When Jacob was expelled from school for beating Chunder Maclin with a cafeteria chair, his father sat him down and explained to him the he was proud of him, but that Jacob had to contain his anger, keep it stored away and at bay.  He knew what was inside Jacob, what dwelled within him, what Jacob had the potential to become.  Jacob was gentle by nature, meek, quiet, shy, never confrontational.  His expulsion from school had shocked everyone.  Everyone expect his father.  Somehow he had known, as only a father might.   

Jacob’s sister, Aubrey Rose, was raped when she was only 16.  An academic prodigy who was accepted to Michigan State University when she was but 15 years old, she wasn’t ready for the realities of grown men.  The rapist was a resident assistant in her co-ed dormitory, a 22 year old graduate student who not only raped her, but threatened to have her kicked out of school if she didn’t frequent his room at night that first semester.  On home for Christmas break, she broke down one particular night and told then 19 year old Jacob what was happening to her.  As she poured her story out to him, he sat and listened, brushing her hair back from her sobbing face, holding her tight.  When she was finished, he kissed her on the cheek and left the house.  He drove four hours that night to Lansing.  By the next morning he was back, and the resident assistant was dead, wrapped in a tarp and buried under ten feet of dirt in Kensington National Forest.  Years later, a troop of boy scouts would find the body, and the Livingston County coroner would remark to all who would listen about the skeleton with fractured orbital sockets, missing the entire lower half of its jaw. 

What Jacob’s father knew was that there was a manic, unbridled power inside Jacob, a strength born of necessity, a frenzy found in the wild.  That day in the cafeteria with Chunder Maclin, and that night at Michigan State, the animal had awoken. It was a thing that Jacob had long repressed, a thing he thought no longer existed.  It was a purity of spirit, a beautiful realization of honesty that now began to stir….

It began as a detachment, an awareness that he was at once both within, and outside of, himself.   Sorry poured the gas onto the back porch, splashing it onto the concrete steps, the siding, the glass door, and into the living room.  Samuel stared outside, fingering the packet of matches in his hand, grunting as he stood, relieving the pressure on Jacob’s back.  Samuel barked something to Sorry in Japanese, smiling as Sorry answered back.  As Jacob rolled to his back, Samuel looked down and smiled as he stomped a heavy foot into Jacob’s stomach.

Jacob gave in to the animal, gave into his vital impetus.

When the resident assistant cracked open his door, Jacob kicked with every ounce of his strength.  All the students were home for Christmas break, and no-one heard the crunch of wood splintering from the metal hinges as the door flew inward, smashing into the resident assistant and sending him toppling backward…

Jacob rolled to his side, facing Samuel, and bit into Samuel’s knee.  Samuel howled in pain and surprise, leaning back and spinning away.  As soon as Samuel’s balance was off, Jacob sprung to his feet, bringing his knee hard into Samuel’s groin…

The RA wobbled to his feet, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses and muttering a surprised “What the f-.”  Before he could finish his question, Jacob was on him, smashing him in the face with his fists, each containing a roll of quarters wrapped in electric tape.  Shards from the RA’s glasses punctured his skin as he once again topped backwards.  This time he rolled onto his side, arms wrapped around his legs, crying and wailing as Jacob approached him, “No!  P-p-please s-stop!”

Samuel dropped to his knees, moaning loudly as he dropped the matches, hands instinctively going to his bruised manhood.  Sorry dropped the gas can, pulled a knife from his waistband and charged Jacob, mouth set in a grim line, eyes narrowed and focused…

 Jacob knelt, his knee on the RA’s chest as he reached for his face, hands intent on punishment.  “Pleeeeaaaaassssssse….”  The RA’s shrill scream faded into garbled whines, the wet sound of spilled life pooling around them both.  Jacob sat back, breathing heavily, his hands cut and bruised.  The RA moaned through his broken face, a bark that was half cry and half cough escaped his throat.  The animal within compelled Jacob to finish…

Jacob launched himself at Sorry, left hand knocking the knife out of Sorry’s hand, right hand finding purchase on Sorry’s throat.  Sorry punched Jacob with both hands, peppering him with blows to his stomach and ribs.  Jacob was beyond pain now, and he squeezed with renewed strength.  Sorry’s blows turned desperate and pushed hard into Jacob’s chest.  Jacob returned the push, and Sorry suddenly pulled.  Jacob continued pushing Sorry back until they both tripped over the dropped gas can.  His momentum carried him over Sorry, slamming the older man to the ground, and breaking the grip that Jacob had on his throat.  Jacob rolled to his feet but Sorry was already up and running off out of the house.  The older man recognized the threat that Jacob posed and fled into the woodline.  Jacob started out the porch door after Sorry then stopped as he heard the moan back in the house. 

