A Marine Story

Why I quit posting on Twitter

2009-07-07T18:29:00.000-07:00

Recently, I ended my experiment with Twitter. Why? Because it all suddenly struck me as vacuous and a distraction that added little value to my professional or spiritual life. While I enjoyed the posts of the people I followed it quickly became all too consuming. The end came when I realized I was sharing my prayer life with others..."Hey everyone look at me! I'm praying!" So I deleted my account.

In the future I have decided to refocus my writings to chronicle my 27 years of service in the Marine Corps as a history for my children and family with the occasional social commentary. I already have several stories in development so check back soon.

-Chris

Beyond the Flag

2009-05-13T21:03:00.001-07:00

Immediately after Sept. 11, 2001, Americans began to drape themselves with flags. Flags flew from every conceivable spot; cars, buildings, windows, bodies, clothing and they became harder to come by than the hottest Christmas toy. We wrapped ourselves in a symbol of strength, as an amulet against an enemy we could not see. It comforted us and gave us strength in a time of uncertainty. Patriotic fervor rose to fever-pitched proportions as comparisons were made to another, “Day of Infamy”. But, flags do not win wars, nor do they give us the means to carry on. Without action, they are nothing more than empty symbolisms.

As we near our eighth year in what Marines call, “The Long War”, I believe that many Americans fail to truly understand the significance of this war. We are a nation that has become accustomed to tidy sound-byte wars, where loss of human life is virtually intolerable and where impatience is rampant. We have become a nation of comfort, victims of our own prosperity, where we want the ugliness dealt with like a homeowner who calls the pest control company to eradicate mice. Now, as the war trudges on, we are hearing discontent and criticism that this little mess isn’t over with.

Today, terrorists are trying to bring about an end to the United States as we know it. The real threat is not through direct military action, but from fear and steady erosion of our civil liberties. They will use our own strength—our freedom—to bring us down. Through fear, they will slowly bring about economic and social instability so great that the United States could collapse or be so altered, that it will no longer resemble the republic we know.

This is “The Long War” because it is a war of progression. We will be victorious not when bin Laden is dead, but when the terrorists are no longer able to effectively work. We need to treat them like organized crime, and relentlessly pursue them until they tire of dying. In the last eight years we have seriously damaged al Qaeda’s ability to operate, yet their persistence is our challenge. These are victories that did not come through negotiations or good will they came by force.

We must be resolved as a nation to fight this war as long as it takes, to support the soldiers who fight the fight and give them the resources to win. Islamic fascists will not simply go away; they fight for reasons that defy logic. To misstep will only embolden them and their supporters. We must engage the enemy on our terms, strike their center of gravity, and eliminate the threat before it eliminates us.

If we do not, if we fail to rise to the occasion, we will slowly see our freedom slip away and the things which make our country so great, just a memory. Unchecked, attacks on America will erode our economy and create crisis and chaos between the states. If we do not fight and win this war, the terrorists could succeed where no super power or enemy ever has, bringing about the end of America, or at least America as we know it.

This fight has not been, and will not be easy, and we will continue to see Americans pay the ultimate price. But in doing so, we have rediscovered that some things are worth fighting for, and that freedom above all is never free. We will never be the same as a country, but that may not be all bad. From this struggle will emerge a stronger, renewed America that will take up the mantle of our forefathers and head boldly into the future.

I went to war for one reason, so that my children and generations to come, would know the joy of an evening stroll, a family vacation, the freedom to worship, or to shop without the fear of a terrorist attack—to help provide a place where our citizens could truly live without fear. It is a sentiment shared by many people who today are deployed around the world in support of Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom. This war has tested our mettle as a country, but it is the only way we will ever be able to hand down to our children, a legacy of freedom.

So, let us embrace our republic and the symbol of our great nation, the flag. Let us fly it proudly and fly it often. However, we must also look beyond the flag and be remembered as a nation that stood up to tyranny, fought the good fight, prevailed against our enemies and left peace as a legacy for our children.

We Are Not The Enemy

2009-05-04T10:34:00.000-07:00

Recently a close friend asked me how I felt when people thank me for my military service. It was a great question and the short answer is “self-conscious”. In my first 19 years as a Marine, recognition was non-existent. In the 8 years after 9/11, I have been thanked hundreds of times; from close family and friends, to total strangers, even other veterans. From a simple handshake and kind word to public acknowledgment and on one occasion a baked ham, each one is a sincere and appreciated expression of gratitude from citizens to its soldiers in a time of war. Why then am I self-conscious of the attention? Because it reminds me how detached most of America has become from the military that protects it. Serving my country should not be noteworthy, it is my duty.

As our nation grows rapidly, our military stays relatively static in size. In WWII 1 in 12 Americans were in the military. Today, it’s less than 1 in 300. You are statistically as likely to know someone with AIDS, as you are someone serving in the military. Where once the military shared the values of the entire nation, it now is almost as vocally opposed by a large segment of society as it is warmly embraced. Through no choice of the military it is increasingly becoming “sui generis” or a “breed apart” and that is a heart-breaking thing.

Our 44^th president, Barack Obama exemplifies that detachment. He is a man who appears to be sincere but completely lacking in the ability to connect with a military that already largely mistrusts him. His lack of understanding and respect of military culture was exhibited in wanting to personally issue orders to shoot the Somali pirates. He might be President but he is a boot lieutenant with nukes. By maligning, politicizing and now criminalizing the strategy and tactics of the war on Islamic fascists, he has called into question the enormous sacrifice we made as a military and nation. He is the worst kind of arm chair quarterback, one that never played the game.

