Her eldest son, an Army Staff Sergeant at the time, went overseas in service to our great nation and wrote back home telling her that some of the guys in his artillery battery didn’t have anyone writing them or sending them care packages. If you’ve been overseas, you know how common a story that is. How many of your brothers and sisters don’t have someone back on the home front reminding them they’re loved and how thankful they are for their service, there’s just… nothing.

This didn’t sit well with Patti, at all. So our hero did what people of action do, she got some friends and family together, got the names of the guys who weren’t getting any mail, and started writing and sending this nation’s soldiers care packages.

Still the stories kept coming.

There were always more service members who didn’t have mail, or care packages, or the feeling that someone back home cares, a feeling that as any combat vet will tell you is absolutely paramount. And what about our wounded warriors in places like Landstuhl Germany or Walter Reed or Bethesda? What about families at the Fisher Houses around the country, everyone at BAMC in San Antonio, the Naval Hospitals up and down the West Coast?

Patti and her small band decided that more needed to be done. Through the help of the World Wide Web Patti started realizing that she wasn’t the only person that had a deep seated desire to serve the troops overseas, and that she wasn’t the only person to see the need. A simple act of kindness and care sparked into an idea to do more, and the fire started to burn hot.

Patti and her rapidly growing band of patriots and supporters of the troops overseas started to get donations of money, gear and toiletries. People started to offer other services like quilt making or baking for the troops. It kept growing and Patti was at the front of the charge every step of the way. It grew and it grew. In 2004 her organization officially got 501(c)(3) non-profit status, and the modern version of Soldier’s Angels was born. As of 2008, the last time they released any data, there are over 200,000 Soldier’s Angels volunteers around the world. Men and women empowered and totally committed to the simplest, yet unbelievably powerful, mission statement:

May no soldier go unloved.
May no soldier walk alone.
May no soldier be forgotten,
Until they all come home.

Soldier’s Angels has over twenty active programs including letter writing, care package sharing, quilt making, baking for the wounded and their families, computers for the wounded (through Valor-IT, which our good buddy Matt Bernard helps out on), getting airline miles and travel arranged for the families of the wounded, and a host of other things. At the forefront of all of this is Patti Patton-Bader. She’s not only the founder but she’s also the President of Soldier’s Angels to this day. If you noticed the Patton part of her last name and wondered, she is related to the late General. She’s his niece. After spending five minutes with her there will be no doubt in your mind the Patton family’s fighting spirit is alive and well in his niece.

Patti, you’re so much more than a hero to so many people, even if you’ll never see it that way. Thousands upon thousands of service members have been given joy and a brief respite from the battle field because of you and your leadership of one of the most fantastic service teams ever assembled. The dozens upon dozens of Solder’s Angels volunteers we have worked with all have your same infectious smile on their face, and all will do whatever they can to help our fighting men and women. Just like you they all help for nothing more than the belief in it being the right thing to do.

Patti is also the first Hero I’ve written about that I’ve also met. Within twenty minutes of this being published she will probably send me a Facebook message or call me on the phone to tell me that I’m out of my mind for doing this and that Nick and I are crazy to think of her like this. Patti, that’s just not the case.

For the thousands of troops you have touched, for the tens of thousands of letters and care packages and hundreds of thousands of smiles you have brought to the faces of our nation’s warriors, thank you from the bottom of our collective hearts.

There’s an old saying that says everything happens in three’s. If that’s the case, douchebags of the world, please stay the hell away from Nick. You don’t want to be the third troll to try and pick an unprovoked fight, or if you are- just remember I told ya so.

The strange and curious case of d-bag number two started on a perfect early summer night. Team Rhino fighter (and resident hottie) Jordan McDonald had just won via 1st round TKO, the after party was awesome, Nick and our buddy Rob were properly socially lubricated, and even though I’d drawn DD duty, I got to drive Rob’s M-3, top down, chilling out, and Rob encouraging me to rip it through the gear box. Life is good.

Enter the toolbags.

Sitting at a red light in downtown Myrtle Beach I hear a voice behind us.

“Hey fuckers, yeah you, you fuckers, you want to fucking go?”

I turn to see a Civic full of drunks, one of which is leaning out of the back car window to yell at us. Why is he yelling at us? None of us have any idea. We had not seen this gentleman all night, nor did we know him or anyone else in the car, he just thought it was a good idea to yell. “Yeah you! Fuckers, let’s fucking go!”

“BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! WHAT?!” Rob busts out, laughing the drunken cackle of a man who cannot believe a perfect stranger would utter such words for no reason.

Since Tackett and I had been working covert Ranger Ops in Vegas let me take a moment to ask the question, what is it in the water these days that makes the youth of America think this is a good idea? Has the bulk of plant Earth totally, completely lost situational awareness and perspective on when it’s a good idea to fight?

We didn’t say anything to these guys, they are in a car behind us and we had never seen them before in our entire lives but yet this dude starts flapping his gums. Oh and the car you just started yelling at has two Army Rangers and a guy who has Brock Lesnar’s mass and twice his aggression when it’s go time. Genius idea assclowns.

Rob’s completely justified laughter only spurs more shit talking from our new acquaintance. The light changes and their car speeds off. Sober and wanting nothing to do with a car of drunken morons, I give them a little distance before putting the car in gear and heading down the street after them. Unfortunately, the next light is red.

They stop.

I stop behind them.

The car door opens. Shit talker’s friend gets out of the car, at a stop light, at 2am, on a major street in Myrtle Beach, SC.

“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath.

“What the fuck?” Nick says from the back seat. The buddy starts walking towards our car.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, stopping right in front of Nick’s position in the back seat, driver’s side.

“Seriously, are you fucking serious?!” Nick asks the now slightly perplexed guy. Nick shakes his head, let’s out a heavy sigh and in an oddly calm and low voice cuts right to the chase: “I think this is really fucking dumb, but if you guys want to fight then I will get out of the car and fight you all right now.” It was the kind of deadpan response that said, “This may be Myrtle Beach, and we may be from out of town, but we are not your dad’s golf buddies.”

Shit Talker’s friend, his bluff completely called, turned to look at me.
“No one is fighting anyone,” I calmly tell him. “Your buddy talked shit, we laughed at him for it, that’s it. Now go back and get in your car,” I finish with my “don’t fuck with me, I’m an NCO” voice on full display. Rob starts giggling.

Shit talker hangs his head, and without another word of any kind, heads back to his car, jumps in, and they speed off. Nick finally erupts.

“What the fuck is it?” He asks Rob and me. “Is there some sign on me that says ‘fuck with me,’ really? I swear to God the next retarded motherfucker who tries to start shit with me for no fucking reason is getting pounded! I’m sick of this shit!!!”

Somewhere lurking, is douchebag #3. When we will run into you and what mutant form of popped collar, self entitled, drunken lunatic fringed, basket case you will be – I’m not sure. I do know, however, that messing with the 5’8” by 5’8” Italian in the Ranger Up shirt with a shit eating grin on his face is the last thing you want to do. So, honey bunny, as the great Samuel Jackson once said “Bitch be cool.”

The Dumb Ass Chronicles: Tempting the Mighty Gods of War

“Hey Doc,” I said uncoiling the string on the pyro I’d just pulled from its stock cardboard packaging.  “I’m about to do something dumb and you won’t be able to stop me, so don’t even try.”

“Yeah, like I could fucking stop you even if you hadn’t said that,” Doc T growled wearily at me as I finished putting on my gloves.

I looked up at him with a wicked, knowing little smile on my face as I finished getting the simulator ready to go.

* * *

In hindsight there is part of me that is amazed I can still type what happened next while looking at my computer screen with both of my eyes.  Never mind hear the gloriousness that is Lizzy Hale’s voice coming through my headphones.  Usually, when one taunts the Gods of War in such a brazen and callous way he ends up in the hospital or worse, as opposed to simply a weeklong shaving profile.

It’s like pissing on a rain turtle in March at Ft. Lewis, WA while calling the Rain God a pussy on the only partly sunny day you’d seen in the two weeks you’d been out in the field.  You know that it’s going to pour rain as soon as that last drop of piss hits the ground, because your insolence demands it.  There are some things you just don’t do.

As I was uncoiling the method of my own destruction, I wasn’t thinking that way.  I was too busy reveling in another field problem being done.  Enjoying the tired haggard looks on my students’ faces from my latest operations plan.  Too proud, too confident I’d been there, done that.  Too tired myself to notice I was holding a mine simulator booby trap and not a detection “whistler” noise-making device.

I had done this dozens of times before with whistlers. At the end of our field problem all pyro must be expended and rather than take the five minutes to rig all the leftovers up to something, spool out the wire and detonate, we just grabbed the fuckers and threw them as we pulled the string.  It takes a whistler about a second and a half to activate, more than enough time for it to hit the ground a safe distance away from you.  Whistlers are all white.  The pyro tube I was holding in my hand was yellow with a white top.  What had I been telling my students for the past two weeks? Oh yeah “attention to detail,” that’s right.

“You sure about this?” JJ, a fellow instructor, asked me. I just smiled the same “I’m invincible” smile that Bellerophon must have had on his face as he mounted Pegasus and tried to ride to Mt. Olympus.  I grabbed the end of the string firmly, lowered the end of the pyro tube towards the ground, and pulled the string.

Click!

I heard the click and two things happened as fast as my synapses could make them so.  I turned my head the other way and thought:

SHIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!

BOOM!

