Jacob shook his head violently.  He was starting to spin now, eyes glazing over, dark circles threatening to overcome his blurred vision, as he grasped futilely for the handrail that led to the backdoor of his temporary quarters.  He spun and stumbled again, knee cracking painfully on the wet concrete step that led to the haven inside.  His legs buckled under the strain, and he spun a last 180 degrees, landing with an audible WHUMPHHHH, air forcibly expelled from his lungs from the impact, his left leg bleeding where he had hit his knee.  Jacob took a last ragged breath and cried out in pain as the knife wound in his stomach spilled another wave of fresh blood through his T-shirt and onto the back porch, mixing perversely with the rivulets of rainwater that ran down into the drain at the base of the building.

He grasped the gaping wound with his hand, vainly trying to pinch the edges together to keep his intestines from fleeing his body, but the strength in his hands fled, he gave in, and he let his arm fall to his side.   Searing pain kept him from taking another deep breathe, coughs and slight gasps now wracking his chest.  The last thing he saw before he went under was the dead girl on the picnic table, cherry blossoms covering her bloody face, tiny fingers grasping the chain he had given her that very morning.  She was smiling, he knew, underneath all that blood, and still the cherry blossoms fell, covering her face and body in a gentle caress, almost as if God himself was apologizing for her terrible life.  He thought he felt an aftershock from the earthquake weeks before, but he wasn’t sure if it was that, or the pounding of cherry blossoms, falling over Miho, falling over him.  Funny, how they kept falling.  After almost two weeks now, cherry blossoms were still falling…..

TWO WEEKS BEFORE

CPT Jacob Patrickson flipped the light switch to the living room with one hand, dumping his “A” bag with the other.  The switched let out a small click, but the lights stayed off.

“You’ve got to be flippin’ kidding me.”

He stepped back through the door and pulled his ruck and assault pack into the building; condemned, soon-to-be demolished Sergeant Major quarters, located in an abandoned corner of Camp Zama, right outside Zama City, Japan.  “Of course,” he muttered as dumped his assault pack, searching for his penlight.  The trip to Tokyo had been long and tiring, all 36 hours of it. Now, at 0200 on a sweltering night in Japan, the power to his temporary lodging was non-existent.  Jacob glanced out the window, hoping to see headlights from the douchebag that dropped him off without making sure his quarters were straight.  Nothing to see but swaying cherry blossom trees and more dark condemned buildings.   And I don’t even have a phone to call anyone, Jacob thought.  As soon as I see that ass clown again, we’re gonna have words…

Penlight in hand, Jacob found the fuse box in the kitchen and flipped the switches on, glancing around his new “home.”  He put his penlight on the kitchen counter, noting the absence of a stove, refrigerator, microwave or any other semblance of appliance.  White tile floors extended into the dining/living room, and echoed the sounds of his sandals as they snapped with each step, reminding him of all those old horror novels he had read as a kid.  The ones where the hero stops walking and the echoes of his steps continue, revealing some nefarious foe sneaking up from behind.  Just to clear the heebie-jeebies, Jacob took a step and stopped mid stride, keeping his food from hitting the tile floor.  He smiled at his fearful mind, shaking his head at his own peevishness.  A sharp CLACK startled him, and he spun around, hands in fists, eyes wide for that boogey man that was now haunting his imagination.  His penlight rolled to a lazy stop on the tile floor.

“Easy there stud, no boogey man here, you just need some sleep.”

Stacks of bound cots littered the living room area, and Jacob diligently put two together, one to sleep on and one to stow his gear.  With a perfunctory look around the rest of the house, Jacob collapsed on his cot and fell asleep.

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – -

“Captain Patrickson?”

“Captain Paaaaaatrickson!”

Jacob both heard and felt the pounding on the front door, his eyes automatically going to his watch, a Timex Pathfinder his wife had bought him two Christmases ago.  0600.  Seriously?

“Captain Patrickson?  You in there?”

Jacob rolled off his cot, rubbed his eyes and stretched as he looked around for a shirt.  He pulled on his classic “I Club Hippies” Ranger Up T-Shirt and a pair of black board shorts.

“Captain Patrickson?  Hello?”

“Yeah, hold on, I’m comin’.  Give me a minute”

Jacob stumbled to the bathroom and released the four Jack and diet Cokes he drank on the flight in.  After glancing in the mirror and running his fingers over his two day growth, he walked into the living room and crossed to the front door.  As he opened the door, he interrupted a Soldier mid-knock, stepping back as the Soldier’s arm swung heavily where the door had been.

The short freckled officer jumped back startled, a giant foolish grin on his face.  “Oh, haha, sorry about that.  I almost knocked on your chest!”

“Who…are…you?”