Samuel was still there, slowly getting to his feet, doubled over and shuffling to the front of the house.  Jacob strode back into the back room, grabbed Samuel by the hair and dragged him out the back porch into the back yard.  Jacob was now fully immersed in his other self, his true self, and Samuel’s death was the only thing that mattered.  Samuel fell and Jacob spun him to the ground kicking him in the stomach as he fell.  Samuel feebly tried to fight back, and Jacob punched him in the throat, dropping the big man 10 yards behind the house.  He went back into the house and came out with the matches and the gas can.  No sound came from Samuel’s screams as he burned.

By Grin and Barrett

Doesn’t everyone read the Rhino Den?  In the annals of American literary accomplishments, we have Stephen Crane, Stephen King, Steven Pressfield (that’s a lot of Stephen’s), Mad Magazine, Reader’s Digest and ….the Rhino Den!  So I guess it is just a base assumption that I have that whatever is written on the Rhino Den, is read as well.  But you know what they say about assumptions, they make and ass out of you, and ….Ron Maclean.  Within that framework, I have to ask this question:  Mr. Maclean, didn’t I just write about this?!? In fact, I believe my exact words were…

“Listen, I have the utmost respect for athletes who put it all on the line, who approach every down like it is the game-winning play, contest every basket, run down every wide receiver, continue on after getting hacked, cross-checked, or forearmed.  I got it; they are studs, no doubt.  But they are not Soldiers.  They do not truly put their lives on the line, let alone in defense of home and country.  They do not leave weeping widows, orphans, parents who have to bury their children.  Their injuries are concussions, broken ankles, jammed fingers, ruined shoulders.  A Soldier’s injuries include loss of eyesight, missing limbs, chronic migraines and PTSD, horrific deformities and death.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the opportunity to re-package something I’ve already written and re-publish to the masses, but do I really need to?

Lest I lose a faithful reader who is unaware of your transgressions, let me fill in the Ranger Den faithful first.

Ron Maclean, color commentator for the New York Rangers, recently made this absurd comment during the pre-game warm-ups for the Rangers game against the Washington Capitals:

“You can’t help but be struck by the players and the way they’ve played these games.  They are like police officers, they are like firefighters. You can’t fight fire with ego. The pain these men have faced, the price they keep on paying, the hearts they keep on lifting.”

Then, faced with criticism on all fronts, he “clarified” his remarks with this:

“We never know if we’ll have that spirit.  The bravery, the resilience.  As I made clear, the hockey games in no way compare.  However Sports has proven a worthy training ground in nurturing the qualities which beget that spirit.  To say he plays like a firefighter or a policeman would instantly conjure the traits an athlete most desires, especially in New York and Washington…”

Uh, yeah.  No duh Jackass!  But just because someone “conjures the traits” you so desire, the qualities of character you would wish to emulate, does not mean that you also posses them!  Yes, firefighters and police officers have many qualities to be emulated, admired, and praised.  That does not, however, give you the right to compare athletes with them.  I admire the writing style, research, and thoroughness of Steven Pressfield and Michael Crichton.  Two men that I think embody everything it is to be a successful writer.  Therefore, according to your logic, I can compare myself favorably with them?   Yeah, that’s awesome!  Right where I want to be…wait a minute, this isn’t too bad.  I kind of like this formulaic approach to self betterment.  Okay, I think that George Clooney and Daniel Craig are handsome and rugged.  Presto!  Let me look in the mirror….suspenseful interlude….Wow!  Look how handsome I am now!.  Okay, this is great!  Let’s see, Lionel Messi…check.  Usain Bolt…check.  Georges St-Pierre….check.

I can’t imagine the embarrassment that Maclean has caused for those Rangers and Capitals hockey players, innocent pawns in Maclean’s campaign of stupidity and doucheration.  His inability to grasp the basic truth of selfless service astounds me.  Comparing professional athletes with First Responders and Military personnel should be a common sense no-no, but it continues to prevail, continues to happen all the time.  Mr. Maclean, you blew it with your initial statement, then bungled it even further with your clarification.  Let your one way ticket to Douchebagistan serve as an example to all others in professional sports that the “sacrifice, pain, and price to pay” for a professional athlete is NOT the same as that of a police officer, firefighter, or American warrior.  Don’t compare it.  If you wish to mention the sacrifice of our heroes on 9/11, do it with reverence, do it with humility, do it with thanksgiving, and for the love of God, keep it out of your color commentary.