The booby trap went off about six inches from my hand and two feet from my face.  I stumbled back as my ears rang and eyes watered.  My nose felt I’d just gotten done sparring with my old Muay Thai coach when I wouldn’t listen to him about covering up after throwing a hook to the body.  The whole experience reminded me of the time I was a private and my Spc-4, Goldsworthy, had thrown a flash bang at my feet without telling me about it.  I hadn’t liked eating that banger, and I certainly wasn’t a fan of what I’d just done to myself.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  You jackass!”  JJ said from on top of the wall, laughing so hard that he almost fell off.  “You should see yourself right now!”  He choked out, trying to keep his balance.  “You, (smirk) should, AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”  He gasped before finally giving up and just continued laughing.

“God damn it,” I said wiping my fingers across my upper lip, confirming the blood trickling out of my nose.  “Doc you got any ice?”

“HOLY SHIT Sargent!  You’re bleedin pretty good!”  One of my students told me as he rushed over, staring incredulously.  The look begging to know why the hell I thought that had been a good idea.

“I’m fucking fine, go away.  I just need some ice,” I snarled, ignoring the pleading eyes of my PFC.

“No, first you need to get that cleaned out, and all I have is alcohol swabs,” Doc T told me with a smug, satisfied, smirk.

“Come here.”

“That sting?”  Doc asked as I winced as he ran the first swab across the gash on my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I growled, determined to not let the sting show anymore, but failing miserably.

“Good,” Doc T told me smirking as some of my students started to crowd around.  “I’m going to have to do this at least twice to each.”

There’s a lesson to be learned here, I think…something about safety maybe?  I vow to never do that again…to be an example.  Hold on, one of my instructors is on the phone…there’s some extra C4!

Be right back!

[View with PicLens]

 

Tim and Tommy Do Best Ranger

 “You ready to go?”  Tim asked me as we climbed into his little white car.  It’s the last car you’d expect an SF guy to drive, let alone an SF guy that is one of the top 185lb mixed martial artists in the world.
 
 
“Yeah sure,” I said with a slight yawn.  “Let’s do this.”
 
 
This was the Best Ranger Competition, the greatest military endurance race in the world.  It’s been compared to the Eco-challenge or an Ironman triathlon, but both events pale in comparison.  For 60+ hours the 48 two-man teams have to shoot, ruck, navigate, climb, run, and jump their way through one of the most sadistic and grueling series of trials ever to cross a Ranger’s mind.  If that wasn’t bad enough the pre-requisite for this crucible of pain and suffering was the successful completion of Ranger School.  You had to have survived that 62-day kick in the nuts just think about doing it.  Of course the first topic Tim and I discussed was how much we want to compete in Best Ranger some day.  Hey, we’ve never claimed to be smart. 
 
 

We highlighted that fact by leaving from Ft. Bragg at 2230 the night before Best Ranger started.  It would begin at 0600 the following morning.  “We should make it right when it starts,” Tim confidently intoned on the phone that morning.

 
“You know we could just leave this afternoon, dude,” I pointed out.
 “I have to train for my fight,” was what I got in response.  Images of being used as Tim’s punching bag that weekend because he was pent up and angry at his lack of training flashed through my mind.  Morning person or not, I was suddenly very cool with leaving in the middle of the night.

 “Also,” Tim told me as we started driving.  “I’m not allowed to eat crap food, and you’re going to make sure I don’t.” 
 “You’re twice the size of me and a professional fighter.  What, exactly, am I going to be able to make you do, Tim?” 
 “I’m not allowed to eat crap, Tommy.” Tim reiterated.   This new responsibility was immediately tested when we pulled into a South Carolina gas station for gas and caffeine. 

 Tim went right for the nut raisin mix and “good snacks.”  I got zingers, two hot dogs, and Cool Ranch Doritos. 

 
 “That’s not very nice,” Tim told me as we got into the car, my mouth full of a delicious Ball Park Frank.  “Inside of me is a fat kid just busting to get out. That’s why I have to be really careful of what I eat.”

 “Is that why after they retire all fighters get fat for a little bit?”  I asked him as I took a bite out of my first Zinger, ignoring the look of lust on his face.

 “Yes,” Tim said simply as I stuffed anotherfatty, sugary concoction in my mouth.  He did not look amused.

 “I always wondered about that,” I said, finishing off the first Zinger and moving to the second in the pack.  Hey, I didn’t have a fight coming up.

 About 2:30am I racked out for about an hour and a half, only to wake up in the ghetto.  Not a bad area of town, not a “lower class” residential area, the flat out ghetto. Complete with a sleazy motel that appeared to have at least two working girls walking men into upstairs rooms and the homeless guys coming up to the car to ask for change.

 “Your turn to drive,” Tim says smiling and hopping out of the car, not caring where we are.

 An oddity of everyone in the Ranger Up universe is that we all drive manual transmission vehicles, and Tim is no different.  What is different about Tim’s car is that the top of his shifter isn’t in anyway secured to the rest of the shift lever. 

“What the hell?”  I asked out loud as the black knob was suddenly no longer able to assist me in shifting to 2nd gear.

 “Yeah, it does that,” Tim remarked as he quickly fixed the problem.  “Oh, and Tommy,” he told me as he reclined the seat a little more and stretched out. “I accidentally opened your Red Bull when you were asleep and drank it.  Night.”

Ass. Hole.

 We arrived at the Ranger Training Brigade looking and feeling like zombies at exactly 0600, right when the competition was beginning.  We linked up with Mike and Candyass (pronounce Can-dis, not candy-ass, weirdos) who are in charge of running the event and dealing with sponsors like us.  The hooked us up with a schedule and packet of info.  We were told that the competition had just started, with a run in body armor instead of the tradition al PT test to kick it off.  The run was going to end at the start of the Darby Queen obstacle course, another traditionally early event in the competition. 

 Damn, they look tired already.  I thought as I watched the first two teams come down the chute at the end of the first event.  The course must have been muddy and extremely wet judging by the uniforms and mud splattered numbers of the contestants.  With barely one event done it was clear that Best Ranger was already living up to its reputation as a suckfest.  It seemed like barely ten minutes past before the teams that had just done a buddy body armor run were getting lined up, sans body armor, and getting ready to run the Darby Queen obstacle course.  Many already looking tired and displaying the “you’ve got to be kidding me” look on their faces. 

 We also linked up with Uncle Jimbo and Matt from Blackfive.net, who were down at the competition to film and do some reporting for the website.  While this meant that they got to go places in and around the competition that mere mortals and a “VIP, Sponsor” like Tim or I could not, it also meant that they had to walk around with the pink brand of a media credential around there neck. 

 “I have to keep telling all the guys we aren’t your typical press weasels,” Matt told us about two minutes into talking to him at the Darby Queen.  “And pink, really?  Pink?”  Matt said shaking his head. Press 0 Rangers 1
At the starting point of the Darby Queen we had the privilege of running into Ranger Regiment’s Special Troops Battalion Chaplain, Jeff Struecker. 

“I have to go shake his hand,” Tim said when he saw him standing off to the side.   I completely concurred.
Now, if you don’t know the name and/or you are scoffing at that, Google him right now.  Seriously.

Jeff (and he has told me repeatedly over the years to call him that, which is the only reason I’m not writing Chaplain Struecker) is a literal living legend of bad assness going all the way back to the Ranger assaults into Panama in 1989.  His military accomplishments read like something out of a Hollywood script and the stories that I’ve been told about him from men that served with him when he was still kicking down doors are the stuff that would get rejected by Hollywood as unbelievable, which is fine with him. 

Jeff loves his Rangers and all the soldiers he has the chance to come in contact with more than anyone can imagine and is one of the nicest people I have ever met, and (oh yeah) also won Best Ranger in 1996.  He was out to cheer on the seven teams from the 75th Ranger Regiment and went so far as to get all the guys that were watching the event from Regimental headquarters run alongside the teams as they went through the final portion of the Obstacle course.  There have been many Chaplains in my chain of command, and frankly many of them I’ve just put up with because I felt like I had to.  That is definitely not the case with Jeff.  He is one of the best people I have ever had the privilege of meeting.  No matter what your religious preference (or lack there of) he is an awesome human being and a man anyone on the planet would be proud to associate with, unless it’s the guys his Ranger’s are tryin to kill. 

He was also gracious enough to do an interview with the guys from Blackfive.  You should definitely take a second to see if they’ve posted it yet, it’s well worth the time. 

As the Darby Queen wrapped up Tim turned to me and said, “I’m hungry.”  It wasn’t what he said, or even how he said it.  It was the look in his eyes.  The one that seemed to say “if we don’t find me food or aren’t at least moving towards it in 10 seconds, I’m going to eat you whole.”  Tim told me that in order to keep his training up at a high level he has to consume 4,000 calories a day, and apparently we were failing at that mission.  A massive Cracker Barrel breakfast later and it was out to the weapons ranges for machine guns, moving targets, and the first of two stress shoots for the competition.  The Best Ranger committee threw a fun wrinkle into this year by making the weapons for the moving target range M-1 Garand rifles instead of the M-4’s.  I thought it was a cool little twist, but judging by the amount of misses I’m not sure that the competitors thought that. 

At the machine gun range I also ran into one of my RIP (Ranger Indoctrination Program) TACs tailgating and waiting for the 75th teams to shoot.  I only wish I’d had the idea first.

Following the shooting events it was day land navigation and the always-brutal 18 mile  Russ Rippetoe Memorial foot march for the competitiors, and a nap and the welcome event (complete with free beer) for Tim and I.  Tim can’t drink – this whole training for a fight thing again – so I drank for him.  I gave it my all until the keg was floated.  We had the privilege of talking to the family members of those who started the Best Ranger Competition, men who served and fought during D-day, Korea and Vietnam among other places.  

