lean up against a tree and take a shit,
like a wild bear in the woods. We brushed our teeth once in a while too, but that took time and
water. We carried our toothbrush and toothpaste and a razor in an old grenade canister. We
never shaved, though. Each little nick of a rusty blade was an invitation for jungle rot. In fact,
my entire platoon sported mustaches. Our uniforms (and our bodies) got washed by the
monsoons. That was good enough for us.
6) Personal stuff: We carried stationery and a pen to write letters home. No postage was
required. When we got letters or newspapers, we carried them forever and shared them with
others. My Grandma Opal sent me a big box of her homemade cinnamon rolls. They arrived on
a resupply mission when we were in the jungle in the mountains of I Corps. I ate a couple and
gave the rest to my platoon. They were incredible! When we first got to Vietnam, we were
given a New Testament by the chaplain. I wrapped mine in a plastic bag from a Prick 25 battery
and put it in my top left pocket over my heart. I also had a small photo album about the size of a
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wallet that I wrapped in another plastic battery bag and put in my top right pocket. I still have
both somewhere. Neither took a bullet.
Much of what I have described we carried on our backs in a green rucksack with a metal
frame. We also carried ammo magazines and grenades in our trouser pockets for easy access.
Once on a night ambush I had to call in mortar fire near our position, and a big piece of shrapnel
came whizzing through the air and hit the metal magazine in my trouser pockets. It was long,
thick, and jagged. In the absence of that magazine, it would have dug into my leg something
fierce.
That’s about all we carried. What we did carry was so heavy, we would tear the labels
off cans or throw away a tiny package of pepper just so we didn’t have to hump it. Our company
medic carried a large rucksack full of medicine, bandages, morphine, and other life-saving items.
Our first medic, a sergeant named Rodriguez from Chicago, was hit by some type of shell during
a firefight. It went right through his rucksack and tore him in half. I was about five feet from
him. It was on October 6 (1968), so my main thought was I don’t want to die on my sister’s
birthday. And I didn’t. I knew she always prayed for me! As a platoon leader, I also carried a
map and a compass and a small book to write down things like map coordinates, names of my
men who were on ambush, or who was on R&R or back in the rear for something. But nothing
else, except for our rifle cleaning equipment, that I can remember. Believe me; that was more
than enough!
Stan McGahey
64
A Day on the Range
In 1964, I became the company commander of a basic training unit and had two of the
wackiest junior officers assigned to me that I have ever served with during my entire 33-year
career in the Army. First Lieutenant Jones and a Second Lieutenant Smith―not their real
names―reported to me at the same time on the same day. I thought it unusual until I saw their
personnel files. They came from the same town, graduated from the same high school, played on
the same football team, and graduated from the same university in the Reserve Officer Training
Corps (ROTC). The only difference was that Lt. Jones graduated high school, graduated college,
and received his officer commission one year ahead of Lt. Smith. How they managed to get
assigned together to my command was a mystery to me, but I suspected one of them had a buddy
in DA (Department of the Army) assignments office who did one of them a favor.
The two men performed their assigned duties well, supervising the training, coordinating
with post support, and cooperating with sister units without a lot of direction needed from me. I
felt privileged to have them and so noted later in their Officer Efficiency Ratings that both were
outstanding officers.
They often ate their meals together and after duty hours usually went to the officer’s club for
some libation and RFF (their code meaning Recon For Females). Not only did they seem to work
well together, they appeared to be best of friends. However, when they were not in sight of basic
trainees or the eight company NCOs (Non-Commissioned Officers) ranking from sergeant to
master sergeant, they acted like class clowns, always playing jokes on one another. I discovered
this fact about two weeks after they came into my command.
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One evening, Lt. Smith informed Lt. Jones they were invited by some of Lt. Smith’s ROTC
classmates to join them in an evening tour of the town, in other words hit the bars to explore for
some female companionship. Lt. Jones said he had Battalion Duty Officer that night and couldn’t
make it. He told Lt. Smith he should go ahead and enjoy himself.
That night, shortly after midnight, I heard the most god-awful crash that woke me from a
sound sleep. I jumped up from my bed, opened the door, and heard loud cursing from the room
across the hall. Then I heard what sounded like smothered laughter coming from a room one
door down and across the hall. The door to the room directly across from me flew open and there
stood Lt. Jones in his skivvies, looking mad as hell.
When he saw me, he just shook his head and without a word slammed his door shut.