“Oh, sorry about that, my name’s CPT Stillmore, I’m with Corps staff.  I’m here to take you in to meet everyone in the TOC.”

“Your name is CPT, huh?  Well, my rank is CPT, but my name is Jacob.”

“Oh…yeah….I’m Jessie.”

“Well, Jessie, what time am I supposed to be in today?”

“Well, really, right now.  Not sure if CPT Phen told you that last night or not, but you’re to start days in about an hour, you’re taking my spot as the Day Battle Captain.”

“No, CPT Phen didn’t tell me shit.  That turd dropped me off here last night, not real impressed with old CPT Phen.  So, your spot in the TOC?  Where are you headed?”

“I’m going up North, the hurricane site; I’ll be up there for the next two months or so.  A bunch of us are headed up North, that’s why they brought you guys in TDY.”

“All right, give me 30, I’ll be ready to go.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for you here while you get ready.”

Jacob walked into the back bedroom, grabbed his shaving kit and yelled out of the bathroom while he let the water heat up.

“How’s the night life around here?”

“It’s okay, not much going on around here until you head farther North toward Machida and Tokyo.  There isn’t much in Zama City, its pretty low key around here.”

Jacob nodded his head as he lathered up his face and looked into the mirror.

That’s too bad, he thought to himself, I thought this trip would be interesting.

There is a phenomenon I’ve been struggling to wrap my mind around for years now. It’s the rabid, instantaneous, and always malevolent reaction by liberals when confronted with a conservative personality, idea, or statement. In honor of made up words (which I am a big fan of), I’d like to officially dub this liberal rage as “Liberage.” Henceforth, and forevermore, Liberage shall be known as:

“That all-encompassing rage expressed by persons (see, no respect to gender, I’m being very PC) of a liberal, left-leaning political persuasion who, when in moments of uncertainty and elitist cluelessness, simply respond to conservative views with rage infused vitriol.”

Don’t believe me? Try a little experiment, one I have used to great amusement in the past. Ask any conservative what he/she thinks of Hilary Clinton. The response will most likely be something along the lines of “Can’t stand her,” “Don’t like her,” “She’s crazy for sticking with Bill,” or some variation thereof. Really, you can use any prominent Democratic figure, present or past. Now, and this is the really fun part, ask any liberal what his/her impressions are of Sarah Palin. Stand back, crack a beer, and watch the fireworks…

“I F#$@ing HATE that bitch!”

“I wish that stupid bitch would just F#$@ing die!”

“If that F#$@ing bitch was here right now, I’d love to punch her in the F#$@ing mouth!”

The favored target of Liberage

“Dude, why do you hate Palin so much”

“Are you SERIOUS? She is a F#$@ing cancer to this country! She may be the most evil bitch in the history of evil bitches!”

“Yeah, but…why?”

“She is such a stupid f#$@ing idiot!”

“That’s why you hate her? That’s why you would literally punch her in the mouth?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Okay, I think you made your point. Welcome to liberage.”

This absolute hate is disturbing to me, and it isn’t just Sarah Palin, though she has been singled out by a great majority of unhappy people as the scapegoat for whatever is wrong in their lives. This Liberage applies to Ronald Reagan, George Bush, Karl Rove, Dick Cheney, Condoleeza Rice, any conservative talk show host, and a slew of other prominent conservatives, both alive and dead.

However disturbing, the reasoning behind such Liberage is really quite simple. Like a schoolyard bully who doesn’t know how to control his emotions, and lashes out in anger and violence when he can’t express himself, liberals lash out with confused and frustrated intellectual impotence, their elitism questioned by their own inability to understand and appreciate opposing points of view. And as conservative politicians and pundits are increasingly under the microscope of educators and entertainers, expect the vile, disgusting personal attacks to continue, as Liberage expands its agenda of hatred and contempt.

There are a few fatherly bits of advice I have passed on to my sons as they grow into men; Always hold the door for your date, always walk closest to the road when you are with a young lady, and never, ever let any harm come to her while she is in your presence. Make sure you are never the guy who stood by and watched the weak get beat up by the strong, or the one get his ass kicked by three. It’s this last little piece of advice that has caused a slight disruption to my home’s harmony as my boys get older.

You see, when my sons were just boys, fights were generally posturing; bony chests stuck out, eyes wide, menacing grimaces set on dirt streaked faces. Now, as teenagers, the consequences for standing up for the bullied carry far more nefarious possibilities. Guns, knives, bats, and other assorted BS that was pretty much non-existent when I was that age (yeah, yeah, I’m old, but we didn’t all live like we were in West Side Story when I was a wee lad….damn, that reference probably just flew over the top of a few heads).