The following day we headed over to the Army Combatives School so Tim could work out with his fellow Ranger up fighters Damien Stelly and Andrew Chappelle.  Also there was the Godfather of Modern Army Combatives, Matt Larsen, who also runs the gym. 

You will, however, have to tune in next week to find out about what happened- it is a story in its own right.  Complete with me getting the shit kicked out of me, Nick being Nick (even if he was 500 miles away) and all sorts of other Ranger Up insanity.
A pit stop to get Tim fed and we were back out at the Best Ranger Competition for the day stakes.  At the end of the first day the field had been whittled down to 29 teams with SFC Blake Simms and SFC Chad Stackpole of 4th Ranger Training Brigade in the lead by 29 points over US Army Special Operations Command team, and former winners, MSG Walter Zajkowski and MSG Daniel Jenkins.  MSG Zajkowski won in 2007 and MSG Jenkins took home the title in 2002.  My boys in the 75th Ranger Regiment were in 4th and 5th place and trying to catch the 3rd place team of MSG Eric Turk and SGM Jesse Boettcher, who were also from US Army Special Operations Command.    While some competitors were wilting, SFC Stackpole and SFC Simms seemed like they were just getting started.  Seeming to get stronger as the competition was going, they set the standard for the Day Stakes and powered on through the night land navigation lanes. 

Tim and I, however, were powering up to go to the bar, the glorious Ranger institution that is Scruffy Murphy’s in downtown Columbus, GA.  You are told as a Ranger private that if you and your Ranger buddy are ever in trouble you should yell “Ranger down!” and help was on the way.  If you ever yelled “Ranger down!” in Scruffy Murphy’s odds are you’d end up having the guys from B-CO 3rd Ranger Battalion fighting the A-CO 4th Ranger Training Brigade instructors, and heaven help the newly minted 21 year old specialist from 3rd ID if he got caught in the mix.  It is one of the few places on planet Earth that there are Budweiser “welcome home” signs that have a Ranger Scroll on them, seriously.

Tim and I linked back up with Matt and Jimbo, already two pints of Guinness into the night when we arrived (good for them) when Jimbo handed me his phone.

 “Hey here’s what Nick just sent me,” he cackled.  I took his phone and read:

 If Tommy passes out, shave him clean. Nick.

 Awesome, thanks Nick.

 A quick pint of Guinness in my hand and the night was ready to begin.  Some of Tim’s friends showed up and as they were all sitting around B.S.ing I was talking with Matt and Jimbo, when she walked in.

 This girl exists in every bar across America.  She will do anything for attention, anything – up to and including walking around in horrifically bad, two sizes too small pink lingerie like it was a dress, pink argyle socks and black fishnet gloves like Madonna wore back in the early 80’s.  She’ll do this, mind you, even though she looks like a troll and hobbit got together and produced offspring.  She’s the girl that if you see your men out at the same bar you go over to tell and tell them they will be doing PT with you at 6am the following morning if you see them even so much as talking to her.  Then you reiterate the need to always be at MOPP level- 4 because, well, they’re privates and you know better.   In short, she’s the one person you hope would just go away.  But she never does, she just churns through the bar like a tornado. 

 “What the fuck is that thing?”  I couldn’t help but blurt out when she walked in, hands over head and 90% of her bra showing from under the cheap lingerie and loud enough that I could hear every word that came out of her mouth over the live band.

 “Oh man, what the hell?”  Matt said next to me, turning away from the train wreck that had just walked through the door.  I, on the other hand, turned to the group of girls that seemed to be talking to her on friendly terms.

 “Ok, I’m sorry to have to do this because I know it’s what she wants, but what the fuck is up with your friend?”  I asked the girl closest to me.

 “Oh she’s not my friend!”  The girl told me, her look clearly expressing distain and disgust.  “I have no idea what she’s doing, she just came up to us and talked to us.”

 “Got ya,” I said as I turned back to Matt.  “I bet her mother was a meth addict or something, cause dude- that’s just horrific.”  Matt just smirked.

A nice person just lets it go at this point.  They accept that there are people in the world like that and that’s all there is to it.   I’m not that person.

 “Hey,” I said walking up to her by way of greeting.  “Does your mother know that you’re out here tonight like this?  Seriously, don’t you think that it’d worry her a little bit that you forgot your clothes?”

 “I don’t care about my Mom, she’s an asshole,” Pinky told me.  I couldn’t help but wonder where The Brain was.

 “I hate to quibble, but wouldn’t your Mom technically be a bitch, if anything?”  I asked.  “I mean I don’t know but that just seems like it would fit better, even if I do think you’re being a bit harsh on Mom on the eve of mother’s day.”

 “My Mom’s a crackhead, I could give a fuck what she thinks.”  Pinky said turning away and prancing away towards a new group of people.

 “I guessed the wrong drug,” I told Matt as I found my way back to my barstool.  “It was crack, not meth.”

 The night settled into an ok time of having a beer and chilling with friends, when I felt an arm around my shoulders.  I started to turn to see who it was when I got flash banged from a camera going off.  As the cobwebs cleared from my head I see Matt smirking from behind his camera phone and Pinky scurrying off.  Thanks, Matt (asshole).

 The night resumed its laid back vibe of hanging out with friends and telling stories about the stupid things you’ve done in your life.  Tim, who went to SF as part of the 18X “SF baby” program, met a kid “Z” who had just graduated basic and was headed to Airborne school and then SFAS.  Good dude, and after being told Tim holds just about every record there is for an SF baby remarked, “that’s cool, I’m going to beat them.”

 “I like you, good luck, and you don’t have a prayer.”  Tim told him. 

Day three found us late to the helocast event.  Tim’s phone was supposed to be the alarm clock, but he mis-set it and we woke up late.  When we arrived and checked the board the team of SFC Stackpoole and SFC Simms had the competition all but locked up, firmly in the driver’s seat.  A link up with some friends and a double-checking of the standings, coupled with an 8-hour drive and the decision was made that it was time to go.  As we drove back we got a text confirming the winners.

 Congratulations to SFC Blake Simms and SFC Chad Stackpole of 4th Ranger Training Brigade for an almost wire to wire win in the most arduous military competition in the world, Best Ranger!  Congratulations are also in order for MSG Walter Zajkowski and MSG Daniel Jenkins, who placed second, and a team of my boys, Sgt. Michael A. Malchow and Sgt. Jesse A. Collins, of the 75th Ranger Regiment fought on to the Ranger objective and placed 3rd.   Below is a list of the 24 teams that completed the competition.  For something like Best Ranger that is one hell of an accomplishment in and of itself.

RLTW!!!

1st – Team 21 with 2,483 points – Sgt. 1st Class Blake A. Simms and Sgt. Chad E.W. Stackpole, 4th Ranger Training Battalion, Ranger Training Brigade, Fort Benning, Ga.

2nd – Team 22 with 2,396 points – Master Sgt. Walter J. Zajkowski and Master Sgt. Daniel E. Jenkins, U.S. Army Special Operations Command, Fort Bragg, N.C.

3rd – Team 7 with 2,165 points – Sgt. Michael A. Malchow and Sgt. Jesse A. Collins, 75th Ranger Regiment.

4th – Team 8 with 2,151 points – Staff Sgt. Brandon K. Farmer and Staff Sgt. Luke R. McDowell, 75th Ranger Regiment.

5th – Team 31 with 2,138 points – Staff Sgt. Michael C. Mutchie and Staff Sgt. Miguel A. Antia, 4th Ranger Training Battalion, Ranger Training Brigade, Fort Benning, Ga.

6th – Team 46 with 2,094 points – Capt. Samuel E. Linn and 1st Sgt. Robert F. Carter, 5th Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division.

7th – Team 23 with 2,050 points – Sgt. Maj. Jesse D. Boettcher and Master Sgt. Eric J. Turk, U.S. Army Special Operations Command, Fort Bragg, N.C.

8th – Team 29 with 1,976 points – Sgt. Jeremy K. Billing and Cpl. Troy V. Jenkins, 75th Ranger Regiment.

9th – Team 43 with 1,970 points – 1st Lt. Thomas M. Halverson and Michael J. Luth, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division.

10th – Team 27 with 1,920 points – Staff Sgt. Benjamin C. Hunter and Staff Sgt. Ian B. Hunter, 75th Ranger Regiment.

11th – Team 16 with 1,904 points – Staff Sgt. Raylan J. Heck and Staff Sgt. Adam J. Angisanio, 6th Ranger Training Battalion, Ranger Training Brigade, Camp Rudder, Fla.

12th – Team 33 with 1,864 points – 1st Lt. Chris S. Migliaro and Sgt. 1st Class Jordan A. Martell, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division.

13th – Team 24 with 1,863 points – Maj. Jose D. Salinas and Maj. Edward A. Sedlock, 199th Infantry Regiment, Fort Benning, Ga.

14th – Team 17 with 1,852 points – Sgt. Edward F. Killmeier and Spc. Michael E. Pierce, 75th Ranger Regiment.

15th – Team 20 with 1,779 points – Maj. Pete S. Kranenburg and Sgt. 1st Class John S. Przytulski, 1st Special Warfare Training Group.

16th – Team 26 with 1,735 points – Capt. Ronald L. Garberson and Capt. Anthony B. Aguilar, U.S. Army Special Operations Command, Fort Bragg, N.C.

17th – Team 49 with 1,638 points – Sgt. 1st Class Mark E. Breyak and Sgt. 1st Class Steve W. Fields, Special Warfare Center Noncommissioned Officer Academy.