The next day, I called Lt. Jones into my office and asked him about the events of the night
before because I wanted to know if everything was all right.
He said, “No problem, sir. Those damn college boys short-sheeted my bed. When I tried to
get in it, I tore the damn sheet.”
I said, “But that doesn’t explain the crash.”
“They did something to the legs of my wall locker. When I tried to open it to get my other
sheet, the door stuck and it tipped over on the floor. That was the loud noise you heard.”
“Are you sure you know who did this?”
“Yes, sir. We do things like this to each other all the time, but I’ll get even.”
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“Lieutenant, don’t let things get out of hand here. We’ve got people to train and this is
serious business. Most of these trainees are going to Vietnam, and we damn well better see to it
they concentrate on learning everything they need to keep themselves alive over there. Am I
understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, tomorrow we start range weeks.”
The next day, the company went to the known distance rifle range to familiarize the trainee
with the M14 rifle and to calibrate the weapon’s sights using live fire. When we arrived at the
range, the company formed into four ranks of 100 men per rank. Half the men would go with Lt.
Smith to the pits to pull targets and the other half would stay on line and complete their
scheduled training before lunch. Around 12:30 p.m., everyone gathered in the mess area for the
noon meal. After chow, Lt. Smith with the first order would move to the firing line and Lt. Jones
would take the second order to the pits to pull targets.
After lunch, it began to rain a slight mist and Lt. Jones asked Lt. Smith, “Can I borrow your
raincoat? I forgot mine.”
“Yeah, no problem. It’s rolled up on my backpack in the range shack.”
Lt. Jones got the raincoat, formed up his order of 200 men wearing rain ponchos, and headed
to the pits, 100 yards away. About an hour later the mist stopped and the skies cleared a little.
When the second order completed their firing segment about four hours later, it began to mist
again. Not long after that, the pit detail marched in and formed up with the rest of the company,
ready to mount the trucks to go back to the cantonment area. While all this happened, I remained
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in the range shack, talking with the range officer and getting the troop roster validated, thereby
completing the day’s scheduled training.
Then I heard Lt. Smith yell out, “Jesus, man, what the hell did you do to my raincoat?”
I looked outside and saw Lt. Jones wearing Lt. Smith’s olive-drab colored raincoat and
noticed it had about two dozen black and white target stickers all over it, the same stickers used
to cover up bullet holes in the targets after each phase of firing.
Taking off the raincoat, Lt. Jones replied, “When the rain stopped, I took it off and threw it
over one of the targets we weren’t using. Do you know they half-mast those targets? I didn’t
know that. The trainees shot holes in your coat, so I put these stickers on it to cover them up.
Here, you can have it back.”
Taking his raincoat, Lt Smith groaned, “Oh man.” Then he said, “Wait a minute … why ain’t
there no holes on the inside?”
Lt. Jones smiled and said, “Cause the bullets went through the targets first and only had
enough oomph to make the holes on the outside.”
Then I thought Lt. Smith would come unglued. He began to curse a blue streak and threw the
raincoat on the ground, saying, “Now I’m gonna hafta buy a new one, damn it!”
In the meantime, I saw Lt. Jones begin to snicker and this only made Lt. Smith angrier by the
minute, so he reached down, grabbed up his raincoat, stomped off, and climbed into the front
seat of the first truck in the convoy.
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It wasn’t until the next day that Lt. Smith realized there were no holes in his raincoat and that
Lt. Jones had gotten his revenge for locker night.
Nelson O. Ottenhausen
Lt. Col., USA (Ret.)
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Prologue: The Disposables
(An excerpt from My Brother and the Dirty Grunts of Muqdadiyah)
“Courage is rightly esteemed the first of human qualities because it is the quality that
guarantees all others.” -Winston Churchill
With 40mm rounds for his 203 grenade launcher strapped all over his body armor and a
combat lifesaver’s aid bag hanging off of his short Filipino body, Specialist Jose Gutierrez
thought of himself as the “EMT/203 bitch.” Over the past 36 hours he had cleared buildings and
received a bag of cookies from some nice Iraqi ladies; his squad leader had gotten their vehicle
hit with an IED,1 he’d been shot at in a drive-by, and got to send some rounds downrange.