A nation needs a warrior class, but not one that stands apart, or outside of the mainstream of society. We cannot choose to serve based on politics and as the Founding Fathers understood, we must never ever politicize the military. I did not swear to support and defend a political party or even the President; rather I swore to support and defend “the Constitution of the United States of America”. Until I retired in March, I served equally under each of the last five presidents whether I agreed, or disagreed with their politics.

The enemy we face today is real and not something you are going to placate with money and good intentions. These are violent and irrational Islamic fascists and they will not rest until we no longer exist as a nation, or until they are all dead. This is not an “overseas contingency operation” this is a trans-generational war for the future of our nation. We can’t govern by world consensus but must do what is best for America first, before anyone else. Quit bowing to kings, quit worrying about offending people and start worrying about having a nation to worry about.

Recently, the Department of Homeland Security issued a report that in part identified combat veterans, such as myself, as potential right wing extremists. Military critic Janet Napolitano rejected the advice of her own civil rights staff to remove that inflammatory reference before publication for a reason, she believes it. She intentionally inflamed an already divided country for ideological and political gain. As one Marine said in classic Marine-style “she can kiss my big fat jarhead ass”. Well I have something to say as well. Mr. President “We are not the enemy”. Govern for all or not at all.

Marine 12 Step Program

2009-04-20T06:14:00.000-07:00

I didn't write this but wish I had. It's perfect for anyone who has been a Marine or wants to print this off and put it on a former Marine's desk cause you're tired of being thrashed by the loading dock.

1. I am a Marine, I have problems. This acknowledgment is the first step to recovery...

2. Speech:
Civvy time does not begin with a zero or end in a hundred, ie It is not "zero five three zero" or "fourteen hundred" it is "five thirty" or "two o'clock".
Words like "deck", "rack", and "PT" will get you strange looks; use their proper names e.g., floor, bed, workout.
"F*ck" should not be used to replace whatever word you can't think of right now, try "umm".
Grunting is not communicating
It's a phone, not a radio, conversations on a phone do not follow a set procedure and do not end in "out".

3. Style:
Do not put creases in your jeans or on the front of your dress shirts.
Do not iron your collar flat.
A hat indoors does not make you a bad person
You do not have to wear a belt ALL the time.

4. Women:
Not all women like to take orders and most will probably punch you in the nuts if you treat them like one of your troops .
Being divorced twice by the time you are 25 is not normal, neither are 6 month marriages, even if it is your first.

5. Personal accomplishments:
In the real world, being able to do lots of push-ups will not make you good at your job.
You will disturb most people if you tell them about people you have seen die.
How much pain you can take is not seen as a personal accomplishment.

6. Drinking:
That time you drank a full case of beer and peed in your closet is not a good conversation starter.
That time you went to the combat survival school and practiced giving vodka IV's will also not be a good conversation point .

6. Bodily functions:
Farting on your co-workers and then giggling while you run away may be viewed as "childish".
The size of the dump you took yesterday will not be funny no matter how big it was, how much it burned, or how much it stunk .
Don’t make fun of someone for being sick, no matter how funny it is.
Getting VD or passing it on will also not be funny.

7. The human body:
Most people will not want to hear about your nuts, their size, whether they itch, how they fit into your jocks….odd as that may seem, it's true.

8. Spending habits:
One day, you will have to pay bills.
Buying a $60,000 car on a $35,000 a year salary is a really bad idea.
One day you will need health insurance.

9. Interacting with civilians:
Making fun of your neighbor to his face for being fat will not be acceptable .

10. Real jobs in Civvy Street:
They really can fire you.
On the flip side you really can quit.
Screaming at the people that work for you will not be normal, remember they really can quit too.
Remember it’s 9-5 not 0530 to 1800.

11. The Law:
“Contact counselling “ is not condoned .
Your workplace, unlike your command can't save you and probably won't, in fact most likely you will be fired about 5 minutes after they find out you've been arrested.
Fighting is not a normal thing and will get you really arrested, not yelled at before they ask you if you won.

12. General knowledge:
You can in fact really say what you think about the President in public.
Pain is not weakness leaving the body, it's just pain.
People don't wear anything shiny that tells you they are more important then you are, be polite to all.
And Lastly....Read contracts before you sign them, remember what happened the first time…….

a poem by Archibald MacLeish, 1941

2009-04-01T06:18:00.000-07:00

the death of Lt(jg) Frank Toner in Afghanistan this week made me think of this poem, it's worth reprinting this in a time of war.

THE YOUNG DEAD SOLDIERS DO NOT SPEAK

Nevertheless they are heard in the still houses: who has not heard them?

They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts.

They say, We were young. We have died. Remember us.

They say, We have done what we could but until it is finished it is not done.

They say, We have given our lives but until it is finished no one can know what our lives gave.

They say, Our deaths are not ours: they are yours: they will mean what you make them.

They say, Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say: it is you who must say this.

They say, We leave you our deaths: give them their meaning: given them an end to the war and a true peace: give them a victory that ends the war and a peace afterwards: give them their meaning.

We were young, they say. We have died. Remember us.

Farewell to the Corps

2009-03-08T18:52:00.000-07:00

Today I retired after 27 years as a Marine. The following was part of my farewell comments and I've been asked to re-print it here.