18th – Team 5 with 1,592 points – Sgt. 1st Class Derek G. Wise and Sgt. David M. Paul, 25th Infantry Division.

19th – Team 14 with 1,554 points – Capt. Stephen P. Magennis and Capt. Todd M. Tompkins, Maneuver Captains Career Course, 199th Infantry Regiment.

20th – Team 45 with 1,534 points – Capt. Lloyd B. Wohlschlegel and 1st Lt. Raymond A. Kuderka, 25th Infantry Division.

21st – Team 38 with 1,516 points – 1st Lts. Anthony J. Kivlehan and Alex B. Armstrong, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division.

22nd – Team 35 with 1,492 points – Capt. David M. Cochrane and Staff Sgt. Anthony L. Fuentes, 6th Ranger Training Battalion, Ranger Training Brigade, Camp Rudder, Fla.

23rd – Team 28 with 1,310 points – Capt. Robert B. Killian and 1st Lt. Grant R. Barge, 10th Mountain Division.

24th – Team 34 with 1,297 points – 1st Lt. Lauren A. Gore and 1st Lt. Benjamin R. Juvinall, 4th Brigade, 1st Infantry Division.

Standing on the Cliffs of Pointe Du Hoc

by

Tommy Batboy

One of the first books I remember reading as a child was from a series of books on World War II. I was seven or eight and I picked the book because even as a child war fascinated me, and the title was simple: D-Day. Twenty years later, as I got out of the Eurovan in a recently paved asphalt parking lot, I thought of that book again for some reason.

“Just down that path and to the right are the cliffs, I’ll be waiting here for you,” my driver told me.

“Thank you,” I said a little nervously. After years of wanting to see it, after all the stories my old squad leader had told me, all the reading, and the privilege of talking to some of the battles survivors; I was about to go stand on the cliffs of Point Du Hoc.

If you where a Private in the 75th Ranger Regiment, you grew up knowing about Point Du Hoc. If you were a private in 2nd Ranger Battalion you learned it the way Catholic grammar school children learn the Bible. On D-day the men of 2nd Ranger Battalion drew one the hardest missions of the invasion: Scale the sheer and unprotected cliff faces of Point Du Hoc to destroy the captured French 155mm artillery pieces – the big guns that could rain hell on both the Omaha and Utah landing beaches – the guns that could jeopardize the success or failure of the Normandy landings. The mission was equally impossible and critical and its success hinged on Colonel James Rudder’s 225 men. They were equipped with ladders borrowed from the London fire department and ropes with grappling hooks.

Tommy Batboy at Point Du Hoc

The mission started poorly. The land craft got mixed up and the Germans spotted the Americans on their way to the cliffs. When they got there, they had to scale the cliffs under heavy fire. The Germans were putting grenades in mason jars before dropping them, using the glass to increase shrapnel and lethality. Firing straight down at the men at the base of the cliffs as they climbed proved incredibly lethal. 225 men started; by the end of the two-day mission only 90 were fit to fight.

In the time that it took me to walk 150 meters, I’d be standing where these proud and brave men had fought, and where many of them had died. An eerie feeling of the past settled over me. I started to walk down the path and towards the cliffs. Rounding the corner and coming face to face with the bunker complex was surreal. Unlike many of the battlefields of World War II that have been paved over or converted to tourist traps, the French government has left Point Du Hoc unchanged. 65 years later there are still 5 foot or deeper gouges in the Earth where American Naval fire or German counter battery fell. Even with all the effects from the rain and wind and weather, sixty-five years later the Earth still looks horribly scarred from the events of that day. If you stare closely you can see where American and German rifle fire chipped away at the reinforced concrete on some of the bunkers. Written in rusty, twisted rebar, cold crumbling concrete and a cratered surface similar to that of the moon, you can see the ugliness of what D-day was for those brave men.

A ringing cry shook me from my daze, turning to my left I saw a group of French teenagers, who appeared to be on a field trip, running up one side of a shell crater and out the other, playing grab ass in hopes of impressing the girls that were along on the tour.

I got very angry for a second. Remembering how The Weid, my first squad leader in 2nd Battalion, took our squad through the battle on a dry

The Barbed wire and concertina wire still sit at Point du Hoc.

erase board in the squad room. I remember him explaining that once the Rangers made it up the cliffs they found nothing but logs where the guns should be. The German Army, fearing Allied aerial bombing had moved the guns in-land. Even despite the bad and the rapidly mounting German counter attack the men of 2nd Battalion still fought on, found the guns a mile and a half inland, and completed the mission. I started thinking about meeting two of the men who’d climbed the cliff when I was at the Ranger Hall of Fame Ceremony in 2004, hearing one tell us about watching his friends get shot off the ropes as they climbed – telling us there was nothing to do but to just keep climbing. I was amazed at the matter-of-fact way he said it, and wondered if I could have been half as brave if it had been me on that rope going up the cliffs. The area is listed as a graveyard on the French registry, to see kids disrespect it like that was not an easy pill to swallow.

A deep breath later I started to move towards the cliff faces themselves. Fifteen feet or so from the cliffs there is a fence with signs written in both French and English telling you to stay back for your safety. “They didn’t serve in 2nd Bat,” I told my friend as I hopped right over the fence and marched towards the barbed wire ringing the cliff face, undoubtedly meant to keep people like me from getting right up on the edge. I walked right up the to wire, found a spot that got me just a couple of inches closer and leaned.

“Oh my God,” I muttered, watching the waves crash against the base of the cliffs below me. There is nothing, nothing to protect a man as he climbed. It is as sheer and steep a cliff face as I’ve ever seen. To say these men had no protection but the covering fire from the landing craft is a gross understatement. The moment I looked down I understood why so many men died in training on the Isle of Wright.

I understood even more deeply than I had before why the 6th stanza of the Ranger Creed is “Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission, though I be the lone survivor. Ranger’s lead the way!” Through all the adversity, all the hell, through the rifle fire and the grenades, the glass and, even the heavy boulders thrown their way; the men of the 2nd Ranger Battalion climbed. They knew that their buddies were dying and were scared that they might be next, but still they climbed – hoping at least one of them would make it to the top to complete the mission.

Never in my life have I felt so humbled as I did in that moment.

Still standing concrete bunker at Point du Hoc

After taking some pictures and walking around I climbed back over the fence. I walked through the bunkers. I walked around and in the craters. Feeling the chilly, brisk early spring breeze on my face, I stared out into the English Channel, dreary and gray with low clouds that reduced visibility. I wondered what it must have been like to ride in those landing craft, pondering just how much the men that had ridden in them knew. I marveled at the bravery and strength of character a man must possess to take that ride. I wondered what Colonel Rudder would say about my generation of Rangers, and hoped that he’d think we were living up to the standards his men had set on this spot. Standing on the cliffs of Pointe Du Hoc I said a silent prayer of thanks for the sacrifices of Col. Rudder and his men.

“What time is it?” My friend asked me quietly.

“It’s time to go,” I said, checking my watch and turning back towards the path that led to the parking lot.

We walked slowly back towards the van as I looked around the top of the cliff and then back into the English Channel. I was thoroughly humbled by the courage of conviction it must have taken my forefathers to take in the same view on that fateful day in June so many years ago.

RLTW.

by

Tommy Batboy

My heart dropped when the “breaking news” chime on my computer went off. The headline read “Airliner Crashes Into Hudson River.” If I was amazed after the seeing the headline, it was nothing compared to the first sentence – none dead, only a few passengers and crew injured, and they were already on their way to the hospital. How on Earth was this possible? I thought shaking my head. An airplane crash-landed onto the river in New York City proper and everyone is okay? 

That doesn’t happen on accident.

The AP said the tale of US Airways flight 1549 was one “of luck and heroism,” you can take the luck away from this story. The men and women on that flight owe their lives to Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger and his amazing crew aboard the airplane that day.

As the story continues to get discussed, people continue to focus on the luck involved. Yes, they say that Sullenberger’s actions were heroic, but there is a sentiment that that it was really the luck that saved the day – that this was a one in a million type of thing. The guys at Ranger Up and most of you out there aren’t big believers in luck, because Lady Luck, my friends, favors the well-prepared. Whenever someone mentions that the situation was lucky, please tell them to dig a little deeper into this story and learn about the man who saved the lives of 150 people that day. We’d argue that the only luck involved here was that Captain Sullenberger was the man behind the controls.

Well before Captain Sullenberger sat down in that ill-fated cockpit on 15 January, he had graduated at the top of his aviator class at the Air Force Academy. He flew F-4’s before moving on to fly for US Airways, which he’d done for 29 years prior to that day. In that long and decorated career he devoted himself to becoming a subject matter expert in all facets of his job, mastering such skills as glider landings. He devoted himself to studying how pilots and crews react in moments of crisis. He put the hours in the simulators. He stayed at the cutting edge of training. He knew what was at stake if he should ever fail. Long before he ever found himself in the middle of a crisis, he’d spent years preparing for such an event.

Then the day came.

With perfect poise he put his wealth of training to use and executed a flawless emergency glider landing. He was so in control of the situation that he had the presence of mind to land the plane in the section of the river that would facilitate the easiest transport of the passengers and crew to hospitals and treatment centers. Once the plane hit the water, the crew got everyone off the crippled aircraft like a well-oiled machine. Smoothly and carefully the doors were opened, the boats were deployed and the passengers exited from the plane. Finally, after everyone was off the plane Captain Sullenburger walked up and down aisle, twice, just to be sure no one was left on board.