Anyway, the potential for serious harm is significantly higher now for sticking your nose into someone else’s business (okay, how about Chinatown? Anyone… anyone?). My wife greets my bits of advice with an angry frown and a “can I talk to you in the front room?” glare. The door closes and mama bear whirls, fur bristling, claws out…

“Why are you telling them that!?!”
“Uh, because that’s what men are supposed to do.”
“What, get beat up or killed because they got into someone else’s business?”
“Honey, we can have boys that don’t care about anything but themselves, or boys who stand up for the weak, who do what is right.”
“Oh yeah, that makes a lot of sense if they get shot by some gang or something!”

And isn’t that what this difference is all about? Mothers protecting their little boys (who really ain’t so little anymore, baby), and fathers who want their sons to be better than they were. Stronger, more confident, better leaders, better men. You see, we fathers look back on everything. What we did, what we didn’t do, when we should have stepped in but didn’t. Those are the moments we want back. We want to be the hero, we want to save the day. We want to save the damsel and we want to protect the poor kid who is on every bully’s radar.
I’ve always said that it is better to walk with a black eye on a head held high, than an unmarked face on a head hung low. There are damages to skin and bone, and then there are damages to spirit. The latter is by far the most soul-crushing.

But standing up for the downtrodden, for the weak and the outcast is not what mothers picture their sons doing. Mothers want their sons to be “nice.” This seems to be the apex of excellence that every son should strive to achieve. Why can’t you all just play nice together? – seems to be a phrase that every boy has heard, has had drummed into his head by a well-meaning mother. John Eldredge, in his fantastic book “Wild at Heart,” says that boys should be dangerous…but in a good way. Isn’t this the view that we fathers have for our sons? Dangerous, but in a good way. The way that Outlaw Josey Wales is dangerous, or The Man with No Name, or Denzel Washington’s John Creasy. All dangerous …but in a good way. It is this “nice” versus “dangerous” view on boyhood that is the nexus of these parental disagreements.

Unfortunately, that maternal instinct toward fluffy-happy-dippity-do boyhood doesn’t stop…ever.

My mother visited us in Germany when I had just come out of my time as platoon leader. As we walked through the PX parking lot, one my former Soldiers came up to me and shot-the-shat (past tense, it works…) for a few minutes. This was a Soldier I really respected, and I still keep in touch with, and as he walked away, my mother turned to me, big smile on her face and said, “I can tell he really liked you as a Platoon Leader.”
“Um, okay. Thanks mom.”
Another broad smile as she seemed to lift her chin a little higher.
“You can tell he really thinks you are nice.”
(Cue screeching tires and squealing breaks)
“Uh, what was that?”
“Well, the way you two were talking, I can just tell that he thinks you were a really nice boss. That’s really great.”
“Mom, you may not fully realize the psychological damage you are imparting right now, or the emotional recriminations this conversation will have with my future psyche, so I’m going to clue you in on something. Soldiers… leaders… do not… want to be known… as “nice.”
A look of utter disgust and shock on my mother’s face as she turns to me.
“Well, why? Humph! I don’t know why saying someone is ‘nice’ is all of a sudden a BAD thing!”
“Because mom, I’m a guy. I’m a father, a husband, a son, and a Soldier. My job is to be dangerous (but in a good way) and strong.”
“Weeell, humph, I’m sure you can be nice and still get your job done. ”
“Okay mom, okay.”

Many women complain that there is a noticeable absence of “real men” nowadays, while there exists a glut of pampered, whiney, over-indulged, estrogen filled metro-fellas. Today’s movies, television shows, and music all celebrate the feeble, timid man who uses his vulnerability as a pick up line, and his mild-mannered niceness as a hallmark of today’s progressive, enlightened male. As Paula Cole asked, Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

The cowboys are still here Paula, they’re just waiting to be discovered. Every boy who wishes he could step in to help that nerdy kid who has a dictionary hurled at his head. Every boy who desperately wants to step in and stop that mindless numbskull from slapping the quiet girl’s head with a ruler. Every boy who wants to punch that guffawing, hunk of 200 pound dumbass as he trips some sad-sack in the hallway and flips his schoolbooks out of his hand.

There is a hero waiting in there to step out, to be the man that society needs him to be. Dads, it’s up to you to lead the way. Mom’s, it’s up to you to let him.

If ever an eclectic collection of trinkets and mementos existed that could drive a woman to insanity, it may just exist in my garage. One of the self-serving motifs we Soldiers live by, and wear on our proverbial sleeves like badges of honor, is the every-powerful truth that the more cool stuff you have, the cooler you must be. Now, don’t make the erroneous assumption that by cool stuff, I necessarily mean expensive stuff, because although there is some very expensive, very cool stuff out there, price is most definitely not the ultimate judge of awesomeness. This isn’t a material focus, a never-ending search for bigger, better, and newer, but an existential look into what makes a man tick. The bottom line assessment of awesomeness? If you can answer with the simple phrase, “Because it’s cool,” then you are on the right track.