One More Day

The last bugle call has sounded the colors have been struck. It is my time to leave the ranks of my beloved Corps. As I bid farewell and remove this uniform for perhaps the last time I find myself wishing for...one more day.

One more day to hear the sounds of the Corps
The crack of the American flag in the wind in a foreign land
The NCOs singing jodies and getting things done
The not so subtle rantings of the Sergeant Major
Trucks rumbling to the range, weapons being cleaned, the pounding of boots on the grinder; the purposeful clattering of field day
Helicopters beating the air so hard your chest hurts
The stacatto of machine gunnery and the booming of artillery raining death on the enemies of America

One more day to inhale the smells of the Corps
Brasso, CLP, clean linen, horse blankets and pine cleaner; fresh paint
Sweat, mud, dirty cammies and canvas
The sting of cordite in the nostrils, the sweatness of C4 and oily fumes of JP8
Cigarettes and beer, stale farts in a sleeping bag
The unique never to be forgotten smell of a burn-out

One more day to put on the uniform
For the sharpness of creases
The way the cover cuts across your line of sight
The way the alpha blouse falls on the thigh
The snugness of well-tied boots
The jingle of dogtags
The Eagle Globe & Anchor on my chest

One more day for the absurdities of the Corps
Hurry up and wait, bum scoop you got from the third shitter on the left
Sea lawyers
Screwed up orders
7 hours on a tarmac waiting for a C130 that will never come
Raking dirt and painting rocks
Picking up cigarette butts you didn't smoke

One last day to stand among you
To receive a crisp salute from a young Marine and return it with mutual respect and admiration
To see NCOs lead as only Marines know how
To share a meal in the field
To listen to the profane chatter of things that would make others blush
To witness the pride that is born in shared hardship and danger
To see that look of intense purpose as you prepare for battle
To stand amidst great Americans

But I know this is in fact my last day. It is my time to join that long unbroken line of Marines who have gone before me. So here in this simple ceremony amongst Marines, family and friends I say "farewell and semper fidelis".

The Last Quarter

2007-01-25T12:35:00.000-08:00

If you ever played football there is a point when you are on the field that everything else around you fades away; where you don’t hear the crowd, where you aren’t thinking about what you’re doing after the game or if you have gas in the car. It becomes so intense and your brain is so connected to your experience that for that brief moment, it is your reality and you sense everything. Capture that feeling and you understand being at war.

War is sensory overload. It is brutally long hours of hard work, though not always physical. War is loud and creates noise of all kinds; generators, trucks, rockets, artillery, helicopters and tanks. War is boredom and the blandness of chow hall food; it’s close quarters, semi-clean laundry, lack of privacy, uneven ground, dust and mud. It is meetings, deadlines, fluorescent lights and friendships. It is the juxtaposition of normalcy interspersed with heart-racing violence and moments of unexpected tenderness. It’s finding humor and absurdity in everything. Mostly though, it is about getting your mission done and serving honorably.

As I enter my last six weeks in Iraq I’ve noticed that what was once new is common place and my life back home is somewhere far away. To me, it’s perfectly normal to put on my flak jacket and helmet and then head out in an up-armored vehicle. To me, loading my weapon is as natural as you putting cream in your coffee.

Life in Iraq seems so normal at times. Heck, we have a duck pond in front of our building. You see Marines and civilians alike coming to feed the nineteen geese and ducks in an act I assume makes them feel closer to home. Yet, it’s just yards away from where someone was killed by a mortar a few months ago.

Like the football game, with the final whistle it will be over for me. I will look back one last time at the field I spent so many days on and try to burn the memory into my brain.

I’m worried about when I come home and the rush is gone. I wonder how I’m going to replace the high that is flying in a helicopter at 150 mph 300 feet off the deck, staring at an IED, or visiting with Marines at a remote combat outpost and seeing the best that America has to offer. I wonder how I will feel when I see self-centered and soft Americans instead of the hardened swaggering Marines who ask for nothing more than a chance to kill some bad guys and make a difference.

I wonder how I’m going to fill that void that is a sense of belonging to something greater than one’s self. It is an irreplaceable feeling and one of complete satisfaction. Today I feel that way because I am so far away. But I know the moment I see Nancy and the kids for the first time, Iraq will quickly begin to fade away. It will fade and take its place in the far recesses of my mind until one day I will wake up and think of war no more.

Christmastime Thoughts From Kids

2007-01-16T12:23:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me I have a soft spot for children. I’m big, loud and intimidating, but get me around kids and I become one. So, when I get letters and cards from little kids I read them all and look at the carefully crafted artwork. Mostly though, it never ceases to amaze me the honesty in how they express themselves. Below is a collection of things kids ages 7-10 have written me this year:

“Dear Hero Merry Christmas. I hope you do not die in a war” – Autumn

“You will be on my mind when your cold and lonely while I’m opening my Christmas Presents from under the tree” – Brooke

“Thank you so much for fighting for us. It’s so great that you will sacrifice your life for America” – anonymous

“Be wise in everything you do. Be safe at your job. Be careful in the war” –Drew

“Your every little girl and boys hero, and the entire U.S” – Casey

“…I hope you don’t get hurt out there. If you do then you can wish that this world or a team mate can help you” – Dominique

“I hope you are okay. To me you soldiers are like a god. When I grow up I am going to be a soldier.” – Brian

“I hope you all have a good Christmas and other good holidays. Good luck in the wars” – Jordan

“...I salute you soldier” – Taylor

“I hope you get lots of presents because you fight two keep us free. I hope your team wins and you can have a very happy Christmas.” Ilona