That is not lucky. Nor is it a miracle or any of the number of things people are trying to make it out to be. It was the culmination of decisive actions by a leader refusing to fail at his mission. It was what happens when a person spends his or her life always striving to get better and refusing to compromise. It was heroic. Everyone at Ranger Up has been more and more amazed by Captain Sullenberger the more we find out about him. Not just by his actions last week, but also by the lifetime of vigilance he exhibited – by the hours he’s spent getting ready, just in case. He never let his guard down.

Captain Sullenberger is the manifestation of the thing that all great NCOs and sports coaches have been telling us since as early as we can remember – the game isn’t won on game day – but on the practice field.

Thank you, Sir. Not only for keeping all those people on the plane and in the city safe, but for caring enough about the people under your command to prepare for the worst. You knew the day might come, and when it did, you stood ready.

by Nick, Tommy Batboy, and Garrett

There are three authors listed above – not because Tommy, Garrett and I enjoy writing together, but because we couldn’t remember all of the events and had to piece them together.

We also want to thank Ginger for all her help – we’d have written about her, but she told us she’d kill us if we did…

UFC at Fort Bragg

I cringe as I see Tommy whack Lorenzo Fertitta, the billionaire casino mogul and owner of the UFC on the back with an inappropriate amount of force, almost yelling something in the man’s face with Tommy’s normal crazy smile and childlike exuberance. That probably left a mark. I thought, horrified. I hadn’t been on the ground for more than five minutes, I hadn’t even been in the venue yet. We’re getting kicked out of this bitch before it even starts, aren’t we?

Hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The UFC just held their first event in the state of North Carolina and they did it in the coolest way possible – they put on a show for the troops at Fort Bragg as the only members of the audience. Even better, the proceeds from the event went to the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund (www.fallenheroesfund.org), an organization devoted to helping our combat veterans recover from brain trauma. Before we tell the tale we at Ranger Up want to thank the UFC, from the bottom of our hearts, for what they have done. Their efforts have already made a significant difference in the lives of many of our wounded comrades.

Ranger Up is on Board

There was abso-smurfly no way that the UFC was going to be in our backyard at Fort Bragg supporting the troops and Ranger Up not be involved. Originally, there was talk of Tim Kennedy fighting in the event, but his unit needed a man with his skillset for a “trip.” He put his guys before his MMA career faster than it takes the average person to form a thought. If anyone ever wonders why Ranger Up has Tim in the upper right hand corner of every page of our website – it’s because he makes decisions like that time and time again.

Still we had Brian Stann… until he was injured and wasn’t going to be able to fight. Suddenly, there weren’t going to be any Ranger Up fighters at the Fort Bragg event. Guess what? We were okay with that.

We’re not Tap Out. We aren’t competing for market share. We’re a small company that wants to be proud of the guys we put in the ring and we want to make sure our fans can feel the same way. We didn’t really know any of the other fighters personally, so we said screw it – no fighters. We then set about focusing on the one thing we were sure we could do well – throw a kickass party.

Call one was to a bad ass bar in downtown Fayetteville called Huske Hardware, owned and operated by our friend Tonia and a few ex-trigger pullers, the place is awesome. Two floors, great bar, great food, great service. It is the closest thing Fayetteville has to a Valhalla of merriment. They were happy to have us. Location is a GO.

Call two was by Tommy Batboy to our (now) friend Tucker Max (www.TuckerMax.com). If you don’t know who Tucker Max is, odds are you will either hate him or find him incredibly amusing, or hate him and hate yourself for finding him incredibly amusing. Tommy and Tucker go way back, so far that Tommy is actually in one of Tucker’s online stories which is now included in the new version of Tucker’s book, “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell” (the expanded edition comes out soon). His moniker is “The Littlest Ranger”. In case you didn’t know Tommy measures in at a solid 5’6”, but only if he makes his back reaaal straight.

Anyway, when Tucker heard the event was for the troops, he said yes faster than you would to a threesome with Angelina Jolie and Angelina Jolie (yeah I know there’s women reading this – you’d say yes too).

Bad ass party host is a GO.

Things were rapidly progressing when we got an email from Dale Hartt – not Dale Hartt’s agent, but Dale himself. Fighters don’t typically email clothing companies, they have agents for that, but Dale was asking for a couple of personal favors. Dale wanted shirts to hand out to the troops, he wanted our help organizing an MMA clinic for charity, and he wanted us to come with him when he visited the wounded guys in the hospital. Dale is a Navy veteran and after a couple of email exchanges, really wanted to wear our gear in the ring. We weren’t really looking for a fighter, but the more we talked with him, the more we liked him. Then we started talking to his agent, Jason, who is also a Vet (a fellow Army guy). Usually, fighter negotiations are about the extra thousand dollars a guy wants so that he will post on his MySpace page that he and Ranger Up are BFFs 4-eva. Not so with Dale. We could instantly tell he was one of us and we had to support him. The icing on the cake was that his agent wrote the contract in terms that a four year old could understand (or more importantly, the guys at Ranger Up) instead of a using a bunch of legalese. We were in – Dale was wearing a Ranger Up shirt. We are thrilled he did.

Tommy Batboy and Lorenzo Fertitta

This brings me to Tommy assaulting a billionaire (Tommy edit: I patently deny any assault). Five minutes before weigh-ins for the UFC event, I am being dropped off on base by a guy I’ve never met, and hop out of the car only to see Josh Koscheck outside looking around with a thousand yard stare. Luigi Fioravanti is lying on the concrete trying to stay cool, curled up in the fetal position, half under a truck. Dale Hartt comes outside looking emaciated and sits next to Luigi on the curb. All the fighters are pissed off, to put it mildly.

Joe Rogan, the emcee for the weigh in festivities, landed late and the car that was driving him and Eddie Bravo to the fights got lost. Starving dudes that have wrung every last drop of water out of their bodies are exactly one Joe Rogan appearance away from eating everything they can get their hands on, getting some much needed water into their systems, and feeling like human beings again.

Joe is a great guy and these events were beyond his control, but I can tell you from personal experience that when you cut weight you don’t think rationally. These guys would have killed him, run him through a wood chipper and fed his remains to a pack of wild dogs in exchange for a glass of orange juice and a bowl of pasta. They might have done it for just the glass of OJ.

To re-cap I’ve just stepped out of a car driven by someone I don’t really know and into a group of pissed off UFC fighters, who are in their sorry state of affairs because a comedian’s driver got lost. As if the situation couldn’t get any more surreal, I finally spot Tommy. Well – not visually spot – but I can hear his loud ass. My eyes scan just below the horizon, on account of his height, and I see him emerging next to a very confident man who clearly was not a fighter. An agent perhaps? Then I get a clean look at his face – it’s Lorenzo Fertitta. Realization strikes. Tommy Batboy is alone with Lorenzo Fertitta. Ah shit. Tommy just whacked him on the back – maybe Lorenzo was choking on something and Tommy saved his life? Nope. He was just giving him the ‘ol “Am I right Lorenzo?” I’m in a panic, at a near sprint. Tommy is pointing to Lorenzo’s arm now towards his bracelet, which has enough ice in it to reverse global warming. I can finally hear him clearly:

Tommy: Wow! Look at this thing! I don’t suppose these are cubic zirconium?

Lorenzo: No, they aren’t.

Tommy: I need to get me one of these, Lorenzo. Who’s your jeweler?

Lorenzo: AHAHAHA

Tommy: Seriously man – you could land a spaceship on that fucking thing. It’d be great for signaling to the birds on an LZ.

Lorenzo: AHAHAHAHA

Nick’s inner monologue: I wonder if we’re going to get kicked out of this show before it even starts.

Tommy: Seriously man – thanks for doing this for the boys. We really appreciate it.

Lorenzo (sincerely): It’s my pleasure. They deserve it. I’m glad we could help in some small way.

Nick’s inner monologue: This billionaire is a cool cat…or he is just really afraid of the loud, boisterous Ranger with the crazy look in this eye. Either way, we’re not getting thrown out. 

Tucker Max

Garrett, Tommy and I are sitting there, eating dinner at Huske Hardware getting ready to watch Tucker’s new movie with 50 of our closest friends when Tommy gets a text. “Tucker’s here,” he tells us as he gets up to go meet him.

Garrett and I look up, and while Tucker may have been there, all we noticed was the gorgeous tall girl that was at the bar, near Tommy’s general destination, wearing a low cut dress. I’m not saying there aren’t attractive women in Fayetteville, but this girl stood out. We assumed she was with Tucker. Tommy hopped up and had some man hugs with Tucker (we’re hugging but we’re hitting) and is introduced. We quickly learn that this fine lady is his girlfriend, Erin.

Garrett and I go back to our dinner and beers as Tommy and Tucker catch up before the screening. We wanted them to have their alone time. Tommy and Tucker met when Tommy was in college working in morning radio (one of the few places in this world that found a use for his incessant yammering).

Before long it was 2200 and it was time for the screening. We can’t tell you much about the movie other than this, it’s hilarious. I was crying. It was legitimately funny and not like you’d expect it to be if you’ve followed or read what’s on his website. I mean, yes, he has sex with a bunch of women, and yes, he’s horrifically inappropriate in almost every frame, but it was, and I am going to go flog myself after saying this, a rather charming film, even in its absolute absurdity. Bottom line – 50 soldiers watched it and all 50 said it kicked ass. When the shit does that ever happen?

It’s supposed to come out this summer and if you don’t see it you will be hearing it quoted, over and over and over again. Part of us is yellow with envy (green is so passé) and kinda hates Tucker for the massive amount of success he is about to have, but overall we just keep cracking up every time we think about it.