I have a particular routine I adhere to in my morning commute to work.  I start the day with a prayer for wisdom, grace and strength, and I thank God for the majesty of those beautiful Alaskan mountains I pass through on the way in.  After my moments of thanksgiving, and my morning ritual of counting moose on the Palmer flats, I get my morning fix of ESPN’s Mike and Mike in the morning.

Today, as I carried out this daily routine, I heard something that really troubled me.  Chris Carter, the studtastic wide receiver for the Vikings who torched NFC North defensive backs for so many years, spoke of his need to put “bounties” on opposing team’s defensive players that he felt threatened him and his well-being; that harbored him bad intentions.  Specifically, he mentioned the threat he felt from then Denver Bronco’s player Bill Romanowski, and his contention that Romanowski vowed to end Carter’s career.  Carter, in turn, put a bounty on Romanowski, offering team-mates an unspecified reward for keeping Romanowski in check.  The thing that bothered me with this whole situation isn’t the fact that Carter felt he needed to be protected, but the fact that Carter felt he needed to pay his teammates to have his back.

As a Soldier, this confuses me.  In an earlier post I wrote, “Grammatical Retirement – Going to War,” I wrote of my disdain for athletes who wax poetically about being a Soldier, going to war, and dying for their brothers/sisters.  The differences between a professional athlete and professional Soldier are both narrow and wide at the same time.  When it comes to going to war, that gulf could not be wider, and evidently this also applies to protecting our own.  Why on earth would Carter feel he needed to pay his teammates to do what every Soldier, Marine, Airmen and Sailor would do without even thinking about it?  Brothers and sisters in law enforcement and emergency services understand this as well.  What is that thing we do without thinking about it?  We protect our own!  I don’t go into a hostile situation with the promise of reward.  This, to me, isn’t even fathomable!

“Hey bro, we’re seriously hitting the shit today.”

“Yeah, I know man.”

“Well, brother, can I ask you something?”

“Sure man, anything.”

“If it all goes to shit, would you do me a favor and watch my back?”

“Weeeellllllll….”

“There’s a cool hundred dollar bill in it for you…”

“Ah, hell yeah then!  You got it bro!”

“And if some Taliban scumbag gets a bead on me, if you take him out, I’ll throw you another hundred.”

“Bet!  You got it man.”

Never seen that exchange?  Yeah, me neither.  Cause that’s not how we do things.  We automatically have each other’s backs.  I’d like to think we model our protective instincts on that of Sparta.  Spartan culture was one of protecting your brother before yourself.  When the Spartan mother told her son, “Come back with your shield, or on it,” it was because to lose your shield meant you exposed the man on your left to peril.  That same ideal of protecting your own is alive and well today in our military, seen every day in Afghanistan and other hot spots around the world.

We don’t offer rewards; No Rolex, no new SUV, no trip to Hawaii.   But what we do offer is so much more precious, so much better; the camaraderie of kindred spirits who would lay down their lives for each other, with no other reward than knowing that your brothers and sisters would do the same for you.  Carter and Romanowski can occupy the media with bounties and bad intentions, while we continue to keep watch over our brothers and sisters, and over you.

CEO of Spirit Airlines Ben Baldanza

By RU Rob

I have been following the story of how Spirit Airlines jilted 76 year old Marine Veteran Jerry Meekins out of a refund after his physician forbid him to fly.  The thought crossed my mind that Spirit Airlines could potentially earn Douche of the Week honors, but after listening to Spirit Airlines CEO Ben Baldanza spew nothing but complete horse-shit, I am convinced that the real douche here is Baldanza.

The story goes something like this: Mr. Meekins has terminal esophageal cancer.  He had pre-purchased a $197 flight from Florida up to New Jersey to visit his daughter who was having surgery.  Mr. Meekins was told by his doctor that he couldn’t fly due to his medical condition.  At first, Jerry sought a refund for the ticket but was denied as he did not purchase “flight insurance” on his ticket.  Jerry then requested that the ticket be transferred over to his daughter so that she could come visit him in Florida.  This too was rejected by the doucherifous customer service department.

Well, we Veterans don’t exactly like to be told no without any good reason.  So Jerry went and protested the decision of Spirit at the Tampa International Airport with a few of his friends and from there it caught fire.  He may be 76, but this Marine still has a lot of fight left in him. A Facebook page titled “Boycott Spirit Airlines” was created and as of this writing has over 30,000 “likes”.