But it was cool. The reward was a trip to the almighty Forward Operating Base (FOB) for
some hot chow. Weeks of packaged MREs and Pop-Tarts® at the Combat Outpost had taken a
toll on Gutierrez’s morale. As the officers gathered for their after-action reports, sandwiches and
other real food were eagerly stuffed into his fellow soldiers’ mouths. Gutierrez found his team
standing next to each other in Army digital camo uniforms, sun-bleached and stained with dirt
and sweat, chatting with their squad leader, Staff Sergeant (SSG) Reilly. With his gear off and a
plate of chow in his hands, Gutierrez popped a squat across from his bud Jonathan Hamm who
stood side by side with Corporal (CPL) Matt Pierce.
Gutierrez liked being in CPL Pierce’s team. Along with Hamm, Gutierrez hadn’t been
expected to do anything good. They were labeled as unable or unmotivated to learn and to work.
1 Improvised explosive devices or “roadside bombs.” The Baghdad special, the Mosul treat, the Kandahar welcome and goodbye.
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Probably viewed as dumb or lazy or as the Army called “shammers,” they were not to the
standards of the infantry in the eyes of the young team leaders of the platoon. But not with CPL
Pierce. He didn’t fall back on the standard screaming, punishing, and dismissiveness like others
did. He expected more from Hamm and Gutierrez and it had paid off today. Their team had gone
through the fires of Iraq together.
As CPL Pierce and SSG Reilly talked, Hamm and Gutierrez happily bullshitted about
everything they had just experienced. Gutierrez looked down to grab his sandwich and then felt,
from behind, a gust of hot air rush past him. He would later recall hearing something like a brick
dropped from a roof onto some sheet metal. Then he found himself face down.
Gutierrez’s glasses were gone, lost in the blast. His ears were ringing, voices around him
muffled. It didn’t make sense. He was looking into the Stryker that he had his back to just a few
seconds earlier. A mortar had ripped through their merry little after-mission celebration and
Gutierrez had been tossed around 180 degrees. He could hear SSG Foster screaming at him to
get back into the vehicle. That was the last thing he remembered before he woke up to
Langowski treating his wounds in the back of the Stryker.
You see, [my brother Matt Pierce told me in a later interview] what I learned from Iraq
was that you never count a soldier out. It’s the other guys; it’s taking the guys no one wants. It’s
not necessarily because those soldiers have done something wrong, it’s really like when you’re
picking teams for football or dodgeball. A lot of people will pick that stellar stud right off the bat,
because they just look at ’em and they know, “he’s good.” There’s not really much you can do
with that. But I make it a point [to take the people no one wants]. Some people are like, “Oh, it’s
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a leadership challenge.” No, it’s not. It’s your fucking job. That soldier shouldn’t have been
fucked-up in the first place.
But it’s usually those guys [the unheralded and unwanted] that step up to the plate. That’s
the thing, everyone is always the hero in the movies and all the books, but really, it’s soldiers
like Hamm and Gutierrez that changed my opinion about “joe” in the Army. Gutierrez wasn’t
hard-core physically fit and he shammed out of work. He wasn’t what was typically thought of as
a well-rounded infantryman. What does everyone expect from the infantry? You expect physical
beasts. But in the instance that we got mortared and the squad leader was hurt [Gutierrez] just
stepped up. And it wasn’t even quite “training kicking in,” it was instinctual. My squad leader
[SSG Reilly] was hurt and [Gutierrez] knew he had to patch [SSG Reilly] up even though he
himself was bleeding out and [alone]. He just surprised everyone. In that one moment, he became
a hero.
Gutierrez was tossed by the mortar explosion. White salt stain patterns in his uniform
were colored red as blood pumped from shrapnel wounds to his right ribcage, lower back near
the spine, and his right shoulder blade. He fought to get to his feet, but in the end he managed to
high-crawl to SSG Reilly, whose back had absorbed all of the shrap that was heading toward
Matt’s upper chest. With a fading, shrapnel-racked body and a rattled brain, Gutierrez started
treating SSG Reilly’s wounds as chaos reigned all around him.
Gutierrez received a Bronze Star with V-device for Valor. The award citation reads,
“SPC Jose Gutierrez, Grenadier and EMT…performed with steadfast professionalism,
intelligence, and bravery while deployed…” Gutierrez’s award citation goes on to showcase his
actions during a large-scale clearance operation where he returned fire on some bad guys and
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helped find an IED trigger house, all while performing his combat lifesaver duties. To cap it off,
the citation reads, “Upon returning to FOB Falcon after the clearance mission, he was struck
with mortar fragments from an incoming barrage. Although badly injured, he preserved his usual
calm demeanor and assisted in the treatment of multiple wounded soldiers before asking for
assistance for himself.”