At the screening we also met up with two of Tucker’s soldier friends – Priester John and the man that will forever be known as Svenn. We were going to call him “Swede,” after the character from Heartbreak Ridge, but Tommy was already a little buzzed and fucked it up. Svenn stuck because he is a six foot six Nordic-looking mutant of the human species. After the screening Priester John and Svenn declare we are in need of a night cap and offer to take us out in Fayetteville to continue the nights revelry.

Dive Bar with Tucker Max

I’ve been drinking for a long time, and the one thing that I absolutely know is true is that nothing good ever happens in a bar after midnight. Nevertheless, when Tucker asked where else we could go and someone brought up The Doghouse (not kidding), Tommy, Tucker, Erin, Priester John, Svenn, Garrett and I hopped in our respective vehicles and headed out to that den of respectability. Erin was sober and grabbed the keys for our car.

Thanks for being the DD Erin! Was that a double entendre? Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t…

We walked in and this was looking less and less like a good idea. Drunk Joes and rednecks abound. We are with the only gorgeous girl in the bar. She is dressed to the nines in a place where a tuxedo t-shirt would be considered “fancy”.

The Bar Harpy tells us that shots are $1.50.

Me: Seriously? Any shot is a buck fifty?

BH: Any single liquor shot.

Me: Do Incredible Hulks qualify?

BH: No. They’re $8.

Me: Ok.

BH (leaning in close so I can see the skull tattoo on her cleavage with wings going to each clavicle): But if you ask for a shot of Hennessy and a shot of Hypnotic, that would only be $3.

Me (tired of the Bar Harpy’s smug liquor calculus, but still satisfied with the result): Let’s get 12 of those.

The Round comes and Tucker pays, laughing when he hears the total. He lives in freakin’ Hollywood right now while he films his new movie and the same order would be like $1.2 million dollars there.

We do the shot and I order another round. I pick this one up. Tucker orders tequila for everyone, and makes Tommy do two. To his credit he didn’t throw up like he did last time I took him out drinking.

Some skuzzy dude walks over to Erin and does the drunk-lean-in-arm-around-her maneuver. Tucker gets angry. The skuzzy dude goes away.

I use the elevated testosterone from that moment to reintroduce the idea that Tucker and Tommy need to fight in an MMA competition. There is no good reason for this, save my own drunken ammusment, but if Tucker is going to be down here for the fights I might as well see just how much he loves fighting.

Tucker: I’d fight this bitch right now if it wasn’t for my torn ACL!

Tommy: Whatever man. You know you’re scared.

Tucker: Fuck you bro. You have no chance. I’m friends with Mac Danzig, he did the photography for my new book (Who knew Mac was handy with a camera?). I outweigh you by 30 pounds. I’m gonna kick your Ranger ass.

Tommy: Let’s do it you name-dropping sonofabitch! Time and place – that’s all I need.

Nick (giddy like a schoolgirl): So you guys are going to do this right?

Both: Fuck yeah!

It was right about this time that I heard Priester John utter the following line to a local girl who was clearly attached to a large redneck, “You can sit on my fender”.

Well, it just so happens that Garrett heard it too. Talking to Priester John at the time, he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell his conversation had to do with fenders. Oh wait, there must be “candidates” behind him.

Oh, about 0.4 seconds later, a left hook from a set of knuckles old enough to be your grandfather jump Garrett’s left shoulder and slam PJ straight in the face.

Ah, so “You can sit on my fender” is something you DON’T say to ladies in these parts. John reeled from the first shot and falls back. We catch him. In his place jumps 6’7” Svenn, who will surely kick some ass, no? Garrett, and a couple of the bouncers, rush in to “stop” the fight (hell, there was only 2 minutes left till the bar closing anyways).

Ah crap.

The redneck threw a right cross and caught Svenn square in the face. Svenn didn’t notice. He started whaling on the guy with ugly but effective strikes. Basically imagine the “Hulk Smash” scene from the filmThe Incredible Hulk and that’s what we witnessed.

We, of course, all got kicked out. It was precisely 1:58. Two minutes before closing.

Oh Snap!

As Garrett, Tommy, Tucker, Erin and I sat down in the car, there was a short pause. Then Erin spoke.

Erin: Wow.

Nick: Yeah, can you believe that just happened?

Tucker: How did that even start?

Tommy: I have no idea, I was hoping you knew.

Garrett: I think he said something to that dude’s girlfriend.

Erin: Wow.

Tucker: You okay?

Erin: Wow – you guys are all a total bunch of fucking pussies.

Tucker: What?!?

Erin: Your friend gets punched in the face and you jackasses just sit there and don’t do anything. Only one guy hit him back. That is so pathetic.

At this point we all dove into various reasons why we didn’t get into a fight – we didn’t know it was happening, Priester kinda started it, we would have absolutely stepped in if someone would have done something to her, etc. Finally, we felt we had supplied enough excuses to feel like men again.

Erin: P-U-S-S-I-E-S! I should be in the other car with Svenn. At least I know he’s got my back! You bitches probably would have stood there and cheered me on while I fought the guy instead of getting involved. I’m embarrassed for you.

I busted out laughing. I couldn’t help it. This chick was awesome. Everyone pretty much joined in. We had just been “told” (see attached flowchart if you have questions).

Touché, Erin. Touché.

Tucker buys us Dinner

We beg and plead for Erin to take us to get some food. The only place that is open is McDonalds. We go there.

It is important to note that while Tommy has been friends with Tucker a while, Garrett and I have not. We’ve been “email friends” which is almost as weak as “Facebook friends”, so a lot of what I knew about Tucker I knew from his website or from Tommy.

At this point in the night, I have to be honest – not the guy I expected. He was very sharp and polite, very respectful to the boys and to Erin – really just a regular dude. Take away the fame, the books, and the movie and he could just as easily be one of the guys I hang out with on a day-to-day basis.

That is until we had to order food. We ordered. They screwed it up royally – almost as if they hadn’t listened to the order. That’s when I met Tucker Max. Before that, I am convinced I had only met Tucker Regular or maybe Tucker Min.

Tucker snapped. He launched into a diatribe about the failings of the food service industry the likes of which I have never seen, and hope to never hear again. It was like someone scripted it for a movie. If I had a camera that speech would be all over YouTube. It went on for like 5 minutes. It was absurdly over-the-top and inappropriately personal. You know that scene in Old School where Will Ferrell has to debate James Carvell and his eyes go dim and he snaps and produces a flawless response? It was like that but on crack. It was the fast food speech manifestation of the scene in the movie Over the Top where Sly Stallone turns his hat around backwards and is “like a truck”. One minute he was just a nice truck driver – the next he was an arm wrestling juggernaut that feared no elbow tendon. Such was the way with Tucker – regular, cool dude to giant, but unmistakably hilarious asshole, in about 0.2 seconds.

The Banner

We wake up the next day at various stages of drunk. We’re ready to chill out before the fight, grab some dinner (yeah, I said dinner) and enjoy the evening.

The previous day we had found out we’d be banner-less for the event. Sponsors (like us) place our logos on vinyl banners that the fighters’ corners hold up so they show up on television. Dale’s agent had the banner shipped to my house, which is some two hours away from Bragg and it had not arrived prior to our departure on Tuesday. We expected it was lost and didn’t give it another thought, when we received word that it arrived late Wednesday. There were 2 hours until the fight.

I called my buddy Rob. Rob was planning on meeting us there later that night, but maybe he could come now? Rob works in a significant capacity at an “important” job. He dropped everything, walked straight out of work, grabbed the banner off of my porch, and headed out for Bragg. Luckily he drives an M3. Way to Ranger Up, Rob.

One hour and forty minutes later, Rob arrives at Huske Hardware wielding a banner. Tommy is euphoric as Tommy, being who he is, would have considered Dale walking out with no banner as a personal failure on his part, even though this was not his responsibility in any way, shape, or form. He grabs Rob and the two exchange Rob’s Look-At-My-Penis-Mobile for Tom’s, as they hop in Tommy’s 350Z.

Right before he takes off, he tells me to ask our friend Jeff about his new tattoo. He says it is awesome.

I’ll pass to Tommy.

The Fights (Tommy Batboy’s Perspective)

I have a tendency to drive fast.

When I have a banner that needs to get to a fighter and I have 20 minutes to get it to him, it’s only going to get worse. Throw in that I spent most of the money I made overseas in 2004 on this sports car and we had a recipe for, as Rob put it, “living the real life version of that video game Outrun!” Rob must like video games. He was a remarkably good sport as I was doing (speed redacted to prevent future prosecution) in a 60, weaving in and out of traffic like I was trying to qualify for the Indy 500.

We arrived with ten minutes to spare and no tickets or passes to get us in the door. Our tickets “were en route.” Undeterred and wound up like one of those crazy symbol monkey toys from the drive I walked right up to the guy at the front door.

“My name is Tommy, we’re sponsoring Dale Hartt on tonight’s fight card, I have his corner banner and I need to get it to him,” I declared in my sternest “let me through” tone of voice.

“Uhh, do you have a pass or something?” The man at the door asked me slightly shocked I was talking to him that way.

“No, I don’t,” I told him. “I have a fighter’s banner and he needs it for the fight tonight, if you’d like to escort me down there, that’s fine, I don’t care. But this has to get to him in the next ten minutes or there is going to be hell to pay.” The combination of the big Ranger Up logo on my shirt and the banner in my hand did the trick because he let me pass. With one crack security guard bypassed, I found myself in the same situation with the guy by the floor seats. With my new found confidence, I simply told him that “we weren’t the droids he was looking for”. I blasted past him, and with about 8 minutes to spare Dale had his banner. I had completed my Airborne Mission. I also now have a plan to upgrade my seats the next time I go to a UFC event. With that I ran back and got Rob so we could watch the fights.