Then, in a move to make his Airline appear even douchier, CEO Ben Baldanza had to go and open his cock-holster comparing Mr. Meekins situation to a homeowner with no policy calling up an insurance company after his house burns down.  Really, fucktard? There is a fundamental difference between someone who has not paid a cent for services and someone who has.  Benny-ha-ha, you are a prime example as to why our economy is in the freaking grave, you don’t give a rat’s-ass about your customers.

I have flown Spirit Airlines before, found their aircraft to be disgusting, their staff unprofessional and their attitude towards their passengers horrible.  It really doesn’t surprise me that they would stoop to this doucherific proportion. Upon doing a little research on Spirit Airlines, it would appear that I am not the only one who feels that way.  Skytrax, the world’s largest airline review site, has Spirit Airlines rated at 3.1 stars out of 10.  That folks is pretty damn shitty.

If it weren’t for the fact that there are safety regulations in place I am sure that Spirit Airlines would pack bodies into an aircraft like Drill Sergeants did to trainees during basic training.  Standing nuts-to-butts in the back of a cattle car where there is always room for one more.

Spirit Airlines leads the US carriers in complaints against them by almost double that of the nearest competitor.  When asked why the entire country believes that the douchey behavior of Spirit Airlines triggers so many complaints Baldanza again opens his bull-shit-spreader and compares the Airline industry to a restaurant  saying “if…out of every 100,000 customers, 8 of them said they didn’t like your menu, would you change your restaurant?” No, dumb-ass I wouldn’t but I sure as hell would at least listen.  For every rule there is an exception, did you not learn that in douche-school?

Just so you know, Spirit Airlines has been fined by the FAA in the past for customer service missteps, and is the king of hidden fees.  For example, Spirit is currently mulling the idea of charging $100 for carry-on luggage and also doesn’t even offer complimentary glasses of water on their flights; that will cost $3. Spirit is also the only carrier in the United States that does not offer active duty service members any sort of discount or relief from baggage fees when they are traveling on official orders.  WTF over?

So, Mr. Balls-on-chin (sorry, meant Baldanza) and Spirit Airlines, I hereby sentence you to Douchebagistan.  Seeing as how many douchetastic nominations we have seen lately, we will need a comparably crappy carrier as a currier for our crusty curmudgeons!

Ranger Up Nation, why don’t you head on over to the Boycott Spirit Facebook page, give them a liking and leave a note that Ranger Up sent you to support by fire.  Copy your posts in the comments below and I will give a T-shirt to the snarkiest one!

By Kelly Crigger

“I don’t want to work in a cubicle,” you tell the world as you get ready to retire from the service. “When I retire I’m going to be my own boss. Not gonna work for anyone.” 

Pump the brakes, kid. Let’s think about this.  

When you do a job you hate, in a tiny cubicle, for a giant corporation with asshole supervisors that doesn’t give a shit about you, it’s easy to turn it off. It’s easy to jump out of your seat at 5 o’clock, dust your hands off, go home and forget about it. It’s easy not to let it bother you…at all. You can sit at your desk and blankly stare out the window or pretend to do work and still get a paycheck because the profits and losses of the company don’t concern you. The corporation could be uber profitable or flirting with complete shutdown, but as long as your piggy bank keeps getting stuffed, it doesn’t matter.  

And if you aren’t passionate about the job, you don’t leave with it on your mind. You don’t get in the car and obsess over how to make it better. You don’t look around at every little thing other companies are doing and ask, “how can I do that for my business?” 

On the opposite side of the galaxy is the entrepreneur who started a business either because he loves it or he has a syphilis-like burning desire to make tons of money. But here’s the drawback – when you do something you love, something that keeps you excited all the time and pervades your soul, you cannot turn it off. Ever. It’s always there. Every time you have a good idea or a moment of creativity you ask yourself how can you apply it to your business. Every time you laugh at a commercial, you ask yourself how you can be that funny with your product. Every time you see and ad, a marketing event, or even a protest, you ponder why you are or are not doing those same things or how effective they might be if you did. Owning a business is like having an STD. It never goes away…ever.  

The worst part about doing something you love is that you love it more than you should. Everyone around you has to compete with it for your time. Your wife, your kids, your dog, they all want you to snap out of it, stop thinking about the business, and give them some attention. They all want you to put the phone down, step away from the computer, and be there. Really be there too, not blankly staring out the window wondering about the things you think you should be doing. And that’s a very difficult thing when you run your own business. 

Don’t have a family? Entrepreneurialism may be right for you then. But before you make the leap into the unknown, keep in mind that there’s something to be said for a job that you just don’t give a shit about.