“Dear Soldier, Some people think presents is a great thing but not to me the great gift is having freedom” –Kyra

“I hope you have a happy Christmas. Your family miss you. Stay safe and keep us free don’t frgit” –Lexi

“Please be very very safe ok. I’m very very sorry you guys don’t get your Christmas. Ok guys win the war.” –anonymous

“I hope you come home safely. I now how hard it must be. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry” –Erica

“I’m sorry you can’t celbrat Christmas weth your family. But this card is going to make you light up” – Angel

“You have fought well for us. I really wish you could spend Christmas with your family this year but you are fighting for us. Please don’t lose and I hope you have a wonderful Christmas. If you get to celebrate I hope you can win on Christmas but it would have to be a miracle” -Cory

Christmas Eve in Fallujah

2006-12-24T12:18:00.000-08:00

It’s Christmas Eve in Iraq and I’m sitting here in my “office” the converted bathroom 7000 miles from home. Right now, Nancy and the kids are all at my mom’s house in New Melle for her annual open house. I can hear the wind rustling the dead leaves in the trees and the kids playing. If Mike hadn’t run over the basketball backboard this summer, they’d be playing basketball. I see Mike sleeping on the couch and getting up to stoke the fire in the fireplace. I can smell the tamales that were made yesterday and served steaming hot. I can see the fruit cake that my mom still makes only because I ask her to make it every year that reminds me so much of my childhood. Tonight, they will play “rob your neighbor” that in true Lozano-style includes smack talking. I see my wife with her seven babies home together again. AJ has been driving Nancy crazy asking her if Santa has “gotten here yet?” Tonight she will not get much sleep.

Here life has slowed down for a couple of days. Last night I went to a variety show because someone asked me. It was cornier than hell and not many people were there but I enjoyed myself. We were entertained by the “Camp Fallujah Brass Quintet (rein)(SOC)”, which meant they had six people. We had people sing a capella and a very fine saxophonist. But, the highlight was a “band” made up of rugged recon Marines, who brought their recon buddies to cheer them on as they banged out an excellent version of “Broken” by Evanescence on barely audible instruments meant for church. The song was dedicated to their buddies no longer with them. The evening ended with singing some carols.

Today we were on a holiday routine which meant I sat and worked in my sweats, then changed into my uniform around 11. This afternoon the Executive Officer, a burly former college football star I call “Hammer” hosted an “open house”. The officers of the regiment were beckoned to come down for mandatory socializing. Never mind we eat, sleep and work with each other seven days a week. It was held in his office and featured such delicacies as sliced up Slim Jims and cheese from the chow hall. I did contribute my venison sausage which went fast. I also noticed that Hammer was at his desk working on something not even paying attention to what we were doing. So I said, “Nice party, I bet your wife does all the entertaining at home” and everyone died laughing.

So, now I will go to my room and put on Holiday Inn, a Christmas Eve tradition Nancy and I have shared with each other for around twenty years. I’ve also saved two presents my mom sent me wrapped so I’d have something to open tomorrow. Then I’ll go to Mass and spend the day in my office doing some work and watching a movie or two. I’d like to wish a Merry Christmas to my wife, my kids, family and friends. Thank you for praying for and supporting me. I hope this is the last Christmas I spend away from home. Nancy says I’m grounded from war.

Cigars and Mortars

2006-12-24T11:18:00.000-08:00

Life in Camp Fallujah isn’t difficult by most standards. I have a decent bed to sleep in, my own bathroom, hot water, decent food and my own internet connection. Not having to walk in cold mud to take a shower is heaven. Heck, close to where I work is a pond with geese. But, it’s still Iraq and this is still Al Anbar province, so it can be deceptively and suddenly dangerous. Our principle danger on base is indirect fire, or “IDF” in Marine lingo; mortars and rockets. The insurgents aren’t good shots, but they are persistent and the sudden scream of the base alarm system blaring “Incoming! Incoming!” is a fairly regular event.

Now, there are very few things that bring me pleasure in Iraq. The first is getting to “chat” daily via the internet with my wife Nancy and the second is the occasional cigar I get to smoke. Cigars are an indulgence in a place where indulgences are mostly non-existent. So, twice a week I climb on the roof of my building with two other Marines on the staff and pull up cheap plastic chairs for a smoke. For an hour we talk about everything from home to life after the Corps to cigars themselves. It’s pure relaxation…most of the time.

Last week “Top” (a master sergeant) and I climbed up on the roof and quickly decided it was too cold and too windy to stay up on the roof. So, we climbed down and sat in a couple of chairs on the ground nearby and lit up.

The chairs we sat down in are up next to some concrete barriers designed to protect buildings from blasts, as long as the blasts are on the right side. I had just started to draw deep on the cigar when the incoming siren began to scream. The warning system is phenomenal and gives us about twenty seconds advance notice of an attack. I stood up disgustedly and said “I am NOT wasting a good cigar” and rather than ditching my cigar to run into the building, I walked a few feet and stood between two nearby blast barriers that are at least 8 feet tall and 4 foot thick at the bottom.

I turned to Top and said “if it gets us it’s just our time” and we both laughed. Then ‘WHUMP!” the distinctive sound of incoming impacting nearby. “Damn, that was close” Top said matter-of-factly, followed a few seconds later by two more impacts that appeared to be a bit further away. Knowing that insurgents never launch more than a few rounds before they run we waited a few minutes then sat back down and finished our cigars. The first round impacted about 100 yards from where stood, but plenty of protective barriers stood between us and it so we were never in danger.