With Gutierrez’s foggy memory (he doesn’t remember anything after being hit), I can’t
say whether he then took himself to get aid or if others dragged him back into the Stryker or if he
passed out. What I can say is this: whether an award was given or not, whether Gutierrez
believes he was a hero (he doesn’t) or not, or what anybody else thinks of anything, Gutierrez
possessed the single greatest trait of a hero in any kind of terms: he had selflessness. If courage is
the greatest principle of humankind (for none else would be possible without it), then
selflessness is the stuff courage is made of.
And that’s what we are talking about here. Those are the people that never get the
recognition I think they deserve. You got the Delta Dans and the Navy SEAL guys with their
fuckin’ mustaches and their beards and shit, and that’s all cool, and I respect those guys and all
but…you know. No one wants to hear about that dirty grunt in the mud hole, suckin’ everyday,
doing all the hard work, being in the meat-grinder left and right, having to kill people, having
their buddies die left and right, and just being fuckin’ relentless; the war never gets off their
shoulders.
No one wants to hear about that because…I don’t know…it’s just not… Think about the
war between Troy and Greece. What came out of that war? Odysseus and Achilles. Everyone
wants to be “the Achilles.” Everyone wants to hear Achilles’ story and how awesome he was. No
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one wants to hear about those Greek [and Trojan] soldiers. And those are the guys that I’m here
for: the common grunts, guys like Hamm, Gutierrez, Miles, and all the other soldiers I’ve fought
with. And those are our heroes. And I know at some level, a part of us will always be that scared
young man...that dirty-ass grunt that people had no problem just throwing right at the enemy.
Guys that barely get the subheading in the CNN reports. Guys you never actually hear about but
are doing all the fighting over there. No one wants to hear that story; they don’t give a shit.
Max Pierce
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75
Intrigue
You’ll see my direction once you’re awakened
My deception, expression, it’s up to interpretation
Your brain has more power than any machine
If you understand what this poem means
The INSTRUCTIONS say it’s supposed to over here!
Why is this line way over there?
I just did it, enjoy, it’s part of the show
There was no reason for the space below
Consider this a masterpiece?
Would Oxford, Cambridge, or Harvard?
Don’t test the barriers or be unique.
Does Socrates think I’m preparing for Death?
Would Plato approve of my rhetoric?
Don’t believe the Master Poet’s propaganda
No metaphor or simile, breaks or stanzas
Oh, this is complete rubbish!
I know I look like a fool
Excuse me, but I never followed rules
Isn’t that enough?
Can’t I just write, type, talk about style?
Or should I write about flowers, sadness, puppies, and such?
I thought I needed a subject to rattle my little mind
No topic, deep messages, or funny rhymes?
What is it he’s trying to say?
I’m not judging you, you’re not on trial
It’s challenging you now
The chaotic style
Your mind is processing
Don’t interpret or pretend
Read what’s written
We’re conditioned to think it’s the end
This is only the beginning
Frank E. Warrington Jr.
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No Rose Garden
We are warriors first
Human second
Obedient to our commitment
Without relevance
We are a force to be reckoned with
Pushed to our limits
You will always see our perfect image
But do you think about our sacrifice?
Strong, fierce, sad
We move on
Patriotism, faith, and strength
We give all
While they always take
We are iron-clad
Hurt
Lost
But in demand
We are the face of this nation
We stand tall
Our hearts fill with frustration
Yet will still sacrifice all.
Cristine Lopez
77
Forgotten Warriors
This poem is dedicated to the memory of SFC John Sitton, a hero of the Vietnam War and
Operation Desert Shield/Storm. And to the memory of my former co-host on Warrior
Connection and battle buddy from the 101st Screaming Eagles SSG Paul Lyons.
Also, to the 3rd US Army AMCCOM DU Team—Operation Desert Storm.
And to all those who continue to defend our nation.
One moment an individual is walking through a meadow of flowers,
In the next moment sons, daughters, husbands and wives become soldiers.
They defended our nation and paid with their lives and their health.
The citizen soldier, the Minute Man
Our nation is built upon their willingness to respond to our nation’s call.
Some fought in the jungles of Vietnam, others fought in a distant desert war.
They fought with skill and determination to free a land.
Our nation’s warriors returned home to parades and parties
Joy spread from shore to shore.