High time we retired another overused, under-thought phrase popular in today’s lexicon.  This time, however, the object of my grammatical frustration is not due to military abuse of the vernacular, but to that time honored tradition of wannabe-battle-tested “heroes” (see professional athlete) using militant language to describe sporting events.

The dictionary defines “war” as both an armed conflict between nation-states, and as active hostility or contention.  In and of itself, I have no serious beef with athletes referring to emotionally charged and significant athletic events as “going to war with the opponent.”  Just like I have no issue with corporate executives who paint a campaign of “going to war” with the competition.  Where exactly does this cross the line?  Where does the acceptable use of the phrase “going to war” begin to irritably grate on my skin?  When I hear phrases like these:

“We’re going into battle!  My teammates are my Soldiers, and we’re in a serious battle!”

No stud, they are not.  And neither are you.

“This game is going to be a war, nobody’s backing down, I’ll die for my teammates!”

Uh… sure.  Sure you will.

“This field (court) is our battlefield, we’re either going to survive or die out there today!”

Reaaaally?

“My teammates were my brothers/sisters, and we went into war, into battle together.”

No….you….did….not.

Listen, I have the utmost respect for athletes who put it all on the line, who approach every down like it is the game-winning play, contest every basket, run down every wide receiver, continue on after getting hacked, cross-checked, or forearmed.  I got it; they are studs, no doubt.  But they are not Soldiers.  They do not truly put their lives on the line, let alone in defense of home and country.  They do not leave weeping widows, orphans, parents who have to bury their children.  Their injuries are concussions, broken ankles, jammed fingers, ruined shoulders.  A Soldier’s injuries include loss of eyesight, missing limbs, chronic migraines and PTSD, horrific deformities and death.

This isn’t a pissing contest between Soldiers and athletes, it’s a reality check.  The reality is that our brave men and women sacrifice more than most people can possibly imagine.  No matter how many Welcome Home banners stream, no matter how many folks shake our Soldier’s hands at the airport and thank them for what they have done, there is no way to accurately describe or convey the physical, emotional and mental fatigue that accompanies a Soldier’s deployment, and subsequent return home.  Going to war is a sacred act, an integral part of the warrior’s spirit, a life and death pact with brothers and sisters in arms.  It is the pinnacle of worth, achievement and purpose for a Soldier; one that cannot be processed, canned, and sold as a catchphrase.

Unfortunately, it is treated that way.

Flippant rambles about going to war, going to battle, and the ever popular I-am-a-Soldier, litter the athletic field of play like discarded groupies after a playoff victory bender.  Convenient one moment, forgotten the next.

Going forward, we Soldiers will stick with our intramural sports and leave the big leagues to you.  When it comes to matters of war and sacrifice, however, why don’t you leave it to the professionals?

About an hour ago, I spoke with one of Bob and Nancy Strait’s daughters.  I will not post her name for her own protection and privacy.

She expressed her thanks on behalf of the Strait family to the Ranger Up and the 101st Airborne communities for all of your efforts.  She and her family are genuinely moved by what all of you have done for her dad and mom.  Until you started bringing attention to the issue, she said the case was largely ignored by the local police department and political establishment.

Even after this increased attention, however, she believes that the police and city are paying lip service to the family – waiting for the attention to blow over so they can brush it under the carpet once again, while at the same time they have a federal FBI task force investigating a shooting incident that also occurred in Tulsa during the same time frame and I believe CAG and DEVGRU are working the Florida case now.

I am not a conspiracy theory guy and I don’t think there is a police force on the planet that wouldn’t want to catch the people involved in this atrocity.  I have full confidence that the men and women of the Tulsa police department want to find these evil men.

I do question, as the family does, whether they have the resources and support that they need from the Mayor’s office and town leadership.  While we are researching this in earnest before embracing this belief, peripherally, Mayor Dewey F. Bartlett, Jr. does not seem very interested in responding to questions about the violent attacks on Nancy and Bob Strait.  Ranger Up fans sending the mayor questions on Facebook have been ignored and blocked and emails sent to the mayor’s office have been ignored.  The only response we have from anyone in Tulsa is from the police force, which simply has said, “We’re doing the best we can.”

I’m not sure why case is being brushed aside while others have gained prominence.  Maybe the mayor’s office is concerned that this will be bad PR for Tulsa, maybe he doesn’t want to face criticism about adequate protection for the citizens of Tulsa prior to an election after he cut 142 police jobs, maybe he simply has incompetent staff running his websites, or maybe he and his staff have been watching too many television shows about veterans and they are afraid we’re gonna go all “PTSD” on them.