My wife and I recently had the DVD debate. The one which brings into question the very existence of any extensive DVD collection. After all, with on-demand and online sources like Netflix, what is the purpose of a DVD collection anymore? Because it’s cool, that’s why. At my fingertips, I have access to numerous guy-flicks and cult classics, my all-important collection (which every Father should have) of movies-every-boy-must-watch, and those ancient, ridiculous classics that time may forget, but I never will. Chance I will watch these gems ever again. Pretty low. Chance I will show them off to the guys during neighborhood barbeques? Pretty good.

As a Soldier, however, this penchant for collecting miscellaneous bits of awesomeness tends to run on the rampant side. Spent shells, Iraqi ashtrays, Hooka pipes, swords of every imaginable era and style (see Confederate Saber, Samurai Sword, and Spartan Pig-sticker), blow-guns, potato guns, air guns, mugs of the pewter and ceramic persuasion, shot glasses, old cigars, coins, patches, and the list goes on and on and on. Why do we collect all this rip and ramble? Who really needs a medieval mace? Who needs a miniature set of samurai armor? Who needs their own antique cigar press?!?! Because it’s cool. No other reason is necessary.

Because it's cool, woman!!

I have, under my side of the bed, three samurai swords, a set of throwing knives, a diving knife, and a homemade set of nunchaku. My wife, God bless her, doesn’t really get it. The very real (in my mind anyway) possibility of hoards of ninja assassins busting into the house, holding my family hostage, and falling to my swords/knives in bloody battle, doesn’t seem to resonate with my wife, but that’s okay. When I’m 80, and have yet to face the oncoming Ninja menace, my stuff will still be in the house, under my bed, because it’s cool. Okay, so maybe I know the truth. I know that should anyone truly bust into my home looking for trouble, Mr. 45 will answer the call, not the throwing knives. But knowing they are there is somehow reassuring, somehow just seems to fit.

The awesome hypocrisy of this collection debate is, of course, the fine china, the copious amounts of polish pottery, the endless shine of crystal that will never be used in my house. Armaments of fine living that always seem to be waiting in limbo, stored for that “special occasion.” Scarves, purses, shoes, and coats that have never been, and will never be, worn. When it comes to household six, however, the wise axiom prevails. “A happy wife is a happy life,” or “When mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

But the 12 year-old in me (which still seems to occupy significant influence on my life) isn’t ready to give up the toys, not yet. I think it must be the 12 year-old that still hoards great pieces of wood, miscellaneous bits of ropes and string, unused parts of 10 year old computers, and more baseballs, racquetballs, tennis balls, soccer balls, basketballs, and golf balls than I can every humanly go through. So HH6 continues to collect the shiny pretty things, and I continue to indulge my inner child with cool stuff, until one day when I’m ready to give up the toys. It is my earnest prayer, however, that the 12 year old continues to exhibit influence for a while yet. That bits of this, bits of that, and a hefty slice of whatthehellisthatthing continue to find a home in the corners of my garage. This is the tribute to the inner child, the one who breathlessly whispers in wondrous explanation as he joyfully displays each new treasure, “Because it’s cool….”

Today’s First Truth: Nude beaches are NOT awesome. I know what you must be thinking. Barrett, you are bassackwards on this one. Trust me, I haven’t always thought like this. There was a time that I, like you, thought that the pinnacle of awesomeness was to be nestled on the beach, sipping a cold one, ogling the nude beauties that walked by. In fact, and to be precise, it was 1998, and I was stationed onboard the USS John C. Stennis, as she underwent pre-deployment certification and workups. After three weeks on the open blue, we spent the next four days in port, three of those on liberty in Saint Thomas. The good life, baby. Half of the beaches on Saint Thomas are nude, so of course that is where all the Sailors headed to. I grabbed my flippers, snorkel and mask, my walkman cassette player with Billy Joel banging on the ivory, and headed off to enjoy this particularly sunny day.

The Navy shuttle dropped ten of us YAHOOs off at a popular beach/snorkeling spot, and we all nonchalantly ambled down to the sand, each of us holding ourselves back from running down the hill, hollering and laughing at the prospect of non-ending nakedness. Like I said before, the good life. But unless you’ve actually ever been to a nude beach, you don’t really know what to be prepared for. You see, we have clothes for a reason. There are actually very few people in the world who should be unclothed in public, and none of them frequent the nude beaches. Nude beaches are a cornucopia of sagging bellies, wrinkled back fat, waistline boobs, and 80 year old swaying testicles. That’s pretty much it. As I waded into the surf, heading to a small island about 250 yards off the beach, I was struck by the beauty of one particular brunette. She held my vision for several seconds until she lifted her arm over her head and my foot simultaneously struck a vicious piece of driftwood. Double whammy! The illusion of her beauty gave way to the copious layers of her scraggly, dense armpit hair, and I almost severed my pinkie toe on that damn shard of wood. I spent the rest of the day in the ship’s medical office, my foot and my memories both in pain.