Convoy to Nowhere

2006-12-08T11:20:00.000-08:00

The last time I was in Iraq we had just invaded and we were riding across the desert just as I had envisioned it in my childhood memories of Rat Patrol. The Humvees were primarily fiberglass with canvas doors, soft tops and no armor. Interiors were barren except for personal gear. Only a few vehicles had radios and the wind blew freely throughout. Just prior to the invasion we were directed to remove the canvas doors in case we had to jump out to engage the enemy. With those adjustments made away we blazed, choking dust billowing into our goggle covered eyes. I rode to Baghdad with my feet dangling out the door.

Now it’s 2006 and everything has changed. As the Marine Advisor for a Seabee regiment, I travel throughout Al Anbar province to observe our battalions, consult with their staffs and advise the regimental commander and his staff on the regiment’s state. Occasionally I fly, but more often I move by ground convoy provided by the Seabees “convoy security teams”. These Seabees have been selected for a mission none of them joined the Navy for; escorting people, supplies and equipment across the most dangerous province in Iraq, Al Anbar.

Our four convoy security teams are organized into seven vehicle 48 man teams. Each is lead by a Navy chief. Most vehicles have a driver, vehicle commander, gunner and assistant gunner. Our large 7-ton trucks have a crew of 3. Teams are a mix of 7-ton trucks and up-armored Humvees. “Up-armored” means these Humvees carry 7,000lbs of ballistic armor.

The run I am going to go on this time is a short run of fifty miles from Fallujah to Ramadi, on a road called MSR (main supply route) Mobile, a divided six lane highway. Sounds easy right? Nothing is easy in Iraq, nothing is normal and nothing goes quickly. In the U.S. that would take how long? Half hour? Well this isn’t O’Fallon and tonight this trip will take much longer. The team I am riding with tonight is “Piledriver”; each team has a unique name that identifies them in communications and tracking.

At 8pm we begin with a convoy brief. During the brief, the convoy commander, Chief Burroughs, briefs his team on the mission, paying particular attention to intel about recent threats. Details like route, radio frequencies and actions for various situations are briefed. The brief takes place in the “chapel” a meeting room with rough pews that doubles as the chapel on Sundays. I glance around, everyone is loose but serious. They have a certain swagger that tells me they are now seasoned to a job only two months before they had never done for real. The mission is to haul “green gear” from Fallujah to Ramadi. “Green gear” means military gear only and that means a smaller group.

As usual I sit in the back of the chapel. Having an officer usually makes enlisted nervous but I’ve earned their trust for sharing these rides with them. I am dressed in a tan Nomex flight suit. Outside are my flak jacket with ceramic plates, kevlar helmet and pack.

The yard is abuzz with last minute preparations as vehicle commanders check everything from fluid levels to making sure there are ice and drinks in their coolers. I find the vehicle I have been assigned to and shake hands with the vehicle commander.

The Humvee of today is a massive cocoon of steel, armor and ballistic glass, bursting with electronics and is twice the weight of the old vehicles. It has more in common with a tank than the Humvee I rode into Iraq on. To counter the added weight they’ve added a much larger engine and industrial air conditioner. The interiors are jammed with new radios, electronics to combat IEDs and computers to communicate with virtually anyone in theater. It’s cramped and obvious from the moment you get in this was not designed for ergonomics. Before I get in I put on my PPE, which is “personal protection equipment”.

The flak jacket with ceramic plate inserts and side plates weighs thirty pounds and is awkward to put on. I hoist it up and slip my arms in. With a shrug I get the flak sitting right then fasten the large Velcro flap on the chest and then my throat protector. I check my pistol magazine pouch to make sure it’s fastened properly and I have all of my magazines. Inside where the breast plate goes I have placed a small picture book given to me by my daughter Ali that has pictures of all my kids. I always pat it for good luck. Next, I insert my ear plugs, put on my helmet and snap my chin strap. Finally, I pull on my Nomex gloves and ballistic goggles and I’m ready.

Once inside, I put on a head-set that is designed for internal communications. From here I can talk to people inside my vehicle or in all vehicles. Mostly, I just listen to what is being said, it gives me a sense for the fluidity of their operations. Except for the soft glow of a subdued computer screen the interior is dark. The vents are blowing warm air into the vehicle, just behind my head. Without the head set on it would be hard to talk without yelling. My knees are pushed up against the seat in front of me. My left side is jabbed by the sharp edges, rods and knobs of the latest armored door they have put on this vehicle. There is no place to put my arm and it soon aches with discomfort. Before we leave, I test my door several times to make sure it works properly. The sheer weight of the door is mind blowing, weighing several hundred pounds. It feels like a bank vault.

Once staged in order, a command is given to head for the ECP (entry control point) and we bounce through base. Each vehicle has a machine gunner in an armored turret planted right between the four seats. This gives me a view of his legs and the gunner constantly moves his turret.

Just before we leave base we step outside of our vehicles to load our weapons. Marines never leave base without having their weapons with a round in the chamber. However, this team loads their magazines of their personal weapons but don’t chamber a round, which strikes me as odd. As we get back in I ask over the headset why they don’t. The driver, a kid from the south drawls; “the way I figure it sir, these vehicles are designed to stop bullets…if they can’t get in, they sure as hell can’t get out”. I can’t argue with the logic and we all have a good laugh. The convoy commander radios the Marines and announces that we are “Oscar Mike”, phonetic for “OM” or, “on the move”.