What is clear is that they seem to be dropping the ball and appear to be no closer to finding the people responsible for the brutal rape and murder of an 85 year old woman and the vicious beating of her D-Day veteran husband than they were a month ago.  And that is completely unacceptable.

I asked Bob’s daughter what the family wanted us to do.

She said, “We’re not looking for publicity.  That’s not what our family is about.  But without attention, I truly believe no one here is going to do anything to find these men.  We want justice for my daddy and my momma.  I’d like you to try to get this in the news.  If it gets in the news, maybe Tulsa will do something about it.”

I told her if that is what she wanted then we’re going to push until this gets solved or we die trying.  I told her we would never quit.

Thus far I’ve done half a dozen interviews with various news outlets, but none have taken the National Stage, with the exception of Cam Edwards awesome radio show on NRA News.

I can tell you honestly, this will get nowhere without you guys grabbing this torch and pushing like hell.

Please continue to pressure anyone and everyone you can in the media, and for good measure, please contact the City of Tulsa:

Mayor Dewey Bartlett: (918) 596-7411 (if no one answers there, call the next number).
The Mayor’s Action Center: (918) 596-2100
Tulsa Mayor Dewey Bartlett E-Mail Contact Page
Mayor Dewey Bartlett
City Hall
175 East 2nd Street, Suite 690
Tulsa, OK 74103

and let them know what the veteran community expects from the Mayor.

If you know anyone in the media, in non-profit organizations that would support this family, in the police force, in the FBI – if you know anyone who can help, please engage them.  I have a feeling that this is going to be a long fight.  I think the city of Tulsa’s leadership and the national media will ignore this story until they have no choice but to deal with it.  We have to make them deal with it.  I believe it is our solemn duty.

If you have ideas for how we need to attack this, RU is all ears.  If you have an organization that wants to get involved, please do and let us know how we can support the effort.

All that is required for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing.

That’s not what this community is all about.

This is a community that when the country asked “Whom shall I send?” answered proudly “Here I am. Send me.”

We need to be there for the Straits now.  Because if not us, then who?

By RU Rob

All too often I pick up a book and within the first 10-15 minutes put it down because I can’t stand the style of writing.  It is either written in a manner that is over-descriptive or utilizes words that an abnormal, somewhat jaded, infantryman cannot understand.  Occasionally, and it is a rarity, I will stumble upon something that I absolutely cannot put down and will read it cover-to-cover.  Such is the case with “Letters from the Sand Box” by Charles Meier.  I liked this book so much that I thought you just may like it as well, being that you are all a little jacked in your own sense.

Right after I finished the book I contacted Charles (Chuck or Big Daddy is what he prefers) via email to set up a phone interview.  This was about 8:00 am and it usually takes a couple of days for a response back, if any.  At about 12:30pm my phone rings and when I answer it is Chuck on the line.  The first thing I notice is that he sounded like he just rolled out of bed after a long night of… well I can’t be too sure to be honest with you.  Anyways, he sounded rough and freely admitted to being up into the wee hours of the morning, but withholding all of the pertinent information, like what he was actually doing.  We spoke for a good 45 minutes, with me laughing most of the time, ended the call and I am sure he passed out…again.

The book itself is a collection of emails and letters sent home while Chuck was working as a contractor in Iraq from 2003-2006.  Chuck starts out telling his life story and just how he ended up being a contractor in the first place.  It is quite funny to read the journey from small town Texas through a seven year stint as Navy search and rescue, DJ- bouncer and manager of a strip club, college student and fireman/police diver and SWAT team member.  Did I mention that he also claims to be a pilot and minister as well?

One thing that is an obvious theme to the book, Chuck is as physically large as his personality (6’4” 320lbs to be exact).  Looking at the pictures, he appears to be a modern day Viking and makes numerous references at how much trouble he had in “blending in” with the local populace in Iraq.  Some of the descriptions will leave you in stiches in his no-holds-barred view of Iraq and just how f’d up both the military and the Iraqi’s are.  If you are looking for a candy coated view of what was really going on there, do not pick-up this book.

Big Daddy also has a way with words, or should I say spelling.  When the book was being readied for publishing he would receive a copy from his editors only to reject it because everything was spelled correctly and grammatically correct.  I must agree that part of the appeal to this book is that it is written by an infantryman trapped in a contractors body and is conveyed as such.  A perfect example of this is when Chuck refers to the local Iraqi males as “hodgie” instead of “haji”.  It is the little things like this throughout the book that will make you smile and chuckle as you read it. 