Truth #2: The world views the U.S. through the lenses of Hollywood. Now, I don’t mind the flattering stereotypes, they’re pretty cool. Like the headline in the local British paper while we were on liberty in Spain. “Barrel-chested yanks on Holiday steal all the local ladies with their good looks and wads of cash.” Clearly the reporter for this piece was in another province when the fat and broke yanks in Speedos scared the local woman away. But whatever, we enjoyed our day in the headlines.

Barrel-chested yanks aside, it’s the negative stereotypes that perpetuate problems for Soldiers and Sailors, the ones that Hollywood irresponsibly promotes. In this instance, however, it wasn’t Hollywood, it was the Turkish movie industry; the offending film, “Valley of the Wolves – Iraq.” If you haven’t seen the movie, check out the trailer here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvN8DuLiPm0. In a nutshell, this piece of propagandistic trash starred Hollywood “icons” Gary Busey, Billy Zane, and MMA ass-sweat Tito Ortiz. Sorry Tito, the USO tours don’t erase this piece of cinematic anti-American douchebaggery. Gary Busey hasn’t made a movie even mildly entertaining since Point Break, and Billy Zane’s most significant contribution to the theater was as himself, cornering Derek Zoolander in his walk-off with Hansel…Hansel…Hansel…That Hansel, he’s so hot right now.

But I digress (Zoolander does that to me. Tell me Blue Steel isn’t sexy). It’s with this backdrop that I stood at a Doner Teller shop in Mannheim Germany, waiting patiently for my Doner sandwich. If you’ve never had a Doner, you are missing out. Greatest fast food on the planet, no contest. Anyway, as I stood there, mouth slightly open, eyes glittering in greedy anticipation, a scruffy faced young Turk idled up to me, hands in pocket, head up and to the side (this is the international posture for “You Americans don’t look so tough.”) His head bobbed up another inch as he stopped about a foot to my right.

“Hey.”
“Uh, how are you.”
“George Bush. He’s a bad guy, eh?”
Oh….craaaaaap. I just want my sandwich. Can we please leave the politics out of this one today?
“How do you mean?”
My new Turkish friend looked over at his buddies sitting at the lone outdoor table, sipping their fantas and smoking their hooka. They nodded in encouragement. Their faces said it all, ‘Go get em’.
“George Bush. He’s a bad guy. Iraq. He’s a bad guy.”
Eyebrows now simply cocked in a confused look, he waited for my reply.
“Um…why do you think that?”
“Valley of the Wolves, Iraq. You’ve seen this movie?”
“Nope, can’t say that I have.”
“Is a good movie. George Bush is a very bad man. Kills many innocent people in Iraq. Bill Clinton was goooood. Bill Clinton was much better than Bush.”
“Oh, well, I don’t really get into politics that much. Except when Monica Lewinsky was in the news. She was hot. Have a good one.”

I grabbed my sandwich and walked away. In hindsight, I’d love to say I said something witty, something scathing, something insightful, really anything at all. But I didn’t, because the truth of the matter is that some folks can’t be reasoned with. I Googled the movie that night and instantly realized why this young Turkish tough thought the way he did. As I scrolled through the comments below, I also realized how distressingly stupid, naïve, and ignorant a good many of my fellow Americans were.

“I’m ashamed to be an American!” whined one.
“The world needs to know the truth! We need to get out of Iraq!” whimpered the next.
“I wish I lived in another country I could be proud of!” droned yet another.

Fortunately, I had the proper sense of duty and outrage to comment back to a good number of these young, misguided, mentally fragile college freshman (Just an assumption of course, but probably a pretty good one) and give them just a glimpse of reality. Unfortunately, however, reality is seriously lacking in our movie industry today, whether it’s Hollywood, or the most expensive Turkish film ever made.

It’s good to be back! I would love to hear your comments on your experiences with nude beaches or Hollywood inspired debates with the mentally deficient.

This particular study highlighted the problems women (not all spouses; this one dealt with wives) experience while their husbands are deployed.  The report came to the following conclusions:

1.  Wives of deployed service members experience more stress, depression, and anxiety than wives of non-deployed Soldiers.  Duh.