But when the glow subsided
The warriors remained alone
And forgotten.
Asked to fight for a nation
That cannot or will not
Provide proper medical care.
They research and study
Searching for a cause
Delaying response through ignorance and fear.
The forgotten warriors suffer in silence
With honor and hope
For all they want is medical care.
Doug Rokke
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The Cries for Medic
Through a hurricane of bullets
I dart at lightning speed
I hear the screaming cry of “Medic!”
And hope it’s only a small bleed
The louder you scream
The faster I come
I’m here to fix
The damage already done
I arrive looking down
At the one I call friend
Struck dead…center mass
I know this is the end
Applying pressure
Just to help him cope
I can’t help but look
Knowing there’s no hope
I feel his life
Slip from that last breath
I close his lifeless eyes
I knew him the best
Only to hear the cry
For medic
Once again.
Ian Covington
79
Another Day in Hell
I can still remember it as though I’m still there. Maybe a part of me will always be; I do
not know. A warm December morning in Kirkuk, Iraq; instant coffee in my water bottle, Korean
stuff from a friend that would just about kill anyone else with the amount of caffeine it
contained. I was minding my own business in the first-aid tent of our security post outside the
city. It’s 0900, and as I sip my drink I hear the first scream for me.
“Doc! Doc!” a voice rings out, getting closer with every cry. It’s my team’s NCOIC, a friendly
enough guy, we get along well. I’d be lying if I said I had no issues with this team, but he and I
are usually on the same page. Closing my bottle, I rise from my litter as he enters the tent, his
eyes wild, the mute look of shock on his face tells me something’s wrong—horribly wrong.
“It’s bad,” he repeats over and over.
I grab my aid bag and follow him as we run to the far side of the outpost. Our living quarters
also serve as a checkpoint for vehicles coming in and out of the city from the northernmost road.
We are running toward the search area for suspicious vehicles when I hear it, and my blood runs
cold: the wild and high-pitched screaming of an infant.
It took everything I had to keep going, the horror of what may transpire filled me with such
dread that my instinct to help was nearly overcome by my desire to just keep running away, far
away, from whatever I was about to face. I took a deep breath as I entered the location. My
linguist is already there, another good guy and we get along great. He knows the importance of
relaying information to a medic and he respects me for choosing such a vocation. He tells me
what is going on. The blood freezes in my veins despite the heat; my senses heightened, my
nose instinctively wrinkles at the awful smell of shit and piss permeating the area.
The infant doesn’t even look a year old. Her pretty dress is covered with blood. She lies wailing
on the hood of her parents’ car as I approach. The mother’s cries and father’s pleas sound like
multiple languages. I drop the bag beside the child, sterilizing my hands before gloving them. I
notice the pulsing mass under the infant’s tattered clothes and swallow hard.
Her abdomen has been torn open. A few bands of Ace wraps and patchy gauze hold her insides
together. The sepsis is just starting, the outermost tissue of her wound is infected. I ask how
long she has been like this, but I don’t get a straight answer. I may as well be alone with this
baby, no one else can do anything for her. The soldiers on my team have retreated to the small
shack on the other side of the search area. The LT keeps a cautionary distance between us. He
knows how seriously I take my job, my duty, and I admire him while he respects me.
I slip a finger into the wound and go fishing. I want to vomit and scream. I want to die, to
sacrifice myself for this innocent soul, a victim of violent circumstances. She screams even
more as I pull it out: the round from an assault rifle. I lay in on the hood and call my LT over. I
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beg and plead for him to get a MEDEVAC going, to get someone here to take care of this baby.
She needs treatment beyond what I am capable of offering. Radio in hand, he begins the 9-line
as I replace the soiled, bloodied gauze and wraps with fresh ones. I want to wipe her tears away.
I want to cradle her in my arms and rock her to sleep. She cries, and I cringe, cursing silently at
my inability to do more for her.
Just another day in Hell.
Rowan Mooney
81
The Dark
Those nights were dark, a blinding black
With little light of moon.
Soft rhythm beat in vibrant sounds
A generator’s rune.
Smells rich and strange were carried in
By sweet, moist jungle air.
You knew you had to stay alert
It’s likely he was near.
You fought seductive offerings
Of warm and lenient sleep.
The bunker top seemed like a bed
The breeze brought soothing heat.
The sky made shadows on the ground
From illuminating lights
Each slowly falling back to Earth,
Holding back the night.
You startle back from slumber’s grasp.