As Chuck describes it, Letters from the Sand Box is the perfect read while sitting on the shitter.  There is a twist at the end that will leave you in awe at his strength and willingness to live life to the fullest and he will do it in a sense that will have you pissing your pants in laughter.  While I don’t want to reveal it all, let’s just say there is reference to a “leg lamp”, you know, like the one in “A Christmas Story”.

I recommend Letters from the Sand Box to you for its simple yet powerful message.  Chuck quotes a toast that one of his SEAL buddies taught him and I believe it is fitting: “I have been around the world twice, talked to everyone once. I have seen two white whales screw and a monkey try and fuck a football.  I’ve been to Maine, Spain and Spokane.  I know a man with a marble head and a wooden cock.  I’m a lover, fighter, a rooten, tooten, hooten, looten, skydiver, I drink everything from rum to cum….Every day is a blessing, every meal is a feast, Every sunrise the promise of a new adventure to come, every sunset a little break in the action.  And I am the one-legged man in the ass kicking contest.”

While there are only 156 pages to this book, the message you will receive is priceless.  You can find Letters from the Sandbox on Amazon.  RU Rob recommends it.

By Grin and Barrett

Jacob threw up again.  Head pounding, Jacob grabbed a towel off the bathroom wall and wiped his mouth.  He had spent the last three hours struggling out of his bonds and limping back to his quarters.  No one, neither friend nor foe, had seen him limp his way to his temporary home, and as he struggled back he was angrily astonished that the Army has seen fit to lodge him so far from anyone else, in such a remote location.  As he washed blood and rope fibers from his wrists and forearms, another wave of nausea overcame him and he threw up again.  He gingerly wiped his swollen lips with the towel again and proceeded to wash his face.  Dried blood clung to his eyelids and cheeks like glue, and Jacob winced as he pulled scabs off of cuts and abrasions.  A large cut over his right eye reopened as he washed it, blood quickly stemmed by a strip of 100 mile an hour tape.  He observed his medical work in the mirror and frowned.  You look like an idiot.  Jacob finished cleansing his face and washed some of the blood from his hair, wincing again as his hands discovered several more small cuts on his scalp.  Jacob dried his face and hair and headed into the living room, changing his clothes before grabbing his running shoes and a clean pair of socks.   

Without a cell phone, which had been taken from him while in captivity, he would have to make the two mile walk to main post to report to the Provost Marshall’s office.  A winding road past dense trees and an abandoned school stood between him and medical help.  Jacob painfully laced his shoes up and stepped onto the front porch, squinting in the light of the fading day. 

Has it really been almost 24 hours already?

Jacob wasn’t sure what had happened to Matt, but first he needed to get to a doc and report what had happened to his chain of command and MPI.  A sound from the back of the house caught Jacob’s ear and before he let the front screen door slam, he looked past the living room to the back sliding door.  Shadows of two men crept into view and Jacob slowly closed the door, preventing it from slamming, and quietly crept around the outside of the house, behind the two who were casting the shadows.  Jacob heard low murmurs as he rounded the right side of the house, using the cherry blossom trees to shield him from sight.  As he approached the back of the house, he crouched and peeked around the corner.  Two men, one short and thin and one tall and thick, in overalls were standing under the back awning, peering into his living room through the glass door.  At their feet, a water jug with dirty water, a toolbox, and a wheelbarrow with a tarp over it.  Jacob recognized the shorter of the two.

“Sorry?”

Sorry spun around, a look of concern turning to relief as a big grin broke out on his face.

“Jacob!”

“What are you doing here?”

Sorry strode up to Jacob, extending his hand and shielding his eyes from the sun with the other. 

“I’m marking the houses back here for teardown, turning off the water, electricity, getting ready for them to level this whole area.  I thought I would stop by and say hello, but I saw…”

Sorry gestured back to the glass door, the look of concern returning to his face.

“…blood all over the living room floor.  Are you okay?”  Sorry pointed to the tape on Jacob’s face and grimaced.

“Long story.  Let’s just leave it at… you were right with your advice.”  Jacob looked at Sorry’s companion, a larger man with a dull expression on his face.  Vacant eyes stared back at Jacob, as the large man fidgeted back and forth on his feet.  “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is my nephew Samuel.”

“Samuel?”

Sorry laughed, “Hah, yes, he is only half Japanese.  He had an American father who also was named Samuel.”  Sorry’s eyes darkened slightly, “He left my sister shortly after Samuel was born.  Left for the States, straight back to Cleveland, and he has never been back.  But, hey, that is not your issue, eh?”  Sorry smiled again and put his arm on Jacob’s shoulder, “Though he is not the most intelligent young man, he is very handy to have around.”