2.  The longer the deployment, the more likely a spouse is to develop feelings of anxiety, depression, or stress.  Big Duh.

3.  A spouse whose husband returns from theater with an injury is likely to experience increased amounts of stress.  Seriously?  A thousand burning suns of DUH!

Each new fact was punctuated by an overdramatic pause by the reporter, like she was laying some kind of revelatory “There is no Santa” bombshell on a bunch of seven year olds.  I wanted to grab this reporter through my radio and slap her across the face.  Lady, are you kidding?!?  Of course they do!  Deployments suck for families.  The longer the deployment, the greater the suck.  Having your Soldier get injured in combat is NOT good for your stress levels.  Is this really news?  What’s next:

A recent study concludes that getting shot in the ass can be detrimental to your sense of peace and tranquility.

NO FREAKIN DUH!

Why do we need a study to spell out the obvious?  Is America really looking for these nuggets of wisdom and insight?  Well, maybe they are.  Maybe I’m giving my fellow Americans too much credit.  It was, after all, a family member of mine who once remarked, when I told her about our extended lunches so we could do PT at the gym, “Is this what my tax dollars are paying for?”

So, maybe these studies are necessary.  Maybe the American people need to know what our amazing spouses go through behind the lights.  Backstage in that big, beautiful drama we call warfare.  Because the reality, though most of us will never admit it, is that we love that drama we are a part of.  We love the simplicity of our time “downrange.” There are no sports schedules to work around, no midnight trips to the emergency room for a child’s high temperature.  There are no meetings with teachers, principals or counselors.  No three hour homework marathons before a project is due.  Life downrange is simple, though simple of course is a very relative term.  I mean simple in the context of single-minded focus, one purpose, one mission.

There are far too many pissing contests between deployed Soldiers and spouses about who has it worse.  I’m not trying to jump-start that argument, but the reality is that while we Soldiers are focused on mission, our spouses are focused on keeping the house running, all the while wondering if today is the day.  The day that the Army visits in an official capacity.

It’s another level of suck, not greater not lesser, just different.  But that’s what they do, those awesome spouses who batten down the hatches and weather the storm of life while we play Soldier.  It’s because they keep us grounded, keep us focused on where we are, rather than where we think we need to be.  It’s a perverse kind of freedom they give us, knowing the whole time what it could lead to, but giving us that little gift to return to the fight, return to our comrades, return to our own world of suck.

And when the darkness of doubt creeps in, when the little voices whisper that we need to be home, need to forget the mission, forget our friends, it’s then that we realize how important our loved ones job is.  We may be holding the wolves at bay, but they hold the darkness at bay by keeping the home fires lit.

I’m a pretty easy going guy.

I don’t tend to get too spooled-up over this-and-that (unless, of course, we’re talking about a ridiculous YouTube video by “Rock the Vote.”). But by and large, I’m not prone to temper tantrums, raising my voice, or spouting off with a long tirade of profanity laced emotional explosions. But even the most even-keeled (self professed anyway), level headed of us are bitten by the freak-out bug now and again.

My most notable “freak-out” occurred recently when I walked into the latrine following one of “those guys.”

You know the guy I’m talking about. He’s the one that believes that the entire stall is his crapping ground, and he has absolutely no regard for the poor schmuck who mistakingly walks up to the latrine post-devastation.

After walking in and having every bodily sense shut down in self-induced defense, I fled the latrine as fast as possible.

What’s a man to do in response? After all, there needs to be SOME latrine etiquette, doesn’t there?

Post an articulate and respectable written response, of course.

Dear Disgusting Pig Who Left This Mess:

If you are not able to clean up your disgusting mess in the future, please refrain from using this public restroom. You are not the only one who uses it, and no one else wants to deal with the horrible smell or sight of your child-like defecation. The fact that there was no toilet paper in the bowl, which was full of brown water and poop, leads me to believe that you are incapable of wiping yourself either. I’m sure you didn’t wash your hands when you were done, and you run the risk of infecting everyone else in the BN. If you are not able to clean up after yourself, then please do not use this bathroom again. If I catch anyone leaving a mess like this in the future, you will be cleaning it up with a toothbrush.

- CPT XXXXX (I would be happy to discuss with you if you wish)

Of course I didn’t leave CPT XXXXX at the bottom. I was happy to give my name for anyone who wanted to “hunt me down.” Reactions from my superiors were swift and varied. I got a few pats on the back, and a few kicks in the ass. After I got a call at home from an angry field grade, my wife pointed out the most obvious flaw of logic in my note. I may not have the authority to make someone “clean it up with a toothbrush,” as the perpetrator could have been a superior, or a civilian.

I suppose we all have our moments of temporary blind rage. Perhaps I should have saved mine for a more appropriate, or more significant moment, but sometimes you just gotta’ tell it like it is.