Things start to get dusty as we navigate through the ECP and off base, or as we call it “outside the wire”. Two miles down a dusty and rutted road we are on MSR Mobile. The teams move fluidly as some vehicles set “blocks” and others “bump”. When a vehicle “blocks” he places himself to prevent traffic from entering our convoy. When someone “bumps” he is replacing the first blocker and therefore bumps him forward. Whether these seven vehicles are taking themselves or escorting fifty tractor trailers, their first priority is security of themselves and their cargo.

As we enter Mobile the dust recedes and we pick up speed. The single biggest threat for convoys are IEDs (improvised explosive devices). To counter that threat we have adapted vehicles in many ways, as well as adapted our tactics. Piledriver’s gunners act as the eyes of the convoy trying to pick out that one object out of 10,000 they see in a night that might be deadly. It could be simple like an artillery shell in plain sight but more likely, a device hidden in debris; under gravel, dirt, in dead animals, disguised to look like trash or even parts of the highway itself.

I glance through the thick ballistic glass into the night. I can’t see much but keep my eyes out for suspicious items or enemy forces firing on our convoy. The ride is loud and alternates between being smooth and sudden jarring thuds, as we hit a seam or hole. This isn’t I-70 back home. The shoulders are littered with evidence of past explosions with twisted guard rails and blackened holes. While we travel down the center lane, we periodically have to move around something and even cross the highway.

The roads are mostly deserted because of curfews. The Iraqi government allows over the road truckers, but they are limited and they have to pull over as military convoys pass. Periodically, we encounter another military convoy passing the other way. The gunners continuously scan shoulders, roads and overpasses for signs of trouble.

About half way through the trip we enter an area that is known as a “hot spot” an area where we have had a great deal of trouble of one kind or another. Suddenly, one of the members of the lead vehicle says he’s seen something suspicious. We all brake and lights go out as the gunner in the lead vehicle tosses a chem stick to mark the spot.

Stopping in Iraq is never a good feeling, stopping for a long time is even a worse idea. The report is called into our higher headquarters and an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) team is dispatched. All traffic on the highway is blocked. Think of EOD as plumbers on the coldest night in the winter. They spend their days rushing from one problem to the next. As we wait for EOD to arrive we all scan the area for suspicious activity. A couple of hours later EOD arrives. They determine that we have encountered a “speed bump” IED, which is pulled onto the highway in the hopes you roll over it and detonate the device. EOD removes the device for further study and we are cleared to go. It turns out to have contained 200lbs of explosives.

The lights come on and we begin rolling. We travel only around 500 meters when I see a chem stick fly towards the shoulder of the road. Because we had not gotten up to full speed and spacing we are within five feet of the light and object. I glance out the door and there within feet is a plastic bag and the nose of an artillery shell of some sort. The two vehicles past the object move quickly forward to a safe distance.

“Back up….back up!! BACK UP!!!!” the vehicle commander shouts over his headset as the driver throws the Humvee in reverse and stomps on the gas. We stop a football field away, and then slowly the entire group continues to move backward until we are several hundred meters away. Once again, we turn off our lights, notify higher headquarters and they call EOD. We can still see the tail lights of EOD in our rear view mirror, but they are on to the next busted pipe and we have a long wait. For hours I peer through the ballistic glass with my night vision goggles. I see some small hills but no movement. As the hours pass I fight to not fall asleep and my head aches from the weight and pressure of the helmet.

An Army convoy gets tired of waiting behind us and crosses onto the opposite road, violating all the rules, but this turns out to be very common among their troops. We just shake our head.

Several hours later I can see the first rays of dawn on the horizon. I tell the Convoy Commander he needs to make a decision. He keeps three of his vehicles and sends the rest of us back towards Fallujah. We have a VIP package and we need to get it back in a safe spot.

We cross the median and pray there’s nothing there. Soon we are on our way back. The sun’s almost up and the roads are filling with local Iraqis about their regular business. We make it back to base seven hours after we left for a 50 mile trip and never made it. I drop off my gear, eat breakfast and get a couple of hours of sleep. This is not uncommon, nothing is easy here, and nothing is taken for granted.

Later that day I stop in our combat operations center to check up on Chief Burroughs and those who stayed behind. EOD finally had made it. The object in the trash was a 155mm artillery shell. When they blew it up in place, it uncovered three more 155mm artillery shells underneath. As they traced the wires, a lone man on a motorcycle shot out from behind one of the hills I had been staring at in the darkness. Where he had likely been, they found a wireless phone base station, often used to detonate IEDs. The reality hit me hard, the man on the motorcycle had been trying to kill us; and if not for the electronic systems our vehicles have on board somebody would have been vaporized.

Chief said that after the IED was fully destroyed, they got in their vehicles and crossed the same highway median we had earlier. As they did they hit an IED and were attacked with small arms. They engaged the enemy and as they broke contact hit a third IED. But today, the good guys won and the only casualty was some vehicle damage. When I talked to Chief he seemed nonchalant. But that’s how you deal with uncertainties here, you trust in your equipment, your training and your team. The rest is up to God.

When Warriors Weep

2006-10-19T13:13:00.000-07:00

When Warriors Weep

I went to the memorial service last week for a young Marine killed by a sniper while working to make life better for Iraqis in a little poop-water town in western Iraq. This was my third service since I arrived six weeks ago. Each one has been stark in its raw emotion; each a farewell to a warrior from warriors. But this one touched me very deeply, even though I did not know him.