Samuel smiled and waved at Jacob.  “Hello.”

Jacob walked toward Samuel, “Hello Samuel, nice to meet you.”

Samuel bowed slightly, “And you as well Sir.”

A sudden through occurred to Jacob, “Sorry, how did you get here?  I need a ride to main post.  I’ve got to get my cut stitched up and I need to get to the Post PMO.”

Sorry shrugged his shoulders, “We walked.  Just like every day.”

“Damn.”

The wind shifted slightly and blew into Jacob’s face from the direction of the house.  The pungent and invasive smell of gasoline stung his nose.  Sorry noticed it too, and glanced quickly at Samuel.  Jacob saw the glance, saw Samuel’s hand slide into his pocket.

“Sorry…what’s in the jug?”

Sorry shrugged again and smiled.  “I thought you were still asleep Jacob.”

“What’s in the jug!”

Samuel stepped forward, vacant look replaced by something darker, as Sorry quickly stepped behind Jacob.  “I thought you were still asleep Jacob, that was so much the easier way.”  Samuel darted forward, his speed astonishing for such a big man, as his fist flew into Jacob’s solar plexus before he could react, knocking him to his knees as the big man pushed him down and pinned him to the ground. 

Sorry stepped around in front of Jacob, his hands behind his back, looking down with a mixture of pity, anger, and sorrow.  “I told you Jacob, I told you very seriously what not to do.  And you did it anyway.  This one…”  Sorry gestured to the wheelbarrow, and only then did Jacob realize it was a body under the tarp, “…he didn’t have that conversation with me, and so he did not have good counsel.  You?  You did!  I gave you very good counsel, but you still chose to ignore me.” 

Sorry took Samuel’s spot, placing his knee firmly in Jacob’s back, allowing Samuel to get up and remove the tarp.  Matt was there, dead or alive Jacob didn’t know.  Blood covered Matt’s face, his hands tied behind his back as well.  Samuel lifted Matt and took him into the living room, cut his binds, and left him there. 

“What the hell Sorry!  What the hell is going on?!?”

“You went to the wrong place, did the wrong thing.  You are still guests in the country Jacob, this is not your world.  You made a very big mistake with the wrong people.”

“I didn’t know Sorry!  I didn’t know any of that was going to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t know Jacob, they never know.  That’s why I warned you.”

“What are you going to do to me?”  Jacob was frantic, as much as he tried he couldn’t break free from Sorry’s grasp. 

“You have to die Jacob.”

“Why did you let me go then?  If you’re just going to kill me, then why did you let me go?”

Samuel hauled Jacob to his feet, pushing him roughly toward the back door.

Sorry held the door open as Samuel pushed Jacob through.  “I didn’t let you go Jacob, and I didn’t have you killed.  You died in the fire you set by using gasoline to light your grill.  You and your friend both died when the house caught fire.  You were passed out from being too drunk.”

Sorry grabbed the jug with the gasoline and followed Samuel and Jacob into the living room.  “Don’t worry, you will asphyxiate before you burn.”

Samuel smiled at that, the once dull expression replaced by a cold fury that Jacob had never seen before.  “Yes, before you buuuuurrrrnnnnnnn.”

Sorry put down the jug of gas, an odd smile on his face as he rolled up the sleeves to his denim shirt.  Tattoos covered his arms, no actual skin visible through the dark ink that decorated his forearms.  “Samuel will likely cry with joy when you burn, but not me.”  Sorry picked the jug back up.  “I truly liked you Jacob.  I truly like the U.S. Army.  You are very good for my business.”

“What business is that you backstabbing piece of shit?!!!”

“Anything that makes money my friend.  Anything at all.”

“Like prostituting little girls?”

Sorry’s smile vanished.  “Yes, as much as you cannot understand that, yes.  But you scold me in this little palaver, what is truly your death palaver, and you project moral outrage on me as if you are blameless.  Where, Jacob, did you go last night?  Why did you go there?  WHY DID YOU GO THERE!  You are not stupid!  You knew where you were going!  You knew what you would find there.  So do not play the witless fool now, the innocent man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  You went there to find a whore and you did, and the world you entered was too strong and too real for you and your friend, a friend who now lays dead at your feet!  So please do not pass your moral judgment on me my friend, for it is your kind that keep me alive and in profit.” 

Sorry gestured to Samuel, who threw Jacob on the ground next to Matt.  With another nod of his head Samuel produced a book of matches from his pocket as Sorry uncapped the gas.  Sorry lifted the jug to Jacob in mock salute, “Cheers,” and began to pour.