Your eyes showed wide surprise
You know he’s waiting patiently
For you to close your eyes.
My God, soon bring the dawning sun.
And push away the night.
It’s dark that kills; but, all turns good
When comes the morning light.
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You then have time to hide away
From dangers war may bring.
To find a place of easy dream
Apart from wakeful things.
To sleep so deep in some soft space
Until the night arrives.
When time for dreams is pushed way.
By times to stay alive.
Larry Kuykendall
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Sometimes You Just Feel Lost
Darkness surrounds me with my eyes wide open. My mind takes me where I don’t want to go.
The hairs on my neck stand on end, goosebumps form on my arms. I’m uncomfortably cold, my
fingertips are frozen. I’m afraid, of what I’m not sure…I feel empty.
A black hole surrounds me like a blanket on a cold evening. Something warms rolls down my
cheek.
I think I’m crying, but I’m too afraid to move.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
Why?
I don’t understand…
Please, make it stop!
I don’t want this!
I close my eyes to calm my nerves, my heart races.
I hear something faint, a whisper trying to pull my attention away from the cold that I feel.
Are you okay?
Why would anyone care if I was okay?
I hear it again and again, getting louder and LOUDER
I slowly open my eyes, everything comes flooding back. I look around—I’m in a classroom, in
class. I’m supposed to be learning something, but I can only think about what has just happened.
Someone’s touching my shoulder. I turn and make eye contact. She points to my cheek. I lift
my arm, touch my face…I feel a warm, wet tear, another slips from my eye.
I grab my bag and quickly leave the classroom.
I don’t even know why I’m crying, or what just happened.
I just wanted to get away.
Melody Piper
84
Escape
I’m raw and raunchy,
It’s the kind of writer I’ve been
I can’t be refined and proper
My stories are full of lust and sin
See her face? How it turns red?
She’s reading my story
She can’t wait for the end
Oh, I can tell, she’s on Chapter 3!
This is where I hook her in
She’ll look around in a minute
Just watch and see
People sitting by her would judge if they knew
The story she’s reading lets her mind escape
She’ll blush in a moment
Right on cue!
She closes the book, presses it to her chest
Gazes at the crowd of strangers
And talks to herself
Mouthing words, no sound—just air
I need a glass of wine, a blanket, to curl up in my chair
She thinks to herself, six more chapters and I’ll be at the end!
She looks at her watch, counts on her fingers
I’ll finish this by ten!
She wonders to herself how she will keep him
If his ex comes back it’ll be the end
Chapter 8, this is insane!
I want to experience what he did to her
I’ll read this chapter again!
Forget the glass, the wine is half-gone
I brought it to the table when I turned off my phone
Oh, the ending is perfect in every way
I’m so aroused now, I don’t know what to say
I finished the book?
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It’s midnight already?
The dreams I’ll have tonight
Oh, there will be many!
Frank E. Warrington Jr.
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The Hero’s Return
Brother, brother,
What’s it all about?
Trying to direct these feelings into shape;
At their age we listened to the colonel’s commands,
No time to question, our mouths agape.
Now part of me flies over
Bagram at five by five.
Though they’ll never fathom
Where my diminished memories lie.
Brother, brother,
Are you fast asleep?
Good.
Because this is the only time
That I can barely speak to you.
There’s something you’ve locked away;
A memory too painful to withstand
The light of day.
When you came back from the war
Banners and flags hung on every door;
They danced, they sang,
And the church bells rang/
But the burning in my heart
Of a memory smolders on,
And your dying words on the radio.
Jared R. Worley
87
Going Home
When time in war had run its course.
When tour of duty’s done.
He’s told he now can board a plane,
His freedom has been won.
His thoughts are still conflicted.
No notion what comes next.
Happiness is in his heart.
Remorse has got him vexed.
He’s done all that they’ve asked of him,
His bravery was shown.
He exhibited strong leadership
Before he’d never known.
But, why then does he feel a loss
As he’s set to fly away.
What tugs at him about this place,
What makes him want to stay?
It may be from the time he spent
With men he’d come to know.
The things he was made to see
And ways he had to grow.
Never will another circumstance
Seem worth dying for.
The depth of friendship and respect,
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He gained from this damn war.
These were the things he’d leave behind.
Those at home would never know.
But, the time has come to plan ahead
The ways he now can grow
The plane is finally setting down.
Excitement starts to soar.
He’s stepping off a different man
Than the one he was before.