If you’ve had a temper tantrum you’d like to share, we’d love to hear about it.

The “Greatest Generation” is often used to describe the generation of Americans who persevered through the Great Depression and subsequently fought in, and supported from home, World War Two.

Fast forward sixty years, and the driving political force (insert sarcastic sneer here) which is “Rock the Vote,” is taking political activism to new depths…er…heights. Corralling the hoards of mindless carcasses, wallowing in their cesspool of teenage and twenty-something angst, and branding them with the company logo “MTV,” Rock the Vote is taking individual thought to task. Don’t dare think for yourself, don’t have the audacity to have an opinion outside the liberal close-minded box, and don’t you dare “go against the family” (Apologies to Marlon Brando).

Rock the Vote has completely glossed over ostracism and rational dialogue, they’ve skipped ahead to the dreaded triple dog dare of getting your way, withholding sex.

“We pledge ourselves to the health and liberty of young Americans and to government for the people … and to never f—ing you if you are against us.” Ah, Rock the Vote, your militant liberal mothers must be so proud.

What is going on here? Has our political discourse really devolved into this? Sexual extortion? Do it my way or don’t do me at all?

This assumes, of course, that the threat of sexual withdrawal is enough to send conservative men scurrying about in search of Michael Moore’s latest documentary, knocking each other over in the frantic attempt to “liberalize” our minds.

Oh please, please, please! Don’t withhold your crusty, diseased Va**na from us! I’ll do anything! I’ll change my stance on anything you want; National Defense, Economic Issues, Health Care, ANYTHING!

And this also assumes that Rock the Vote speaks for all of young America, not just the mindless, spineless droves of drooling sycophants. Is this what Rock the Vote President Heather Smith envisions? Her army of sex-starved health-care “reform” opponents, being led to slaughter on her jewel studded leashes. Crying out for crumbs of sex from the liberal supply wagon.

Bad news Heather, HOT CHICKS DIG SHOOTERS! The metro-sexual men who frequent your peace rallies, sewing circles, Mary Kay parties, and vegetarian cooking contests may fall for this crap, but rest of us men don’t. Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, and Airmen. We all give you a collective, Kiss my Ass!

But the old axiom applies here. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. So with that as my rallying cry, I sally forth, hands on the reins of my valiant steed (His name is Justice, by the way), trampling the opposition with discombobulated logic, whiny retorts, selfish demands, and self-serving motives. Talley Ho!

A “Radar” Moment: Would you like cream and sugar with that?

Somewhere in the North Atlantic, a long time ago…..

80 foot waves crash over the flight-deck of your current home, a massive nuclear powered aircraft carrier, as the North Atlantic furiously assaults your floating city. Masking the harsh battering the outside of your ship is taking, the inside is a quiet, peaceful place, the only evidence of the current maelstrom outside is the plethora of pilots (say that five times fast) hanging out in the ready room, watching movies, watching porn, and generally just hanging out. You, meanwhile, are on the other side of that thin curtain that separates your little cube from the rest of the ready room -think Oz-ish “Never mind that man behind the curtain!”.  As you catch up on stacks of flight records, training schedules, and log books, a calamity of enormous proportions smacks you in the face like a Fedor Emelienenko overhand looping right. BAM! BOW! BLAM!

“Hey Radar!”

Yeah, okay, so your nickname is Radar, so what. Damn that’s lame…

“Hey Radar! We’re out of coffee!”

AAHHHH, sweet Calamity Jane, whatever shall we do?!? Fortunately, after the shock of this revelation begins to abate, you collect your wits, calm yourself down with a few “Whoo-Sahs” and deliver the most obvious of solutions to LT Freckles, the bringer of this bad news.

“Well Sir, you could brew a pot.”

Silence.

Ever notice how the strikingly obvious can completely befuddle the purposefully ignorant?

“Yeah, but….we’re out of coffee.”

The aforementioned sentence, of course, was accompanied by that look of complete confusion and hopelessness that comes with pretending that you are completely unable to accomplish a task you deem menial, a task that should be accomplished by a subordinate. (See; making copies, making coffee, sending a fax, stapling papers together, wiping/kissing your own ass)

You put down the stack of flight records you are painstakingly logging into the pilot logbooks, and you look up at LT Freckles, his brow furrowed into the universal sign for “I just don’t understand.”

“Sir, it’s easy to make coffee. Just pour ten scoops into the filter and hit brew. Too easy.”

“Yeah, but ….” He hesitates here, he’s not sure which play to run. The “But that’s YOUR job” or the “But I can’t make coffee as good as YOU can.” Another moment of hesitation and he gives up his tell, you know which play he’s running because he breaks out the smarmy, patronizing, half smile.