The Regimental Commander, Command Master Chief and I flew to Al Taqqadum from Fallujah to attend, arriving the day before. The fallen Marine was from one of our subordinate units, 9th Engineer Support Battalion, commanded by a friend of mine. The service itself was to be held at 5pm, to enable many of the young man’s comrades to attend. Through their grief, the young men of Bravo Co., carried on the difficult mission at hand, only stopping long enough to pay tribute to their brother Marine.

The “chapel” is a low slung building of small metal tubing and plywood walls with homemade wooden benches and cheap plastic chairs. As we arrived I wondered where everyone was, there was nobody milling about outside. When we entered, I understood. Jammed into every space possible were several hundred Marines and sailors, sweating profusely in silence.

Many in attendance were covered in dirt and grime, some still in flaks and helmets. They were overwhelmingly young men and women in their late teens and early twenties; yet they did not look young. Bravo Co. is a reserve outfit based in South Bend, so many of these Marines had grown up together. At the front of the chapel was the traditional symbol of rifle, bayonet, helmet and dog tags and next to the tribute was a large picture of a smiling young man, framed by an American and Marine Corps flag.

“Chaps”, as the battalion chaplain is called began the service with an appropriate invocation. Then the lights were dimmed and a video tribute came on. The melancholy notes of Green Day’s “When September Comes” drifted across the chapel as picture after picture gave us a sense of who this young man had been in life. There were the typical pictures of a young man at war, but mostly, there were pictures of an engaging young man with all-American looks and a huge smile. Then quite abruptly there appeared a video clip of the Marine doing the “Duck Dance” with one of his buds as his friends laughed, taken only days before his death. That stupid dance you see at wedding receptions, which never fails to look absurd, shook me. For that moment he was still alive and through the sniffles I heard chuckles in the crowd.

Then my mind drifted back a couple of weeks to when I found out Cpl. Aaron Seal had been killed. Initially, details were sketchy, but Cpl. Seal was a combat engineer and had been shot while working on the roof of what would become an Iraqi police station. It was mid-afternoon on a Sunday when the report first came in and my thoughts immediately went to his family. Somewhere back home in Indiana they were just getting up on a Sunday morning, probably doing Sunday morning things like reading the paper and getting ready for church. They were probably thinking of their young man at war and praying for his safety not knowing what I knew; Aaron was already dead. Soon enough, two Marines would show up at their door in dress blues and change their lives forever.

My thoughts returned to the service as the montage ended and three of his friends spoke in tribute. They were tough, hardened men who openly wept as they recalled beers drank, fights fought, and dreams dreamt. The last Marine read a poem called “Ode to a Marine” which Aaron’s girlfriend had requested to be read at the ceremony. One stanza stuck in my mind:

…Yes, he has chosen to live a life
Off the beaten track,
Knowing well each time he’s called,
He might not make it back.
So, next time you see a Devil Dog
Standing proud and true,
Be grateful for all he’s given;
He’s given it for you…

- Jeannie Salinski

Tributes over, muster was called one last time, …“Corporal Aaron Seal”… a Marine read aloud, waiting a response we knew would not come. We rose to attention as seven Marines outside fired a 21 gun salute in crisp precision, followed by Taps.

The service ended with a benediction from Chaps and then one by one we each approached the rifle and helmet of Cpl. Seal to pay our last respects. Colonels to private, there was no rank now, only Americans. Some knelt and softly touched the boots, others placed their hands on the helmet, most stood in silent thought and prayer.

Having been one of the first to pay our respects, the Commodore and I stood outside the chapel as the other Marines exited in silence. Some gathered in small groups while others stood by themselves and wept, only to soon be embraced by a fellow Marine. Many smoked cigarettes in nervous silence with swollen red eyes, and yet others laughed at memories shared quietly among friends. But, this was not our time and I tried to look away. This was the real farewell.

At the time of his death, Cpl. Seal was just 23 and left behind a beautiful girlfriend and loving family. I did not know Aaron but I will never forget him.

More Jimmy from homicide

2006-10-09T20:04:00.000-07:00

“I can’t hear so well out of my right ear” Jimmy said to a group of us, straining to hear the conversation. A scowl came over his face. “How long has it been that way?” one of the guys asked. “Oh a couple of weeks”, Jimmy responded. The next day Jimmy went to the doctor and the doctor pulled out half an ear plug. Turns out it had been there since we flew to Kuwait two weeks before. Now, whenever Jimmy talks we all say “What was that Jimmy? I can’t hear so well”.

Jimmy from homicide

2006-10-01T10:16:00.000-07:00

More than anything, life in a war zone is made tolerable by the characters you meet. People here are just larger than life. Most are so in a Chuck Norris sort of way but some are so in a Mike Ditka sort of way. One of those is Jimmy, a homicide cop from Cleveland. I first met Jimmy in July and we quickly hit it off. On the civilian side, Jimmy has been a Cleveland cop for 32 years and will retire next year. In the Navy he’s been a diver for about the same time, rising from seaman to commander during that time.

Like any cop, Jimmy is full of stories; mostly profane, mostly grotesque and all supremely funny. Little does Jimmy realize, he’s unwittingly just as funny as his stories. Life for Jimmy is simple; work, family and the Cleveland Browns.

Last week Jimmy had the opportunity of a lifetime. He was selected to do a “shout out” live before a Browns game, to be broadcast locally and on the jumbotron at the Brown’s stadium. Let’s just say Jimmy has a cop’s way with words, so he decided he better practice so as to not screw things up. After all his family, friends, fellow police officers were going to get to see him.