Larry Kuykendall
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Contributors
Professor William C. Bailey retired from Western Illinois University last year. At Western, he
was Interim Dean of the College of Business and Technology and Director of the School of
Agriculture. Professor Bailey served in the US Marine Corps from 1969 – 1979. He was with
3rd Battalion/9th Marines as Air Liaison Officer and with VMGR-352, VMGR-152 and VMGR-
234 as a KC-130 aircraft commander.
Chris Bell served four years in the Army and is currently a junior English major with a Creative
Writing minor. His short story “Illusion in the Mist” appeared in the 2015 edition of SITREP.
Chris is a member of Sigma Tau Delta. In his spare time, he enjoys spending time with his
granddaughter Lily and working on his first novel.
Ryan Bronaugh served as a Corpsman with Marine infantry and is a veteran of Operation Iraqi
Freedom. He served 7 ½ years on active duty, during which he visited 23 countries including a
five-month tour in the Mediterranean. He has served as Fiction Editor for the magazine since its
founding, and enjoys his veteran status by serving as many veteran organizations as he can. He
lives in Galesburg with his girlfriend and three kids.
Ian Covington, who hails from Astoria, Illinois, is a medical science student at Western Illinois
University in Macomb and one of the new editors for SITREP. He is currently serving in the
Illinois Army National Guard as a Healthcare Specialist and has been since 2013.
Luke Cummings is a senior at Western Illinois University, where he is majoring in English. He
is a veteran of the Marine Corps infantry in which he served 2006-2010. As he enjoys writing
both for personal reasons and to benefit others, he hopes to build a career as an author or writer
in some form. When he’s not poring over the endless reading of books and writing papers that
come with English courses, he loves spending time with his wife and two children, as well as
cooking anything and everything, and desperately trying to improve his golf game.
Jerry "Ski" Czarnowski is a native Chicagoan, a member of the Class of '96. He is a Retired
Evanston Firefighter, Marine Corps Combat Veteran and an Army Reserve Major (Ret). He
enjoys woodworking, writing, and attending reunions with his fellow USMC Veterans.
A native Chicagoan, Larry R. Harris attended Western Illinois University from 1965- 1967. A
1968 draftee, Larry spent 1969 in Vietnam. After the Army, he graduated from Southern Illinois
University, Carbondale. Larry retired as an Alternative Education teacher in Salt Lake City. He
moved west to Colorado in 1974 and on to Utah in 1988. He has been a bartender, salesman,
liquor store owner, and writing instructor. Larry has two children, Andrea and Tim. He and his
wife, Tina, are retired and living in St. George, Utah where he is active in local veterans affairs.
John Kennealy is a United States Army Veteran double majoring in Computer Science and
Political Science. He was stationed at Fort Carson, Colorado with the 10th Special Forces Group
(Airborne). He is the President of the Western Illinois University Veterans Club. He is originally
from Waterloo, Illinois and loves St. Louis Cardinal baseball.
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Captain James T. Kirk writes, “I served in the USMC Infantry and was honorably discharged
after four years of service. I was deployed overseas three times, to include Iraq and East Timor. I
attended WIU before graduating from ISU. I am a retired State worker, happily married, and
reside in Normal Illinois.”
Larry Kuykendall, a 1968 graduate of WIU, lives in Bettendorf, Iowa with his spouse of 44
years, Donna. They have two children and four grandchildren. Larry received his undergraduate
degree from Western Illinois in 1968. That same year he was drafted into the Army, where he
served in the infantry in 1969-1970. Larry worked for 36 years in the financial services industry
before retiring in 2010. After retirement, Larry and Donna traveled extensively. He also
continued writing, having one book published and another under consideration, and is currently
working on a collection of war related poetry to seek publication in the future.
Cristine Lopez is a United States Marine Corps veteran. She joined the Marine Corps in May of
2013 and attended Marine Corps Recruit Training aboard Paris Island. She was stationed at
Camp Pendleton, California for her four-year enlistment, where she served at both Marine Corps
Air Station as a supply clerk and Camp Talega as a Fiscal Clerk and NCO. Cristine is currently a
student at Western Illinois University working on a Bachelor of Science in Nursing.
Dr. Stan McGahey: After expulsion from Western as a freshman, Stan McGahey served in the
Army from 1966-69. He graduated from Infantry OCS and served in Vietnam with the 82nd
Airborne Division and MAC-V. Upon readmission, he earned a B.S. and M.S. at WIU. He is a
lifetime member of VVA and an honorary Peshmerga.