“Yeah, but…I can’t make coffee as good as YOU can. You make the best coffee on the ship.”

Gee-willikers, do I really? I make the best coffee? Wowee, thanks for that huge compliment! You’re so great to try and manipulate me into thinking I make the best coffee, just so your lazy ass doesn’t have to make it, golly gee whiz…..

But, you don’t really say that, you just think it.

After another moment or two of awkward silence, while LT Freckles shuffles his feet and looks at you with anticipation, you decide that candor is the best course of action.

“Sir, I’ve got hours of work to do right now, so if you’re waiting for me to stop what I’m doing so I can make you coffee, you’ll need to either make it yourself, or wait a while.”

LT Freckles maintains his confused smile and walks away, immediately followed by your department head, LCDR Lexus, (And believe it or not, not every 18 year old daughter of one of your Sailors wants to sit in your Lexus) who walks in and, using his best fatherly tone, instructs you to “take a break from all the paperwork” and make coffee. LT Freckles, still sporting that confused smile, nods his head in the background. That’s LT Freckes 1, Radar 0.

Flash forward 10 years…

You are now an officer in the United States Army, and you make your own damn coffee.

Okay, so “Radar” moments aren’t exclusively the Navy’s property. What “Radar” moments have you had that tested your patience, and made you question the cloth some leaders are made from?

Q: Hey man, how’s your Burger King?

A: Honestly? This whopper is the quintessential burger!

Q: See that chick? Hot, huh?

A: Wow, she’s the quintessential smokin’ hot biscuit!

Q: Do you think OJ is guilty?

A: Oh yeah, he’s the quintessential guilty party.

Ahh, stop the madness! Surprisingly, this insanity is not singular to the sea-faring servicemen, and is shows no respect for person, rank, or branch of the military. The Army, I’ve learned, is equally susceptible to grammar abuse.

We in the Army have a propensity for turning every day, mundane tasks into feats of grandiose brilliance.

We also have the tendency to tell the world when we have completed the unbelievably difficult, time consuming, and heroic task of…..doing our job. We roll every single thing we do, every task we accomplish, and every possible mission into beautiful, but oh so overused, identifiers. So what wins the prize for the current flavor of the month, currently misused more than it should be?

Considering both the Army and Navy’s propensity for over-verboseness,   I propose the first in a series of grammatical retirements.

FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS

Yes, FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS means you can accomplish EVERYTHING you are SUPPOSED to accomplish. You have the capacity, the training, the resources, the ability, and the will to accomplish FULL SPECTRUM OPS (If I could add audio, FULL SPECTRUM OPS would be announced with a deep echoing voice….a pause….and an explosion). You aren’t going to accomplish partial spectrum ops, or intermittent spectrum ops, you are going to accomplish FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS. Why, exactly, do we use this term? Doesn’t FULL SPECTRUM OPS kind of smack of the “duh” factor?

FM 7-0 defines FULL SPECTRUM OPS as simultaneous offensive, defensive, and stability or civil support operations. As a doctrinal term, FULL SPECTRUM OPS has its place, although I once again point to the “duh” factor.

General XYZ: I’m sorry Mr. President, we only planned on conducting offensive operations, we never even thought of defensive operations, I mean…come one….two things at once?

But FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS has become so much more than a doctrinal term that describe 360 degree warfare. FULL SPECTRUM OPS is now the phrase de jour. The “in” term to use when describing your unit’s abilities, BDE through BN through Company to Platoon.

“Sir, we’re going to conduct a FULL SPECTRUM OPS FRG meeting. We’re going to have a Pot Luck, we’ll be having door prizes, we’ll put out some info, and we’ll make sure we put the signup sheets out, we really feel we need to hit FULL SPECTRUM OPS on this thing.”

Somehow, units that don’t even come close to having the capability to conduct actual FULL SPECTRUM OPS, are conducting them every day, in every possible mission set. I’ve been to numerous briefs where I’ve been told how such-and-such a unit is going to conduct FULL SPECTRUM OPS, when that unit has nowhere near the resources or know-how to do so. I’ve seen OERs that speak to an officer’s ability to conduct the FULL SPECTRUM OPS of his/her current position (Isn’t that really just doing your job…all of it?).

FULL SPECTRUM OPERATIONS has officially spilled over from the ranks of relevant doctrinal Army-speak (I’ll throw one last “duh” into the fray) into this quagmire we call nonsensical Army lingo, and therefore, must hitherto be retired. To steal a phrase from my Navy days, as we watch FULL SPECTRUM OPS go off into the setting sun,

“Fair Winds and Following Seas.”

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What military terms have you heard that should be retired to the grammar graveyard?