He practiced his lines anxiously before the broadcast. The camera was set up in Fallujah and he and three other Browns fans lined up and each would get their turn. To ensure good sound they would use a phone to speak into. The producer was on satellite phone and they were given the warning…”3…2…1…” and the lights came on and the camera went live. It would be Jimmy’s big moment.

The first guy went and he spoke his greetings. He then handed Jimmy the phone. Jimmy looked at the camera, smiled and said “Hi this is Jimmy in Camp Fallujah, Iraq and I want to say hi to my wife….” and he froze. A couple of seconds passed and everyone looked at him, but nothing came out. Finally, he blurted out “shit!” and handed the phone to the next guy.

His wife later called the Cleveland Browns office and asked about getting a copy of the game. “Oh your husband’s the guy who said ‘shit’ on the jumbotron”. I told Jimmy maybe he’d wind up on the highlight tape at the end of the season. Anyway, he’s a local legend now.

6:09: Wheels Down For One Last Tour

2006-09-09T12:30:00.000-07:00

For most of you Iraq is far away and seen through the lens of modern media. It can be distant, abstract and hard to understand. War is a reality that those not in it cannot understand; war is a sensory experience.

For me it has been a struggle since I returned from Iraq in 2003. I left thinking the war was over, having experienced all there was going to be to experience. Of course that wasn't the case. Having been there early I wanted to understand what was going on but things were changing so rapidly I found myself quickly out of touch and wanting to be where the action is. But, no matter how hard I tried it was no longer my experience and I felt a sense of loss.

Six weeks ago, with great anticipation I began my egress from civilian to Marine at war; a transformation that meant leaving everything I know and love and entering another reality; one that I love too. First, I left my family and went to Gulfport to train. The uniform I wore, the language I spoke, the things we spoke of all changed. The thoughts of home were moved to a different part of my consciousness. The phone quit ringing and emails were checked less often. I was beginning to very deliberately detach myself from those things whose absence bring pain.

The move to Kuwait was nothing short of painful, boring, unproductive and quintessentially military. One blast of hot air and the scent of water from the ocean took me back to 2002 and the excitement that had been the preparation for the invasion of Iraq. Now it is different. Gone is the sense of adventure, replaced by a sense of hard work and need to finish what we started.

Then finally the day came to move to Iraq. We left for a late night C-130 flight. I walked up the ramp and sat down with a plane full of Marines in their late teens and early twenties; humbled to be among such Americans. I buttoned up my chin strap as the engines came to life. Off we went...well almost. One engine had developed a rather nasty leak and we taxied back where we unceremoniously lay in the dirt for four hours until a new plane could be prepped and loaded.

The flight itself was rather uneventful; not filled with anticipation nor anxiety, but filled with a sense of satisfaction that I was getting a chance to do this one more time.

6:09 wheels touch down in a decidedly normal descent into al Taqqadum, west of Baghdad. at 6:21 I put my foot on the deck in Iraq. One last time to smell the dust in the nose, the deafening noise of generators and equipment; the bustle of people and the noise of war. One last time to be among people so great I consider myself blessed to be among them. One last time into the breach. One last time so I can write the end to this book. One last tour.

Stupid Is As Military Does

2006-09-09T12:21:00.000-07:00

Absurdities abound in the military and they never cease to entertain and annoy me. As a military unit heading into Iraq my unit was typically armed with personal weapons including M16 rifles and M9 pistols. We were to carry these with us on our charter flight. Additionally, virtually everyone brought large and deadly survival knives. So, it was with great amusement that I watched the Seabees searching my bags take my nail clipper and break off the nail file because as they told me "it's against FAA regulations". 250 guys on an airplane with rifles and pistols but thank goodness, the crew is safe from those deadly nail files.

The Second Wave

2006-08-30T10:30:00.000-07:00

I want to share a story about my 9-year old son Alex. Alex was just four when I left home shortly after 9/11. He barely understood why I was gone, other than I was at "far work", and he certainly had no concept of war. What he understood all too clearly was the pain of separation. By the time I returned, he had turned 7 and grown enormously in many ways. I had missed out on some big changes, like his first bike ride, first day of school and first baseball game.

The day I returned home from Iraq he clung to my hand for all it was worth. He constantly checked to see where I was and if he lost sight of me, immediately asked "where's daddy?" He seemed unconvinced that I would not disappear yet again. Eventually the insecurity disappeared, but to this day the pain lingers.

When I am home, it is my responsibility to take the grade school kids to school. At the drop-off point the children pile out. Alex is usually dropping something or still tying his shoes, but we have a routine. I always stick out my hand for Alex to give me "five" and tell him to "have a happy day". He then waves at me as he leaves.

I'm not sure when I first noticed what I have termed the "second wave", but once I did I realized he did I began to cherish it and to watch for it.
What is the "second wave"? After Alex starts walking to class and before I drive off he always turns to find me, and very lovingly waves one more time. Each time I gently wave back, an unspoken bond of love born out of pain.

Separation and loss affects everyone differently, but to a child the wounds are sometimes the deepest that hugs and kisses salve but cannot completely wash away. When I left yesterday for another tour in Iraq I could not help but notice the fresh hurt in Alex's eyes. By the time I return next March I will have been gone 1/3 of his young life. Time will help heal the hurt but I suspect that we will always share that second wave.