We arrived just in time to see Justin McCully win over Eddie Sanchez. It had also given Rob time to procure beers and with that we sat down for Dale’s fight.

The plan had been to get the crowd to chant “Ranger Up!” when Dale walked in. The plan never had a chance. From the opening chords of Dale’s walk out song, Toby Keith’s “Angry American,” the crowd was singing along and cheering on the former Navy rescue swimmer as he headed to the Octagon. We may have not gotten a cheer going for him, but he’d certainly won the crowd.

The first round was mostly a feel out round. Neither fighter landed anything solid. Dale was clearly trying to solve the riddle of how, as a 5’10” fighter, he could get inside the reach of a guy that was 6’6”.

It all changed in the 2nd. I couldn’t see exactly what it was that happened, but I heard it. It sounded like David Ortiz had just mashed a 500ft home run. Hill went down with a cry of pain and a completely shattered leg – tibia and fibula completely snapped. Through the 20 minutes or so that Cory Hill was down, Dale Hartt was a complete class act, going so far as holding Cory’s hand when they had to move his leg to get him ready for transport. Going into this fight we all felt that we’d made a great choice when we decided to sponsor Dale for his fight. Sitting in the crowd, after what Joe Rogan called the worst injury to happen during a fight in UFC history, I was floored by how great a guy Dale was. He gets paid to beat people up for a living and he might be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met—who knew?

The rest of the undercard fights were some great scrapes. It was hard not to feel a little sorry for former Navy SEAL Brandon Wolff after he got his face tenderized by Ben Saunders. The crowd had clearly started off supporting him, but gave Saunders a huge cheer when he announced that he was going to donate his show money to the Intrepid Fallen Heroes fund. Unbeknownst to Rob and I when we sat down we were sitting next to one of the striking coaches for American Top Team, who has work with both Ben Saunders and Marine Vet Luigi Florivanti. Ben came out to sit right next to us when the main card started. In between fights I asked him if he donated the money. His face positively lit up, “hell yeah man! The UFC just signed it over to them!” His beat down of a former SEAL aside, it’s hard not to like a guy like that.

Ben didn’t seem to have much family or friends in the crowd, but Marine Vet Luigi Florivanti’s family and friends were out in force. Watching them scream in support and trying to corner him from 500 feet back was almost as entertaining as the fight itself. As loud as she was screaming I wouldn’t be surprised at all if Luigi heard his girlfriend telling him how to transition to rear mount and how to sink a rear naked choke.

After Kos KO’ed Yoshida, I’m told that Yoshida was on the canvas for a good ten minutes. I didn’t see it. As soon as Kos threw that right left combo and turned the lights out, Rob and I were running towards the car, in the pouring rain, and towards the Ranger Up after party at Huske Hardware. Thankfully, for both Rob and I, I didn’t have to drive like a maniac on the way there—as odd as it is to say it, beer can wait sometimes.

The After Party (back to Nick)

“Take your shirt off.”

That’s the first thing the waitress said to Garrett as we walked through the door (He later found out that the waitress is in fact a mom of a teenager and without question shy of the 30-mark – talk about dodging a bullet). Welcome to the Ranger Up after party.

I spot Jeff.

Me: Hey man, I heard you got a new tattoo!

Jeff: Sure did! Want to see it?

Me: Yeah man.

Jeff drops his pants right then and there, which I am pretty sure is illegal. He has a tattoo that starts on his stomach and arcs all the way to, you guessed it, his penis. Jeff has a penis tattoo.

Me: Nice cock. That hurt?

Jeff: It smarts a bit.

I’m going to kick Tommy’s ass.

By the time Tommy and Rob walked in, the party was in full swing. We had the added bonus that the Air Force Combat Controller Course had just graduated 20 dudes and they were having a rip roaring good time. A bunch of operators that work with Tim were also in the house and they were relaying some phenomenal stories of his bravery in combat while simultaneously mocking his picture on the Ranger Up poster – awesome. One of them, a rather muscular dude, was shadow boxing along with the fight replays because he was shitcanned. He was explaining one of the punch combinations Kos threw and he accidentally punched me in the face, which was awesome. He didn’t notice. Even better. Of course it should come as no surprise that he and Tommy served together at 2nd Battalion when Tommy was a private.

The fighters start rolling in – Dale Hartt, Marcus Davis, and then Brock Fucking Lesnar comes through the door…well…both doors actually.

Anyone that has anything to say about Randy Couture losing to this man is insane. In fact, I was impressed with Randy’s performance before I met Lesnar, but now…the man is enormous. Not “big”. Superhuman. I honestly don’t even know how I would attempt to stop him if he was coming after me – I’m not even certain a gun would work – maybe a tank round.

The funny thing was the way the crowd reacted to it. It was mostly dudes but a pattern quickly emerged. They’d roll up to Lesnar, get a picture, run away like scared little girls, and then go try and talk to Tucker for like 20 minutes. Maybe it was Lesnar’s size or something but we all thought it was weird that he wasn’t getting more love, especially Tucker.

“What the fuck man? The heavy weight champion of the UFC is here and all these dudes want to do is talk to me about having sex and getting drunk? Unreal.”

Did he just fucking say that?

No shit, there I was, sitting in the VIP area with the Ranger Up guys, the fighters, Tucker, Erin, and assorted people of interest, when Brock Lesnar walks by and accidentally bumps into Rob. Rob had been dining on a delicious wing and when Brock’s massive frame hit him that poor wing fell to the ground – the latest victim of Mr. Lesnar.

Drunk Rob spins on his heel to face Lesnar as he walks to his table and says in his loudest booming voice (and Rob’s voice can boom) while wearing a shit-eating grin, “You want a piece of me Lesnar?!”

Mr. Lesnar turns around and looks Rob dead in the eye, “No, sir. I do not.”

Thank the Lord.

After the tongue-lashing Erin had given us last night, there was no way in hell that I wouldn’t have been in the fight, which of course would have meant that this would be my last night on the planet. It’s not that I couldn’t have stopped him from killing Rob – it’s that the entire bar of special operations soldiers and 82nd Airborne troopers wouldn’t have been able to stop him from killing Rob.

“That’s what I thought,” said Rob as he grabbed another wing.

I went over there and bought Lesnar and his table some drinks and then realized I was drunk when I heard myself telling the man for the third time that he needed to kick Frank Mir’s ass. I’m sure that thought had never crossed his mind and he likely really appreciated my advice.

Alcohol is awesome.

Two Old School Drunken Warriors

So the night is winding down, and the bar is closed, except for Ranger Up, Tucker, Erin, Josh (an owner), Matt Larsen, the Father of Modern Army Combatives, and Josh’s wife Tonia. There isn’t a sober person in the room except the cop hired to keep the event reasonable, and Tonia.

Larsen and Josh are good friends and start exchanging stories, as old warriors often do, and of course the posturing about who is tougher starts. Josh is a former pro boxer and operator. Matt founded Army Combatives for fuck’s sake. They start messing around and working for under hooks and whatnot. Tonia tells me and Tommy to stop them from being idiots.

Oh yeah, I am reeeeaaaaaal anxious to rush into a scrap with two guys with a couple decades on me and get my ass kicked.

So Garrett, Tommy, and I stayed with the plan we had when Priester John got knocked out – we just watched, as Erin put it the night before, like a bunch of giant pussies.

Eventually, they called it a draw.

We slept soundly that night.

Dale Hartt and Ranger Up at the Hospital (Tommy’s Perspective)

We were supposed to be eating breakfast with the troops. The Army, as it’s known to do, had scheduled a formation at the same time as breakfast.

Good to see nothing’s changed.

When we got up to where the signing was happening there was already a line of about 40 or soldiers, and we’d only brought about 50 or so shirts. I inquired about the numbers to Martha, a worker at the center.

“Oh we have a full battalion here. We have over 700 soldiers in the unit.”

An hour or so into the autograph signing I was the t-shirt guy without any t-shirts, and Dale was without anything to sign.

“Hey, can I get on your computer?” Dale asked one of the workers.

“Sure.” With that Dale loaded up some old MMA photographs.

“It cool if I print this off?” He asked. The faces of the entire staff lit up.

“SURE!” With that Dale Rangered Up, covered the t-shirt guy without any t-shirts, and kept signing autographs. He didn’t just signed autographs; he did much more than that. He hung out with the troops. He would spend five or ten minutes talking to a single wounded warrior or a small group of them. He asked how long they’d been there, what happened, how they were doing. He took an interest in each and every person that came up to the table on Friday, never having anything less than a smile on his face when they first showed up. The staff had to practically drag him out of the room to eat lunch. A quick bite to eat and he was right back at the table, hanging with the troops. The only time he ever said no to a picture or an autograph was when someone brought the picture from Fight! up for him to sign, the one that shows Cory Hill’s mangled leg.

“Sorry, I can’t do it,” Dale told the solider. “I’ll sign one of these,” he said pointing to the picture he’d printed up. “But signing that wouldn’t be right. It’d be bad Karma,” he said politely, but firmly.

I was a little surprised, and very impressed. I’ve met a couple of fighters since I started working for Ranger Up. I don’t know many that would have refused to sign something that instantly recognizable and interest generating for the fighter like that. It was one of the classiest things I’ve ever seen in the realm of mixed martial arts.

Thank You, UFC

As of this writing, the UFC raised $4 million dollars for the troops.

Thank you Lorenzo and Frank Fertitta and thank you Dana White – you could have chosen a lot of charities – many that would have been far more marketable and high profile to the public at large, but you opted to look out for our heroes. You have our utmost respect.

by

Tommy Batboy

“Hold and die.” Those were the orders he was given.