Rowan Mooney is a combat veteran of Operations Iraqi Freedom and New Dawn. She spends
her time doing volunteer work with LGBTQ youth and is a hotline operator for Trans
LifeLine. When she is not writing, Rowan enjoys music, going to the movies, and playing with
her cat, Chloe.
Asya Morrison is a member of the Air National Guard. Also, Asya is a member of the 182nd
Airlift Wings’ honor guard team. She has participated in several trainings in Illinois, Virginia,
and Texas. She is majoring in Forensic Psychology and minoring in Law Enforcement and
Justice Administration. Asya works at the WIU Veterans Resource Center where she assists
student veterans with applying for military benefits and other helpful resources. She is originally
from Rock Island, Illinois and enjoys being active.
Alexander Carson Newman graduated high school and then joined the Air National Guard for
Security Forces in 2014. He has been enlisted for almost four years and is currently a sophomore
at WIU as a LEJA major with a psychology minor.
LTC Nelson O. Ottenhausen is U.S. Army (Ret.), WIU class of 79, Graduate class of 80.
Galesburg native, Tia Payne, is an Enduring Freedom Navy veteran and mother of three children.
She has self-published two books, one in the Christian fiction genre and one in humorous non-
fiction. Her short stories have been published in various publications. She is an active member of
the Lizzie Writer’s Group.
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Writing under the pseudonym Max Pierce, the author has served twelve years in both the
Regular Army and Army National Guard as an infantryman. Max has deployed to Iraq and
Afghanistan and penned a short story published in an anthology in 2013. He is currently trying to
publish his non-fiction book, My Brother and the Dirty Grunts of Muqdadiyah. The author holds
a BA in English Literature from Western Illinois University.
Melody Piper is a junior with an Emergency Management major with a Psychology minor at
Western Illinois University. Melody is currently enlisted in the Army National Guard and loves
to take on challenges that are thrown her way. Though she has no ties to English in her major or
minor, she loves writing and does it frequently to relieve stress, but this is the first time she is
sharing her work. She is planning on graduating on time and hopefully finding a job to help
others like the military helped her.
Doug Rokke enrolled at WIU in September 1971 right after two years in “Nam” as a USAF
bomb- nav hard hat flying on B52s. Doug earned a BS in physics in 1975 then earned his M.S.
and Ph.D. in education from the University of Illinois. Doug also served in Operation Desert
Storm as an NBC-E expert and then as the US Army Depleted Uranium Project director, retiring
as a Major in 2009. Today, Doug, a disabled veteran, is co- host of “Warrior Connection” on the
Progressive Radio Network (prn.fm) and dedicates his life to helping all veterans obtain medical
care.
Kaleb Wadsworth was born and raised in Milan, Illinois. After high school, he enlisted in the
Army National Guard (2/123rd Field Artillery) as a Fire Direction Control Specialist and then
enlisted in the US Marine Corps as an Anti-tank Assaultman with 1st Battalion 6th Marines and
22nd MEUSOC (Marine Expeditionary Unit Special Operations Capable). He deployed three
times to Afghanistan and Iraq from 2004 to 2007. After the military, he enrolled in college and
currently works as a student worker while pursuing a Bachelors of General Studies. After
achieving a second Bachelors degree of Engineering Technology, he hopes to work on DARPA
(Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency) projects.
Stephen Wallace, who served 8 1/2 years in the Illinois Army National Guard, is currently a
junior at Western Illinois University working on a Bachelors of Law Enforcement and Justice
Administration. While in the Illinois Army National Guard, he served as a radio operator
maintainer and a wheeled vehicle mechanic. He was also deployed to Kuwait. His mother and
father retired out of the Navy, and he has three brothers who are also in the Illinois Army
National Guard and two brothers who are active duty Marines.
Frank E. Warrington, Jr. is a retired U.S. Navy Master Chief and attends Western Illinois
University as a General Studies major. He’s traveled the world, is a patent owner, and resides in
Smithshire, Illinois with his wife Lynne, who’s a Western Illinois Alum.
Jared R. Worley is this year's Art Editor of SITREP, having previously served as Co-Poetry
Editor and Nonfiction editor for the magazine. He will graduate with his Masters in English in
the spring of 2018. When not working on anything academic related, he enjoys spending time
with his daughter. He and his wife are expecting twins (a boy and a girl) in the summer of 2018.
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