“Hold.”

“Die.”

During the 1972 North Vietnamese Easter Offensive, it didn’t seem that far fetched an order for Captain John Ripley. He was in charge of a 600-man unit, composed mostly of South Vietnamese soldiers, at the bridge of Dong Ha. He was staring down 20,000 of the enemy, including some 200 tanks. To say it was a modern day Thermopylae is in no way a stretch. His commanders didn’t see another way to accomplish the mission.

Captain Ripley had another idea: run back and forth under heavy enemy fire with 500lbs of explosives so he could blow up the bridge. Not the greatest plan but, better than the alternative. Then he did something legendary, he executed the plan. As 20,000 of the enemy bore down on him, against all odds, Cpt. Ripley ran directly into withering enemy fire, calmly set up the charge, and blew up the damn bridge.

He accomplished the mission and he saved his Marines.

For his acts of bravery in the face of enemy fire he was awarded the Navy Cross.

He would retire a Colonel having graduated from the US Army’s Airborne and Ranger Schools, USMC Recon School, and the British Royal Marine’s Recon school, a testament that his actions on the bridge at Dong Ha weren’t some crazy fluke. He is the only United States Marine to be inducted into the Ranger Hall of Fame at Ft. Benning, Georgia. If you are in Afghanistan reading this, and you’re on FOB Ripley, you are reading about the base’s namesake.

Sadly, he has left us to spend eternity with the Great Ranger in the Sky. He was 69 years old.

This moment almost came in the summer of 2002. Col. Ripley needed a liver transplant because of a tropical disease that he’d caught long ago in Southern Asia. He’d been read his last rites twice, his family steeled themselves for the end, but the man clung to life. A liver was found in Philadelphia. The Commandant of the Marine Corps sent an entire section of CH-46 helicopters to secure the PC, then he coordinated special clearance for the birds to land in Washington DC, where the transplant surgery was to be preformed. Military valor is one thing, service to the nation above and beyond the call of duty another still, but when the Commandant of the Marine Corps whips up a flight of birds for you and garners special security clearance over DC at our current threat levels, you have passed beyond what mortal man can accomplish – you are the stuff of legend. Col. Ripley was such a man.

11 November 2008.

Veterans Day.

This is the day that our nation pays homage and respect to men like Col, John Ripley. It is a day that all of you whom have or are currently serving should hold your heads just a little higher and walk even more proudly through your day.

Freedom isn’t free, and today our nation remembers the price that was paid. Some gave all, everyone who has served gave something, and our nation gets to pay homage to those who have shown such extraordinary courage and sacrifice that only the most callous and out of touch can’t help but be grateful for the protection and freedom our Veterans have provided them.

To our fellow Vets, thank you for all you’ve done. To those currently serving, keep your heads down. To Colonel Ripley, Godspeed, sir. Godspeed.

When Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France 7 times in a row, it wasn’t that he worked harder than everyone else, or was a genetic freak – he was a cheater. In the World Cup, which is apparently a big deal in Europe or something, the French made it to the finals, only to lose to Nick and I’s heritage (the Italians) because France’s star player couldn’t take a joke and head butted a guy in the sternum…then whined about it.

Finally, despite having a disturbing lack of Olympic excellence in swimming, their captain, Alain “the Mouth” Bernard decided to get froggy (sorry!) and declare, when asked about competing against the United States in this years games “We’re going to smash them. That’s what we’re here for.”

Few things on this planet are more American than Summer Olympic domination, and the Red, White, and Blue dominate few sports more than swimming – and in that world, no one has been laying the gold medal smack down more than swim phenom Michael Phelps. Yet the haters were still hating, and the world was taking four Frenchies over four American badasses. These so-called pundits had the French favored as the winners, even though the US team, sans super swimmer Michael Phelps, swam a qualifier in world record time. Regardless, the stage was set and it’d be decided in prime time TV.

300 meters into the 400-meter race, it looked like the pundits and the frogs were right. Despite Phelps setting an American record for a split, and the US being ahead at the 250-meter mark, the French team had pulled ahead. The French anchor swimmer, captain, and head dumbass (pronounced Doo-Ma) Alain Bernard hit the water .55 seconds ahead of American captain, Steve Lezak- an eternity in swimming, and certainly in 100 meters.

At the 50-meter mark, Steve-o had hardly closed any of the distance on the French swimmer. He was nowjust under half a second behind with 50-meters to go against the Frenchman who the so-called experts had championed as the fastest swimmer in the world.

American dominance was hanging in the balance and I felt like I was living in a surreal new world. It looked like in 50 meters the United States of America was about to lose… to the F@*#^%! French. Even the American announcer, Rowdy Gains, was starting to write Team USA off. American captain Steve Lezak, the leader of the team, the man responsible for what we did or didn’t do had a different thought: “No. Freakin. Way.”

For Steve it was immensely personal. At 32 he was one of the oldest swimmers for the United States. He’d lost to Australia in 2000 in their home pool. He’d seen a “feel good story” happen as the South Africans nipped him in Greece. No way was he going to lose again. Something snapped in that distinctly American way. No way.

Lezak kicked it into another gear and started to close. The crowd roared. His teammates screamed at him on the block, Steve went faster. 20, 15, 10 meters- he closed like a madman. At 5 he’d done the near unthinkable, he’d caught up to the Frenchie. Lezak hit the wall with a split of 46.06 second. He’d just swam the fastest split in world history. The Americans had shattered the world record in the 4×100 meter relay by four full seconds. Lezak, amazingly, had turned in a time .63 seconds faster than then French Captain Blabbermouth.

Team U.S.A. had beaten the Frogs by .08 – eight one hundredths of a second.

Lessons learned:

1) Karma is a bitch.

2) Americans love to do what everyone says is impossible.

3) They especially love accomplishing the impossible when it involves smashing a giant pie full of shit in the guy’s face who only moments before was running his mouth.

At the end of the day what the French have never understood about the United States is that we don’t waste our time talking a big game – we back it up. We will meet our goal or die trying.

If it takes the fastest time in the history of the world then we’ll rise to the challenge – we’ll be the man in the arena Teddy Roosevelt talked about so long ago.

Steve Lezak, Michael Phelps, Cullen Jones, and Garrett Weber-Gale put their money where their mouth was, rose to the occasion, and swam the race of their life. The French just talked. That’s why the Frogs will never catch us, that’s why sometimes the world hates us, and that’s why Steve Lezak and the rest of team U.S.A. are such badasses. The flag is more to us than a piece of cloth or a pattern on LZR racing swimsuits. It’s a source of pride and something Americans never want to fail.

On behalf of the crew at Ranger Up, congratulations to team captain Steve Lezak and the rest of the men’s 4X100 relay team on their win over the French. You guys showed what you can do with a little skill, and a lot of heart.

And one more thing:

Suck it France!

Copyright of Tommy

He enlisted into the Army on the very first day he could, his 17th birthday. That was how badly Ross McGinnis wanted to be a soldier. All the drawing of Army men as a kid and all the playing war in the back yard had blossomed into something real. The knowledge that he would have to fight in one or both of our ongoing conflicts did nothing to dissuade this born patriot – Ross McGinnis was committed to being a soldier.

Two years later, in August 2006, his wish had come true – PFC McGinnis touched down in Eastern Baghdad. Only 19 years old and one of the younger members of his platoon he was nonetheless tasked in the most important non-leadership role of his platoon as the M2 .50 caliber machine gunner. For those of you not familiar with this position, not only was he responsible for the most casualty producing weapon in his platoon, he was the eyes and ears of his gun truck. PFC McGinnis was more than up to the task, eventually becoming the trail vehicle gunner in charge of the convoy’s rear security.

That was where Ross McGinnis was on 4 December 2006. While covering his convoy’s rear in Adhamyyah, Iraq, an insurgent threw a grenade from the rooftop of a building. It went through the turret of PFC McGinnis’s gun truck, landing at his feet. Knowing the rest of the men in his Humvee wouldn’t be able to get out in time, and without regard for his own life, PFC McGinnis jumped on the grenade.

He was killed instantly.

Earlier this month, just short of what would have been his 21st birthday, SPC Ross McGinnis’s parents accepted his Medal of Honor on his behalf.

A 19-year-old with the maturity, quick thinking, and grasp of selfless service to save the men of his gun truck, even if they were his friends, was remarkable. Yet what made Ross McGinnis a hero was already there long before he ever laid his life down for his friends and brothers in arms. You need to look no further than hisMySpace page to see what I am talking about. Reading his writing and looking at his pictures you see a young man who loved his job and had most of his life in front of him. You also see a place kept alive by the men who knew him best. Two years later the page is still active with the love and friendship of the men in his unit. His friends and brothers in arms still leave comments like Spc. McGinnis was physically living just down the hall of their barracks in Germany – as if at any moment he might bust through the door cracking jokes and calling out for someone to fire up the Xbox. He is still a part of their lives. He was, and still is, someone who mattered. He is someone who will never be forgotten.

Specialist McGinnis’s legacy isn’t the Medal of Honor his parents accepted on his behalf. It is the impact he has on those around him. Two years after his death, he is still a part of his brothers’ daily lives. We here at Ranger Up honor not only Specialist McGinnis’s courage and self-sacrifice that fateful day – but the manner in which he led his life up until that day. Those are the moments that make him special, and they are the ones that continue to inspire his family and compatriots today – many of which continue to charge into the fray, summoning his strength to protect us against those that would do us harm.

Thank you, brother.

Copyright of Tommy